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[personal profile] evitably
Title: Leave it
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~700
Genre/pairings: Horror, preslash D/C
Contents/warnings: Disturbing imagery, off-screen violence
A/N: Written for the [livejournal.com profile] hoodie_time commentfic meme to the prompt sleep paralysis. Originally posted here.
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.

Summary: Dean's time in hell doesn't only haunt him when he's asleep, but also when he's awake.


There's a hand resting against Dean's forehead.

It can't be Alastair. Can't be. Alastair's down at the pit and Dean is back topside, and there's no one that's holding him down and tying him up and gagging him and melting his eyes and --

There's a cool hand against Dean's overheated forehead, and Dean doesn't know who it is. He'd open his eyes, but he can't and that scares him more than anything, because even in Hell Dean could open his eyes, unless he had a damn good reason for not being able to, like having had his eyelids torn out.

His eyelids feel whole and in place, his eyes are still in their sockets -- he can feel it all, but something won't let him move.

Fuck fuck fuck, what has Alastair done to him now, Dean didn't know that Hell has drugs, doesn't want to know -- what has Alastair done? Why won't he move his hand from Dean's head? What does he want? Alastair's never been this quiet. He always tells Dean in great detail what he'll do to him next.

Except for when he doesn't.

Dean struggles, or at least tries to. Tries to flail, to bite down on his bottom lip, to brace for whatever pain will come next, tries doing all of these at once and he can feel his heart racing under his still-whole ribs -- why would souls even have hearts? He's never bothered to ask, has never thought to ask, doesn't want to ask -- and there's sweat beading on his forehead where the fingers are still pressing.

How long? How long has Dean been paralysed, how long since Alastair's found a way to make him dream of having gone out, of having hope, for once, that things will get better. That things can get better.

He wants to scream, and shout, and bash Alastair's head in.

His throat refuses to work. So do his hands.

Dean would feel better if that fucking hand would just leave his forehead, feel like he has some breathing space, like he'll be able to move once there's nobody there.

The hand retreats. Dean lets out a breath of relief, but then two fingers come back and somebody says "Sleep" low in his throat, and Dean wants him to get the fuck away and stop messing with his brain --

Dean sleeps.

He wakes up soaked with sweat. He clenches his jaw, then opens his eyes so suddenly that even the darkness in the motel room hurts them, so he shuts them again. Just until he stops feeling like he's being stabbed in the head.

His heart slows down.

The mattress dips strangely to one side. Must be Sam. Dean feels his muscles unclench and relax, leaving him bone-tired. Safe. He's safe. There's no Alastair, no Hell, no eternal burning. Just him in a bed with Sam sitting comfortingly at his side, keeping watch, making sure nothing gets to him, and if he ever says so out loud to Sam he will have to kill himself out of shame.

He opens his eyes again, prepared to kick Sam off of his bed, but it isn't Sam who's sitting next to him.

"You're awake," says Castiel.

Dean swallows, looks up at Castiel's face, empty of emotions and blank. He clears his throat. "Where's Sam?" he chokes out. His mouth feels too dry, too raw.

"Out."

That one word brings back a memory -- not a dream but an actual memory -- and Dean shivers involuntarily for a moment before he steels himself and asks hoarsely, "What did you do to me?"

Castiel's eyes flicker away, settle on the wall over behind Dean's bed. "You required sleep."

"So you just -- snapped your fingers and made me sleep, without fucking asking?" Belatedly he remembers that he's still lying down, talking up to Castiel. He jerks himself up to a sitting position, letting the blankets slip down to pool in his lap.

"You weren't in a position to answer me, if I asked," Castiel says.

"Next time -- just wake me up," he says and licks his lips. It doesn't help.

Castiel nods his head: a small tilt downwards and then up. "If that's what you want," he says, and then he is gone.

Dean stares at where Castiel's been for a very long time before he makes a move to stand.

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a more profound pond

September 2012

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