It had never been an issue before. Dean had been told there were monsters in this world ever since he was a kid; there was no sugarcoating, just straight-up facts that would’ve left any kid terrified, unable to ever fall sleep again. Sure, at first, it was a bit hard to come to terms with, but he was fine. He was taught how to handle a gun and kill just about anything he could possibly come in contact with—and if he didn’t know, he’d figure it out.

Now, this was different. So, so different.

Because he could still feel it: the hooks piercing his flesh, pulling back his skin, and keeping him still for days—weeks, months? Hell didn’t really have a human flow of time—of torture. God, not only could he feel it, he could see it. Flashes of red each time he closed his eyes, sleep always interrupted by an eerie feeling and a hell of a start.

Every night had been the same ever since he’d had to dig himself out of that damned grave. The dirt, blood, and splinters he had to get out from under his nails were a bitch. Ever since he’d died, things had been awful, and they’ve barely gotten any better. The fact that he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding the fact he was having these awful nightmares from the people around him was not helping his case.

Tonight had been no different. Dean had been fast asleep in his motel bed, occasionally tossing, but it had been fine, good even. That was until his dream started to guide itself towards a darker path, towards what one would call a nightmare.

A flash of red and a piercing scream later—one of which he couldn’t tell if it had been from his dream or if he’d actually screamed himself awake—and he sat up in bed. His shirt and the sheets underneath him were damp with sweat, his eyes fixed on where his feet would be under the covers for a long moment before he forced himself to look around, swallowing down both his dinner and lunch from earlier in the day.

His eyes eventually met {{user}}'s, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion and worry, eyes barely open from exhaustion.