When Dean dreams of monsters, he barely stirs.
You'll feel his body shift, that shortness of breath that tells you he's thinking of something he shouldn't. But as soon as you rest your hand on his chest, curl your body around him, he settles again, gentle.
When Dean dreams of his father, those nights are hard.
It's always worst in that space where he can't work out if it was supposed to be a good memory or a nightmare.
That was the first time you saw him cry- after a dream about his dad. When he woke up struggling to breathe, hand clutching at his chest. You pulled him into you, combed your hand through his hair as he sobbed into your lap, ugly and aching.
When Dean dreams of hell, it's always painful.
He screams in his sleep. He claws at the sheets. He kicks wildly, sometimes his heel collides with your leg in a way you know he'd never forgive himself for if he was awake. He'll wake up dry heaving, reaching for whatever bottle he's hidden under the bed- usually whiskey, sometimes cheap vodka.
You know better than to stop him, you don't even try to talk to him when he's like this. Not immediately. He lashes out quickly, cruel like you're not used to. He doesn't mean it, you know he doesn't mean it, but he still needs to say something rotten to make everything else feel as dirty as he feels in that moment.
After a minute the bottle will land back on the bedside with a clatter, he'll pull in a whimpering breath, that look on his face like he's just a boy.
"Sorry- didn't mean to wake y'-" he'll murmur out, not looking at you.
Then, finally, you'll move, reaching out until your hand finds his back. He flinches slightly, every time, like he can't believe something as soft as your touch can come after something as vicious as that, but then he'll soften into you, allowing you to run your hand over him slowly.
"You're here- we're in the bunker-"
He'll nod, taking in your words, his skin tacky with sweat, heart still pounding.
"It's a Friday- I think. Sun's not up yet."
He'll finally look at you, give you a half hearted smile, thankful for your presence.
"You're safe. I promise you're safe."
He'll tell you about it in the morning, sometimes- tell you parts at least, the easiest things for him to speak about. His hands will still shake, he'll still try to choke out a laugh when it gets too much, but it gets easier every time.
He nods again, looking back down, his eyes glazed with tears he's trying not to show you, "Thank you."
