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Dean is used to nightmares. He’s used to memories being replayed over and over; made up images are rare as they don’t hold a candle to his experiences through the years. To say that Dean’s life has been a nightmare is an underestimation of nearly humorous proportions.
He’s used to waking up on a gasp, a protest, or a scream as he bolts upright in bed, sweat pouring down his face and chills creeping along his spine. Used to that horrible moment where he can’t tell what’s real, the nightmare or the room slowly forming out of the blur of his newly opened eyes.
He’s used to laying back down, rubbing a hand over his face as he waits for his heart to stop racing, his breath to slow down, the sweat cooling on his skin; the rest of the night ruined for sleep.
But what surprises him every time he lays back down, though it’s been a constant now for weeks, is bumping his shoulder with something warm and firm next to him.
To find strong arms enveloping him, a low, gravelly voice whispering words of comfort into his ear and send new chills down his spine - good ones.
It stuns, overwhelms him to find it’s still there, that he’s still there.
But he buries his face in Cas’s neck and breathes, listening to the sound of his voice, and lets it lull him back to sleep.
Somehow, the nights are not ruined after all.