Let me not mar that perfect dream...
...or, maybe, not so perfect altogether.
As ever, Dean's state of tormented dismay within the soulless!Sam framework fascinates me as much as it breaks my heart.
Title: My daily night
Genre: Gen
Rating: R (for mentions of violence)
Characters: Dean, Sam. Dean's POV
Summary: Dean is suffering from nightmares and gets a glimpse of how it's all going to end. Set some time through the span of latest season 6 episodes. No specific references or spoilers, though.
Spoilers: None, unless you haven't watched any of season 6.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
My daily night*
It was a daeva this time. A rawhead the previous night. And a werewolf the night before that. Or anything equally toothy and clawy enough to rip his abdomen wide open, blood meshed up with his own insides spilling out. Not a hellhound though. Never a hellhound, for those beasts set out to kill for keeps, and he's mercilessly left alive every night, white-hot pain soaring up his body, parching his throat, burning his eyes into opaque blisters.
"Sammy!" - he calls out to the brother who isn't there, his lips raw, his voice but a hoarse whisper. Every night.
Every night, the familiar face moves into the blurred and rapidly fading line of his vision; familiar eyes icy and unwavering. Math done. Mind set. And Dean knows it's the right thing, after all. He knows he's a liability on a hunt, injured like that. He knows he won't make it to the hospital, once the whole gig is over, anyway. Yet he flinches every time at the cold, solid finality of the barrel pressed to his forehead. He squeezes his eyes shut, lest he saw what's not there, within those of his brother, and waits for the booming thunder of a gunshot to wake him up. Every night.
***
"You had a nightmare. Again." - not a question. A statement. No worry, no concern. Sam is wide-awake, as ever, pouring over some files.
Dean's own mind is woozy, weeks' worth lack of proper rest taking its toll. His arm moves up instinctively to wrap over the assaulted midsection. There's no warm, sticky moisture to detect, of course. The wound was but in his head. Yet he keeps looking at the brother who isn't there and sees how it's all going to end.
*Let me not mar that perfect dream
By an auroral stain,
But so adjust my daily night
That it will come again.
(by Emily Dickinson)