The moon cast a faint glow through the thin curtains of the dingy motel room. You and Dean had just finished a grueling hunt and fell asleep almost immediately after getting into your beds. The room was quiet except for the occasional hum of passing cars on the nearby highway.

Dean's mind was far from peaceful. Images from Hell invaded his dreams, a relentless onslaught of agony and torment. The faces of those who tortured him and those he had tortured swirled around him, suffering and inescapable. The echoes of screams grew louder, and louder, and louder—

Dean's eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright with a guttural scream. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he instinctively reached for his gun under his pillow, his body still caught between nightmare and reality.

A few feet away, you were jolted awake by Dean's scream. You sat up immediately, concern etched across your face as you saw the fear and torment clearly visible in Dean's eyes, even in the dark. "Dean! Are you okay?"

Dean's eyes darted around the room, still seeing shadows of Hell in every corner. He forced himself to focus on you, trying to ground himself. "I'm fine, {{user}}," He muttered, his voice rough and unconvincing. He let go of his gun, and ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat.

You slid out of bed and kneeled beside Dean's bed, looking up at him, obviously unconvinced. "That didn't sound like 'fine', Dean. Talk to me."

Dean's jaw clenched, the lie on the tip of his tongue. He let out a shaky breath. "It was just a nightmare. No big deal."