A/N: In this chapter, Dean has nightmares while unconscious in the hospital.

If You Dare Challenge - #327 (Handcuffs)

Are You Crazy Enough To Do It Challenge - #324 (I don't think so)

Disclaimer: SPN writers still own all this beauty.

Dean's arms ached. They were wrenched above his head, chained to some metal hook on the ceiling. The woman before him licked her lips, circling him as a predator would stalk prey. "I would just," she began, curling one long fingernail beneath his chin, "kill you now, but unfortunately, I need you alive." Her eyes sparkled with malice. "Your daddy's gonna come rescue you."

Dean spit in her face.

The demon's eyes flashed black, and she reared her hand back before slapping him across the face in a wave of fury. Baring her teeth, she growled, "One more outburst like that, Winchester, and I'll—"

"Shut up," Dean said, his fear masked by false courage. "My dad will come, and when he gets here, he's gonna kill you." He tried to ignore the way his voice shook.

The demon's pale mouth curled into a twisted smile. "I'm counting on it, boy," she hissed.

Then she lunged, and Dean screamed.

"Pulse is rising—what's happening?"

"He's seizing; we need help in here, he's seizing!"

"Put him on his side!"

"BP's dropping!"

"Come on, Dean, stay with us, come on…"

"Lost cardiac rhythm!"

"Someone get a crash cart in here—we've got a Code Blue!"

"Daddy, please…" Dean sobbed, trying to pull his arms out of the handcuffs. He could hear John moving from the other side of the bathroom door. "It hurts…"

"You gotta learn your lesson, son," he said, his voice muffled through the wood. "You make a mistake like that on a case, and you'll get hurt. End of story."

"Daddy…"

"Just get out of the handcuffs, Dean. Then I'll patch you up."

Dean stifled another sob and twisted his wrists. The cold metal dug into his skin, and he gasped, tears slipping down his cheeks. The wound in his side was bleeding more profusely now, and he was starting to feel dizzy. A wave of nausea passed over him, so forceful that he gagged. Tears dripped from his nose. "Daddy…"

"Dean, it's not hard at all. Just take your right…"

Dean couldn't hear him anymore. His neck swung forward until he jerked awake to hear the sound of water running. His father stood at the sink, washing his hands. His mouth was dry, so it took him a few seconds to find his voice. "Da…"

John didn't even glance in his son's direction. "Haven't got out of those cuffs yet, have you?" When Dean didn't respond, he spoke louder. "Boy?"

He mumbled something in response, his entire body aching from the odd sleep position and the wound in his side.

John, his back facing his son, shook his head, gripping the sides of the sink. "I thought you were better than this, Dean. I…" He sighed. "I'm disappointed in you."

Finally, he faced Dean. To him, his father's disappointed expression hurt more than his wound. "I'm sorry," Dean managed.

"I don't think so." He turned around again. "I'll check on you in a couple hours," he said simply, opening the door. "I'm taking Sam with me."

Dean's heart bounced in his ribcage like a pinball. "Wh-what?" If he was stuck here in the bathroom, that meant John was alone with Sam. John...alone with Sam. Oh, God… "No… No!" The door closed. "Daddy… no! I'm sorry! Please! I'm sorry!"

"Look… he's awake!"

Dean knew that voice. Sam. Sam. Sam was alone with Dad.

"Dean? Dean, son, blink if you can understand me."

There was something in his throat, choking him and throwing him into a bout of paranoia. He raised his left hand to take it out, thrashing slightly.

"What's he doing?"

It wouldn't move, and the horror pressing at Dean's skull intensified until he began to strike the foreign object with vigor.

"Dean—Dean, no, don't touch that. I know it's uncomfortable, but you need it to breathe. We can't—"

There was cold metal encircling his wrist, and Dean automatically tugged at it, terror washing over him.

"Dean?"

When it didn't move, he choked on his fear, moving his other arm to hack at it frantically.

"Dean, I know the handcuffs aren't ideal, but we can't—"

"Dean!"

"Dean, stop messing with the handcuff. The police won't let us take it off of you—Dean, no! You're gonna hurt your—Dean, cut it out!"

Dean couldn't breathe. At first it had been difficult, but now he felt as though he were drowning, and he tried to sit up to relieve some pressure, but his chest spiked with pain and someone screamed his name.

Then he washed away again into the ocean of blood and torment…

"Here, Dean," John said, and he tossed the gun at him. Dean tried to catch it with his small hands, but it was heavier than he expected and he dropped it instead. "Dean!"

He jumped, startled by his father's outburst. John's eyes were swollen and red; yesterday had marked one full year since the fire. As usual, his breath reeked of whiskey, so Dean was reminded vividly of pain. His arm was still sore from the night before when John had thrown him to the side in his drunken stupor. "Pick it up."

Dean obeyed, nodding, and grabbed the gun from the ground, holding it awkwardly with his tiny hands. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew that this gun wasn't meant for five-year-olds. "Now, aim for the can," John instructed, "and fire."

Dean pulled the trigger, but the shot was nothing like he expected. The gun jerked back in his hands, slipping out of his fingers to smack him in the face. He cried out, on the ground now, and clutched his eye.

But John didn't approach him to ask if he was okay. He merely scowled and said, "You missed by a mile, Dean." He pushed the gun back into his son's bruised hands. "Try again."

"B-b-but Daddy—"

"Don't test me, Dean!"

Dean quickly shut his mouth. He knew what his father could be like when he was angry. He clutched his face; something was bleeding, and he couldn't help but sniffle—

Dean was yanked roughly to his feet. "What have I told you, Dean?" he growled. "Soldiers don't cry."

"Y-yes, sir," he whimpered, scrubbing his tears away. "I—I just wanted to—"

"What?" John snapped. "What is it?"

"Sa-Sammy," Dean stammered, "sir. He's inside, and I just wanna go back and see if he's—"

"Did I tell you you could go back inside yet, boy?"

"N-no, sir, b-but—"

"You're staying here until you hit that can. Now try again."

So Dean shot at the can until his face was bloody and his right arm was covered in bruises, because that was the only way he could get back to Sammy.

The gun snapped back into his mouth.

"Good. Again."

His lip swelled with blood.

"Good. Again."

The metal split open his cheek.

"Good. Again."

A/N: I know it's a bit of a filler chapter, but I thought it would be nice to get into Dean's head a little. Thanks for reading, everyone!