It's late. The clock blares it's red numbers of two in the morning that look more like a neon sign silently reminding him of the dangers of being up at this time, but he can't help it.
Tingling, tingling, tingling every part of his body feels of needles. He tries to will his arm to move so as the weight can fall onto his stomach. A comforting weight to anchor this feeling from going from dread to panic, but even the smallest movement of his fingers has those invisible needles sinking deeper into his skin.
"This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't fuckin' real" is now a mumbled chant as he wills himself to return to reality. The clock now is warning him that it's half past two in the morning. When did time start moving? Or another question is why didn't time stop? How could a dream cause this much physical pain?
It wasn't a dream. It felt real. Too real to be a dream, but too many illusions of being a nightmare. He should be used to this by now. Used to the familiar feeling of his body being poked and prodded, used to the sudden snap to reality that comes with a gasp of air as if he had stopped breathing.
The needles have gone away, but have been replaced by pain. If there weren't causes for these unseen sensations then there was a reminder of what his body has gone through over all these years. Tightness in his legs, shooting pain in his elbows, dull soreness in his shoulder. This was familiar. It was this type of pain that let him knew that he was truly back in the real world. Unknown images that played inside his head that lingered as he awoke, but couldn't place disappeared with pain.
The clock's bright red colors silently screamed that it was three thirty in the morning. Time was moving quickly. Too quickly for him to recover what sleep he had lost due to this maddening scene that happened far too often when left by himself. "I'm too old for this shit" were the drained words uttered into the room that hung in the air. He wasn't though. There were no times when he was a fearful child clinging to a mother for comfort nor were there times where a giant yet gentle hand took his small hands to tell him everything will be okay. In those times everything was real to him. The boogey man, ghosts, lightening flashing to light up the room as if they threatened to break the windows with their roaring thunder. There was only a trembling voice and a frantic mind that kept repeating, "This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real" in a whisper that only he could hear.
Four in the morning. It's four in the morning, but it still dark outside. The cellphone is next to him. Not for convenience, but as a life line. There wasn't a reason for him to speak to it to save him from this night that wanted to end yet wouldn't release him from its grip. Slow movements towards the phone, sharp pains shooting from his elbow down to his fingers. Just like the night his suffering tried to keep the relief away, but this physical and mental agony is a familiar fight he's battled before. He'd keep on fighting it as long as he could if it meant salvation.
Soothing white light washed over his face as he pressed the only name that could make this constant torment end. There was no time for guilt or remorse for waking this person up from their blissful slumber. They had said time and time again that they would always be there for him. Months of not believing this until one day it finally clicked that this person wasn't lying. The words that easily fell from this person's lips weren't laced with deceit, but kindness.
Ringing, ringing, click. Click that the signal he helplessly lit time and time again was always received along with the groggy voice that always said, "I'll be there in a minute" before the screen shut off.
The alarm on the clock that always watched this ordeal in different places, but could never help showed it's five in the morning. The click of a door brought out a shaking breath as padded feet walked across the fabric that could barely be called carpet. Another breath that was held in too long was released as a familiar weight came onto the bed. The weight never took up the space beside him, but it always sunk next to him somehow. In some form it was an anchor that never drifted away when they made their presence known. The gentle, yet strong hand that he yearned for as a child set itself atop his head, but always to a surprise long fingers threaded through hair that he never realized was soaked with sweat until it was too late. Drowning, tingling, pain, all this time he had been drowning inside himself until he came to always pull him out.
"Baby boy, there's nothing to be afraid of."
Soothing, comforting, everything that his childhood self longed for yet never had was here now. The hand never left his hair, always in motion even as he slowly shifted to rest his head on the other's lap. An invisible light of kindness radiated off the person that always saved him from this agonizing nights. A comforting source that cleansed his body of all the pain he felt only to replace it with calmness.
Drifting, drifting, total blackness is what happened next, but there was nothing to fear now. Soon a peaceful lullaby that had an unknown name filled the room. A song that acted as a shield against all the illusions that tried to make themselves known.
"Thanks, Rom", Dean murmured as he let the tranquility Roman always brought with him send him off restful slumber.
"Anytime", Roman quietly replied. There was no verbal answer back, but the familiar weight on his lap told him everything that had trapped Dean in this never-ending night had released him.
The clock flashed six in morning, but time was not important anymore.