For Elizabeth, DeanPiers, nightmare

Word Count: 803


Ted falls. Dean screams. All around him, the forest seems to blur as he tries to rush forward. Ted is like a father to him; he can't be dead!

Griphook's thin fingers curl tightly around his wrist. How can a creature so small have such a strong grip?

"Let me go!" Dean screams. "Let me go!"

He bolts upright, covered in a cold sweat. His heart hammers, and it takes him several seconds to sort his breathing out. He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again. Nothing. It doesn't help.

No one really talks about the way grief never really leaves. He had assumed he would have stopped having nightmares by now, but here he is. It's January, well over half a year since the final battle, and he still sees the darkness.

Sometimes it's Ted. Those are the worst nights because he knows that he could have done more if given the chance. He could have saved Ted.

Sometimes he relives his time in Malfoy's cellar. Cold. Dirty. Luna and Ollivander had been skin and bones, and he doesn't know how any of them made it out alive.

Beside him, Piers sleeps. Good. At least Dean's brokenness hasn't interfered with his boyfriend's sleep schedule.

With a heavy sigh, Dean climbs out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen. It's tempting to pour himself something strong. God knows he needs the numbing warmth of alcohol to take his pain away.

He puts the kettle on and takes out a teacup. When the kettle whistles, he takes it off the stove and pours it over the tea bag. A little sugar, a touch of milk. It's comforting, just what he needs.

"Nightmares again?"

Dean jumps, lifting his spoon like a wand, habitually defensive. "Piers!" He sighs, shaking his head. "Don't scare me like that."

His boyfriend smirks. "Funny. You're threatening me with a spoon?"

Dean snorts, eyes rolling. He relaxes slightly, dipping the spoon into his tea and stirring it. "I thought you were asleep."

"Clearly not." Piers sits across from him. "You usually go back to sleep when you have bad dreams. Had to make sure you…"

He doesn't have to finish that sentence. Piers was there for him during the worst of it. He knows exactly how bad off Dean got, how bad he might get again. Dean sighs and closes his eyes for just a moment before opening them again.

"Sorry," he says quietly.

"I don't want you the sorry. I want you to be okay."

Dean swallows dryly. Okay. He doesn't remember how to be okay. The pain is still so fresh, and nothing seems to take it away for long. There is no magical remedy for this, no special cure. His head is fucked, and he isn't sure if there's any coming back from this.

"I had nightmares when I first moved in with Max," Piers tells him, gesturing around his cousin's kitchen. "I was… Christ, Dean… I couldn't get through a six hour window without having a bloody panic attack."

Dean knows the story. Piers still flinches when someone on the telly raises their voice. He is still covered with scars both inside and out, and he doesn't like to talk about it, but he once confided in Dean how very not okay he really is.

Dean is about to apologize, and Piers cuts him off, shaking his head. "Hush. I'm not looking for sympathy. This about you, not me," he says firmly before climbing to his feet and holding out his hand. Dean takes it. "When I had really bad nightmares, Max would take me outside. Come on."

It doesn't seem like something that would help. Inside, outside. His location isn't going to change anything. Still, there's something in Piers' smile that Dean trusts without question. He allows Piers to lead him outside.

Snow drifts in the moonlight. Here and there, a star manages to shine through the clouds overhead. The neighborhood is sleeping, and it is so quiet and peaceful.

Dean does find himself relaxing, despite everything.

"I know," Piers says, though Dean hasn't spoken at all. "It's like you can find your place in this huge world just by stepping outside and breathing."

Dean steps forward, his slippers sinking into a blanket of white. Snow caresses his exposed ankle, and he steps back again, shivering. "I think my place is in bed, under a pile of blankets."

Piers smiles sheepishly, a faint pink visible in his pale cheeks. "We might not have dressed properly," he admits. "Blankets sound lovely."

Maybe this pain will never go away. Maybe Dean will always be stuck, always frozen. But he has Piers, and he can see the smallest glimmer of hope in the darkness.

Everything, he thinks, is going to be okay.