Soldier On
Chapter 2 – Night Terrors
Waking up was like entering a cloud. Dean wasn't asleep on the damp, hard ground of Makin island, but on a bed in a dim room. The same room he'd been abruptly pulled from seven days before to be tossed into the past. But something wasn't right.
There was no light except for a fluorescent splash in the hallway, illuminating the filthy carpet and dull wall paint. A quick glance around his room showed Dean that it was mostly empty. His bags were nowhere to be seen. Something, some instinct or fear or maybe both, extended his arm to the night table by his side and opened the drawer to retrieve the bible that was housed there. He flipped through it. Every page was blank. Putting it back, his eyes flicked to the alarm clock; 00:00.
Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream. But maybe it wasn't. Lately he couldn't tell what was real.
Dean stood from the bed and it didn't make a sound. Walking over to the door heeded no footsteps. Standing in the doorway of his room, his legs wouldn't comply in taking him an inch further. The hallway stretched on forever, too long for him to see the end, only fading into pitch blackness. The light source was, evidently, another room a few feet away, the door barely cracked open, inviting him in. He swallowed his fear in a poisonous lump and pushed the door in, soundless, like everything else, as more of the hall was illuminated.
The room was just like his. Mostly empty, the clock reading 00:00. But the bed wasn't empty. Cautiously he approached it, before all at once reaching out to grab the blanket-covered form by the shoulder and roll it over.
Dean's breath caught in his throat and his heart stopped for a full three beats.
Staring back at him with empty eyes and a frozen look of horror was Sam, Sammy, his baby brother. His skin wasn't just pale, it was white, split by crimson lines stemming from a hole in the center of his forehead. A sudden weight in Dean's hand abruptly drew his attention from the corpse.
A whimper rising in his throat, he threw the pistol down. It hit the floor and shattered into a million pieces without a sound. Blood dripped from the bed sheets, and within seconds a drop turned into a puddle, and a puddle turned into a stream. It flooded and rose around Dean's feet. Then he was moving backwards, eyes fixed on Sam while he backed out of the room, unaware of the tears slipping down both of his cheeks.
His steps were halted by the feeling of his back hitting the wall in the hallway. Without warning, the light in Sam's room went out and Dean was left in the dark.
"No," he tried to whisper, but it was as if he'd gone deaf. He rose his voice and said it again and again. Screamed it. For the sake of Sam. For himself. "No! No! No!"
No sound emerged.
As quickly as the light had disappeared, it was back. Not from Sam's room anymore, though; his door was engulfed in shadows, no longer visible by the new light from a different door further down the hall. Dean didn't want to advance. He didn't want to see what was waiting beyond that frame for him. The smell of iron filled his nose and he could feel liquid warmth spreading beneath his feet and he was overwhelmed with the panicked desire to get away, away from that door he couldn't see anymore and away from the cold, lifeless form of his baby brother, away from the blood that was staining his shoes and his skin and he'd never get it out because it belonged to Sam.
For the first time, he was glad that there was no sound in this fucked up nightmare world, because he couldn't hear the splashing of the blood as he walked away.
The third room was like the second, like the second room was like the first. Void of furniture. Clock reading 00:00. A bed with a concealed figure. Dean shut his eyes, shut them tight. Counted to ten. Something Bobby had taught him to do when he was young and afraid. Now he wasn't young anymore, but he swore he had never been so scared in his life.
At last he opened his eyes.
Nothing had changed.
Defeated, he approached the bed, drew in a deep breath, and pulled back the covers. Bobby stared back at him, ten tally marks cut into the dead flesh of his cheeks, one for every moment Dean had refused to play along. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.
This time he was out of the room before the blood could wash over his boots again. The stench was becoming overwhelming, the hot, sticky, putrid scent of iron trapped in his lungs and mouth and brain as if it would never leave. Room after room, the encounters were the same. Next was Ellen, still stained with tears like the last time he ever saw her. Then Jo, staring straight into him, coated in blood because of him, her lasting expression one of a silent plea. Help me, Dean. I want to live. And it didn't stop there. Again he entered an empty room. Again he willed it all to stop, screamed himself hoarse to wake up, and nothing. Again he uncovered another piece of his past, his heart itself. His parents.
Seconds after he'd revealed their blank faces, the bed burst into flames. dean stumbled back a few steps, throwing his arm over his mouth and nose, but there was no smoke. Just flame. And that horrendously distinct smell of burning flesh.
He sprinted from the room and collapsed in the hallway, feeling the legs of his pants soak up the inch-deep river of blood. Tears streamed down his cheeks even when he shut his eyes.
"No!" He screamed again. Whether he could hear himself or not, he could feel himself losing his voice. "Enough! Enough!"
And for the first time in what felt like decades, Dean heard a voice.
"I'm here."
He didn't open his eyes. Not right away. He didn't want to find out that it was just an echo, or his own hopelessly traumatised mind. Slowly, he could feel the pool of blood draining away below him, as if someone had pulled a plug nearby. The voice, perhaps. He lifted his gaze and was met with an outstretched hand, an open palm. Castiel smiled down at him.
"I'm here," he said again.
Trembling, Dean raised a hand and took Castiel's, the warmth so much different from the heat that had coated him with the blood. It calmed him. With the angel's assistance, he found his way to his feet, lips moving to speak, but not finding the words to say. Not finding the thank yous.
"Cas," was the only word to leave him, and he was astounded at his own voice, not because he finally had one, but because the single syllable had been so broken. The hand that had rescued him hadn't yet released its grip. He was grateful. But then there was blood.
"I'm here."
At first it trickled from Castiel's blue eyes like tears, sliding down his cheeks, creasing into the indent of his mouth and dripping off his chin. Dean shook his head. Not Cas. Please not Cas.
More and more lines appeared. Cracks in the skin. They grew longer, patterned across Castiel's face, deepening until that comforting smile was lost in all the wounds that surrounded it. Dean held his hand tighter, unable to move anything else. He watched in horror as the face changed, fell away, and became something completely different, not the saviour he'd thought it to be at all.
Zachariah.
A grin broke out through the deformed remains.
"Ready to say yes yet?"
Dean tried to let go, but he was frozen to the spot, trapped. His mouth worked uselessly without words to respond with. He just wanted to go home.
"Never," came the reply, whispered, all strength flooding out of his body like the blood flowing from Zachariah's face. Then he was released and he was falling, falling, with no floor to catch him, only darkness. When he jolted upright, gravity holding him to what he recognised as ground at last, the light blinded him. Smoke filled his lungs. Someone had thrown a fresh log on the campfire.
"Hey," a sleepy voice came from nearby, and Dean turned to see Miller, young Scarecrow, propped up on his elbow and rubbing his tired eyes. "You okay?"
Okay. he was okay. it had been a nightmare. A nightmare within a nightmare where nightmares were real. No, he wasn't okay. But he nodded.
"I'm just.." Dean fumbled for what he was trying to say, coughing to clear his throat. His voice was back and it was fine. "I'm not supposed to be here."
The fire crackled and he glanced over at Miller. Even in the darkness of the late night, he could see the frown crossing the young soldier's worn out features.
"None of us are, man."