A/N: Okay, yes, I know this nightmare → comfort thing has been done to death, but it's a classic for a reason.
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Dean sprints down the street, unaware of his surroundings other than the racing sound of his own heartbeat, almost as fast as his footfalls on the concrete before him.
A gut-wrenching feeling overtakes his senses, telling him you are in danger. He lets the terror act as his sense of direction, lets the sheer force of will send him barreling through the brisk nighttime air to where he knows you are.
Not remembering to slow down, he collides with the door before he shoots through the lock to get it open.
He relaxes when he sees the faint outline of your sleeping figure. But he still can't shake the feeling something is wrong. Hunters aren't sound sleepers. You would have heard him burst through the door.
Dean flicks on the light and sees red.
It gushes out of your stomach, soaking through the sheets and coating your hands.
"(Y/N)!"
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The soft rustling sound awakens you. You almost drift off again before the surface of the bed shifts, sending your eyes flying open.
As soon as your fingers brush the hilt of the knife under your pillow, you leap around, blade extended.
A dark silhouette stands at the side of your bed, holding its hands in the air. You blink to clear the sleepy blur from your eyes, though you already recognize the outline.
"Dean," you pant.
With a slow, tentative hand, he reaches for your blade, his other hand still in the air. You loosen your rigid grip on the hilt and slow your breaths, feeling the rush of adrenaline leave your body with a tingle. You prop yourself up on your arm.
"I thought we agreed –"
"I know," he says. "Tell me, why was that again?"
You sigh. "Because it's 'crazy,' 'risky business,' and my personal favorite, 'fifty shades of bad idea.'"
His eyes focus on a spot above your head, recalling the words he voiced all those weeks ago, before they land on you again. "Don't quote me to me."
You let out a laugh, letting it die quickly when you realize his own playful laugh doesn't join yours. He wipes at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. Your eyes adjust to the darkness, and you wish they didn't. You wish you couldn't see the emptiness of his eyes. The kind of emptiness that says even nothing is better than whatever awful thing he saw.
