Work Text:
When Dean Winchester opened his eyes, he was alone. His heart hammered against his chest, erratic and frenzied, and his hand immediately darted to his side. Not to the side where he last put the gun, though; not to the nightstand on the left. Instead, the man's fingers clawed for something on the mattress, the first thing he though of when opened his eyes, the first word on his lips when the light creeping through the cheap, moth-eaten blinds woke him up.
Because Dean Winchester was no stranger to nightmares. But, this time, he wished he were in one.
Nightmares he was used to. Nightmares he could take. He'd force his eyes open and bring a quivering hand to his chest, to the spot where his frantic heartbeat deceived him, trying his hardest to suppress a wild gasp for air. He'd press his head against the headboard for a moment, pull the sheets closer to himself, hold back the images darting beneath his eyelids and take one, two, three quick breaths.
Then Cas would be up. He always was. Without missing a heartbeat, the angel would prop himself up on the bed--their bed--, move a little closer to Dean. He'd wait a moment or two, motionless--however long it took for Dean to regain his bearings, to remember that yes, he was here, and yes, that was Cas beside him, and no, he was not in Hell, or in Purgatory, nor stuck inside the wooden walls of a slowly rotting grave. He'd close his eyes and the next thing he knew, Cas was all around him, strong arms wrapped tight around his shaking shoulders as his forced his jaw to unclench. He'd press his cheek against Cas' shoulder and take a long breath, take in the familiar smell of his angel, of new bedsheets and old spices and a gust of wind and home. And he'd be alright, because nightmares he was used to. Because, with his angel beside him, nightmares he could take.
This--this he couldn't.
Because, when Dean opened his eyes, there was no one in the drab motel room. No one but for the gun on his nightstand, and the cutting silence, and the dark, the haunting images of a young man flinging himself down a hole and an a dying angel still flashing behind his eyes. There was no one on the armchair in the corner, no covert figure standing at the head of the door. And there was no one beside him as he stretched out his hand to the empty mattress beside him, fingers searching, anguished, desperate, for the man who smelled of home. But the man wasn't there, and there was no one to hold him, no one left, no one.
Because when Dean Winchester opened his eyes, he was alone.