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Dean woke up with the screams still in his ears. He breathed slowly trying to calm down. Don’t think about it, just don’t. What felt like a pool of sweat clung to his shirt. He could feel it under him. He shivered feeling the wetness slide down his back. Ugh, it felt like boxes of slugs were sliding down his back. Dean walked over to the sink, his eyes aching. He leaned against the sink, still tired. He looked at the water and—oh shit, was that blood? He shot up, whipped his head around the room. His heart almost stopped when he saw Sam with blood over his face.
Dean rushed over to Sam and grabbed his face gently, praying that he wouldn’t find him –God, don’t let him be—not breathing. Sam’s face was warm, his breath brushed against Dean’s hand. He was still alive. He ran his fingers over Sam’s face; there was no blood. Oh.
There were flashes of red still in his eyes.
From my dream of—my dream, Dean thought firmly, it’s nothing. I’m just going to go to bed and have a nice dream. Just think about beer and chicks. Beer and chicks.
Dean walked the three feet that it took to get to his own bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and pulled a dry, black shirt. He ignored the handprint on his shoulder, ignored what it meant. It didn’t matter right now. He slowly slid into bed, scrunching up his face when he felt the sheets. All wet with sweat. But he didn’t get out of bed. Slowly, Dean drifted off to sleep.
Sam slept on, lost in his own dreams.