Title: Fear of Sleep
Author: sablize
Character/Pairing: Dean/Cas
Summary: He feels so safe in his embrace, and deep down he craves it because he didn't think he knew how to feel safe anymore. Purgatory!Destiel.
Spoilers: 7x23
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Notes: This is for a friend, whose prompt of "in Purgatory, Dean is a restless sleeper. Every time he and Cas settle down to rest, it takes him ages to fall asleep, and once he does he still fidgets. The only time he sleeps peacefully is by Cas's side" has been bugging me all week because it was just begging to be written. So I wrote it. And I'm sorry it's so short, but I tried ._.
Title is from a song, as usual—Fear of Sleep by the Strokes.
There are several things that remain constant in Purgatory, even when nothing else does.
First of all, it is always night. The sky is always cloudless and inky black, unmarred by stars or galaxies or constellations (and it makes Dean ache, when he looks up searching for some sense of familiarity and finds none). There is a moon, a white disk of light that always hangs in the same position, low in the sky; it, too, is unmarred, and bears no resemblance to the cratered and pockmarked moon back home.
In addition to the constant night, it's also perpetually cold. Not freezing, but just cold. After a while, it sinks into his bones, stiffens them until the wind comes along and rattles them, shakes them, forces him to put one foot in front of the other and keep going (again and again and again; keep going, he thinks, grits his teeth and moves forward).
Also, he is never hungry, never thirsty, but he doesn't question it; nothing in the forest looks even remotely edible, and the few streams and rivers they come across are black and oily and smell like death, and they avoid them when they can.
But the worst of it all is that, even though he never has to eat or drink, he still has to sleep.
It's something he puts off for as long as possible. He waits until he has nearly run himself to exhaustion, waits until he can feel the tiredness creeping up behind his eyes, making his eyelids heavy and his movements slow and clumsy. Cas, whose body has no such limits, turns to look at him after a while and asks, "Are you okay?" but he always knows when Dean's affirmative answer isn't real. This is when Cas gently takes his wrist and leads them to shelter, wherever he can find it.
This time, it's a rocky overhang, but Dean barely takes in any details before he collapses against the back wall, his legs refusing to hold him up any longer. The rocky wall is wet against his back but he takes no notice, even when, jacket removed and being used as a pillow, the damp begins to soak through his shirt.
And yet, even with the reassuring sight of Cas sitting on watch and recharging his angel mojo, Dean's body refuses to submit to his exhaustion—his eyes remain wide open, staring out past Cas and into the dark forest, and all his muscles are tense as though ready to fight or flee at any second. He groans and rolls over, presses himself into the cold wall as though hoping it will swallow him up (which, considering all the strange monsters here, he wouldn't be surprised if it did). He curls himself around it and hopes, prays for sleep to come at last.
When he does sleep, he dreams.
Faces. So many faces. Blurred by age and time and the near-constant fog that swirls between the skeletal trees. Some are familiar—there is Ruby, there is Anna, there is Balthazar, there is Madison. Others have been here too long, and might have once been recognizable, but every day they die a different death and it drives them mad, turns the clean lines of their features to blurry sketches until they are no longer people but ghosts, floating restlessly through the unending forest.
In his dreams, they come for him, overwhelming him in a cloud as they reach for his face, tear at his eyes and his lips and his hair. He reaches blindly behind him, fingers searching for the wrist of an angel he knows will not be there—he knows that Cas is not there (even though they're running together, running from the same monsters, and in all this time Cas has never left his side, ever) but still he tries, still he finds nothing and he's alone in this, all alone, all alone—
And this is when he jerks awake with a muffled cry and the itch of tears gathering behind his eyes.
"Dean…" And there is a voice behind him, and a hand on his shoulder, and fingers curled around his arm, protective. "I'm here."
Somehow, he is sitting up; still exhausted, he allows himself a second to breathe, a second to melt into Cas's embrace and just be safe for a moment. He sighs. "I'm tired of this, Cas." It's the most truth he's spoken in a long time.
Cas's hand drops from around his arm but the hand on his shoulder remains. "Don't give up yet," he says, but his voice lacks confidence. "I'll find us a way out of here. I promise."
Dean shifts, and turns so the side of his face is pressed against Cas's chest, allowing himself this small moment of indulgence because no one's here to see it anyways. Cas's arm stays looped around his shoulders, a comforting sort of weight, and Dean sighs a little and says blearily, "You know, I could actually fall back to sleep like this." He feels so safe in his embrace, and deep down he craves it because he didn't think he knew how to feel safe anymore.
"Then you should," Cas says. "We won't be able to stay here much longer."
And when sleep claims him this time around, it is deep and peaceful and he dreams of nothing. And when he wakes up, Cas is still there, and Dean presses his nose into the hollow of his angel's throat and smiles.
(because even though they may die a thousand deaths before they see the sun again, at least, in the end, they'll die them together)