Dean dreams of Alastair, whose teeth are rows of knives that bite into him, that tear into the soft flesh beneath his ribs and he screams and screams, cursing everything he knows, even Sam, cursing Sam for not being here, for never being here. Dean dreams of Alastair smiling, "Be mine, Dean. Be one of mine and you can wield the knife instead of being cut by it. Be mine and I will set you free." The yes burbles at the back of Dean's throat, but before it can escape his lips, he wakes up gasping.
The world is dark and smells of mildew. The jackhammering in his ears, he realizes it's his heartbeat. His breaths are too loud, uneven, and he has to remind himself who's really dead and who's alive.
"Dean," a murmuring voice cuts through his panic, and Dean feels a light touch at his temple. He turns towards it, because it's Cas, who else can it be. He remembers this too, waking up from memories to a sound like leaves rustling, and the whisper of black wings smoothing out his mind, better than any lullaby, softer than a sigh.
Cas, Dean realizes, is half asleep. That's when Dean remembers yeah, the dude's not an angel anymore. He can't mojo the nightmares out of Dean, but Cas seems to have forgotten this, seems to be doing this out of reflex. "You should sleep," Cas whispers, like he used to, and curls his fingers against Dean's cheek, stroking lightly as his hand falls away again.
Dean is not afraid of his nightmares. He is not afraid of sleep, but he stays awake for some time, wondering if saying yes to Michael would have been anything like saying yes to Alastair. Self-loathing first, sure, and relief, but then acclimatization, and a certain pride in craft. What does it matter, if the world is going to shit around you anyway?
Sometimes he's glad Cas can't see his thoughts anymore.
these take place before (or long after?) what you just wrote
The world is dark and smells of mildew. The jackhammering in his ears, he realizes it's his heartbeat. His breaths are too loud, uneven, and he has to remind himself who's really dead and who's alive.
"Dean," a murmuring voice cuts through his panic, and Dean feels a light touch at his temple. He turns towards it, because it's Cas, who else can it be. He remembers this too, waking up from memories to a sound like leaves rustling, and the whisper of black wings smoothing out his mind, better than any lullaby, softer than a sigh.
Cas, Dean realizes, is half asleep. That's when Dean remembers yeah, the dude's not an angel anymore. He can't mojo the nightmares out of Dean, but Cas seems to have forgotten this, seems to be doing this out of reflex. "You should sleep," Cas whispers, like he used to, and curls his fingers against Dean's cheek, stroking lightly as his hand falls away again.
Dean is not afraid of his nightmares. He is not afraid of sleep, but he stays awake for some time, wondering if saying yes to Michael would have been anything like saying yes to Alastair. Self-loathing first, sure, and relief, but then acclimatization, and a certain pride in craft. What does it matter, if the world is going to shit around you anyway?
Sometimes he's glad Cas can't see his thoughts anymore.
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