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Summary: Dean was having nightmares again. Every time he closed his eyes, the horrors of his past were right there to tear him apart. Hell might claim his sleep, but your touch was enough to bring him back.
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings/Tags: Implied/mentioned Hell trauma, nightmare comfort, panic attacks, angst to comfort, emotional distress, PTSD, fluff, hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, no description of reader, no smut, no gender for reader mentioned
A/N: this had been hiding in my drafts for a while now... have fun reading !!
Dean had begun having nightmares again. His conscience was never clear—he knew that much—and every hunt only served as a fresh reminder.
He tossed and turned, tangled in the stiff sheets of another cheap motel bed. The blanket was bunched up at his feet, useless against the chill, but Dean couldn't find the energy to fix it.
Another night, another bar, another cheap hangover meant to drown out the noise in his head. None of it ever worked for long.
A few feet away, Sam was fast asleep, breathing evenly. Dean used to make jokes about Sam's old visions, but lately, the thought of prophetic dreams didn't even bother him. At least those were useful. Dean's dreams were just blood, fire, and memories he couldn't scrub out of his skin.
Castiel was off handling heavenly business somewhere, which left dean alone with his own head. Who would care about him anyway?
"I do," a quiet voice murmured.
Dean jolted, his eyes snapping open as he scrambled back against the thin headboard. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
You were already sitting on the edge of his bed. You stared down at him with that usual quiet, unreadable gaze—deep and entirely unfazed by his sudden panic.
You was an angel, much like Cas, but younger by angelic standards. Still learning how humans worked, still trying to make sense of emotional baggage. But you had taken to the Winchesters quickly. Or, more accurately, you had taken to Dean.
After months of dealing with Cas's complete lack of human awareness, teaching you basic social etiquette felt like second nature to him—even if you still didn't quite get the concept of boundaries.
"Jesus—" Dean rasped out, his voice rough from sleep and cheap whiskey. He dragged a palm down his face, taking a slow, shaky breath in a desperate attempt to steady himself.
"How many times have I told you about personal space? Scared the hell outta me."
"You were dreaming," You said softly, non-plussed by his exasperation. You didn't move away. If anything, you tilted your head slightly, studying the tense line of his shoulders and the dark shadows under his eyes.
"You were screaming in your head."
Dean swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably under your gaze. He hated how easily you could see right through him, but at the same time... he couldn't bring himself to tell you to leave.
"I was fine," he muttered, though the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
"You weren't," you replied softly. You didn't say it to argue or mock him, it was simply just a matter-of-fact observation.
You moved just a fraction closer, careful not to startle him again, but close enough that he could feel the faint, soothing aura that always seemed to follow you.
"It's just the usual stuff," Dean grunted, looking away toward the grimy window of the motel room. "Occupational hazard."
"Hell isn't just an occupational hazard, Dean."
The word hung in the quiet room, heavy and dark. Dean flinched slightly, his jaw tightening.
He opened his mouth to spit out another defensive deflect, but the look in your eyes stopped him cold. There was no pity there, just a deep, unwavering understanding that made his chest ache.
Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out.
Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.
Slowly, hesitating as if giving him time to pull away, you reached out. Your fingers gently brushed against the back of his hand, where his knuckles were white from gripping his bedsheets.
At first, Dean went entirely still. Every instinct trained him to flinch away from vulnerability, to put up walls and pretend he was fine. But as your thumb lightly rubbed over his knuckles, a familiar, grounding warmth washed over him.
It wasn't the fiery grace of an attack or the overwhelming power of older angels; it was soft, steady, and entirely safe. Unfamiliar to him.
The phantom heat of Hell’s fires slowly began to recede, replaced by the cool, real air of the motel room and the gentle pressure of your hand.
A quiet gasp escaped Dean's lips as his shoulders finally dropped, weeks of tension melting away in an instant. He didn't let go of your hand. In fact, his fingers tightened around yours, holding on like a lifeline.
"Stay," Dean rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, so low he was sure Sam wouldn't hear even if he woke up. "Just… for a bit."
You offered him a faint, reassuring nod, shifting up to sit beside him against the headboard, keeping your hand wrapped snugly in his.
"I'm not going anywhere, Dean."
The motel room settled back into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The only sound was the rhythmic hum of the ancient mini-fridge in the corner and Sam’s steady breathing from the far bed.
Outside, a light rain began to tap softly against the glass. It masked the dark, terrifying memories still trying to claw their way back into Dean’s head.
Dean didn't move an inch.
He sat frozen, his back pressed flat against the flimsy headboard. His hand was still anchored tightly around yours.
For a man who spent every waking hour pretending he was made of iron, holding onto you felt like the only thing keeping him grounded.
You didn't press him to speak.
Instead, you shifted slightly on the edge of the mattress, pulling your feet up to sit cross-legged beside him.
Your grace—soft, calm, and steady—hummed gently beneath your skin. It radiated a subtle warmth that slowly seeped into his frozen hands.
"You're shaking, Dean," you murmured. Your voice was soft, completely devoid of judgment.
Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight.
He looked down at your joined hands. His knuckles were raw and bruised from the day's hunt, contrasting sharply against your calm, steady touch.
"Just cold," he lied automatically. The defensive reflex was as natural to him as breathing.
"You aren't cold," you replied simply.
You brushed your free hand over his forearm, resting it gently against the crook of his elbow.
"You're afraid."
A sharp, defensive huff left Dean's lips, but the fight had completely drained out of him. He couldn't even muster up a glare.
"Yeah, well... you spend forty years in the pit, see how easy it is to sleep through the night."
"I know," you said quietly. "I know it doesn't just leave you. But you're not there anymore."
You leaned in slightly. "Look at me, Dean."
It took him a long moment to respond. His jaw clenched and unclenched before he finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours.
The green of his eyes was glassy, brimmed with unshed tears he was fighting desperately to hold back.
"You are in a motel in Ohio," you told him softly.
"Sam is right over there. The air is cool. The rain is falling."
You held his gaze. "The fire is gone." Slowly, you reached up with your free hand.
You hesitated for a split second before brushing your thumb softly over his cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.
That single touch seemed to shatter whatever last thread of composure Dean was holding onto.
A shuddering breath hitched in his chest. Before he could stop himself, his head sagged forward until his forehead rested heavily against your shoulder.
He didn't cry out—Dean never allowed himself to break like that.
Instead, his breath came in short, ragged gasps against the fabric of your shirt. His grip on your hand tightened until it was almost painful, but you didn't pull away.
You wrapped your arm around his broad shoulders, pulling him in close until he was completely enveloped by your grace.
"I can still smell it," Dean rasped out. His voice was muffled against your shoulder, entirely stripped of his usual bravado.
"Every time I close my eyes... the ash, the sulfur. It's like I never left."
"I know," you whispered, resting your chin lightly against the top of his head. You began tracing slow, soothing circles into the tight muscle between his shoulder blades.
"Memory is a heavy burden for a human mind. But it is just a ghost, Dean. It cannot burn you here."
"Feels real enough," he grumbled. Yet, the tremor in his shoulders was finally beginning to slow down.
"I am real, too," you reminded him softly. "Focus on my voice."
Angels were, by nature, celestial beings—sharp, terrifying, and unyielding.
But sitting on that sagging motel mattress, you smoothed away every sharp edge of your being. You let your grace settle into a slow, gentle pulse that mirrored a calm heartbeat.
Dean focused on it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the comforting scent that surrounded you—like ozone after a storm, clean wood, and crisp night air.
Slowly, the lingering stench of blood and sulfur in his throat faded away. Minutes bled into one another in the dark.
Neither of you spoke as the quiet rhythm of breathing replaced the heavy panic in the room.
Dean’s rigid posture slowly melted. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder as the sheer weight of a sleepless week caught up to him.
"You're terrible at personal space," Dean muttered after a long while. There was no real bite to the words, his voice thick with sleep.
"You asked me to stay," you pointed out gently, a tiny smile touching your lips.
"Yeah... well. Don't go making a habit out of it."
"I will stay as long as you need me to."
Dean didn't answer that.
He just leaned into your side a little more, his hand finally relaxing its tight grip on yours, though his fingers remained loosely intertwined.
The suffocating knot in his chest had finally unravelled, replaced by a deep, heavy calm.
You shifted slightly, adjusting your position so he could lean back comfortably without pulling away.
With one hand resting over his and the other continuing slow, comforting strokes along his back, you watched as his breathing evened out.
For the first time in weeks, Dean Winchester slept in peace.
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