Title: Chasing Down the Miles
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: PG
Note: Spoilers through the end of Season Two. I started wondering what effect the latest events might have on Dean, and came up with this. Dean's POV.
Summary: Dean is having nightmares, and the only thing that calms him is Sam.


He hears them coming. The sound is cacophonous, epic in its ferocity, the slavering sound of great unhinged gears, rusted and broken and turning, turning to gnash tooth against tooth, gaping maws closing in from all sides. He stands in a forest of suicide trees, feet, ankles painted with cinders, grey choking smoke. Their screams rage louder and louder as they come, shrill metal on metal roars that fill his head, rake at his spine and twist his insides.

He stands in rust iron metal yards with twisted trees climbing into the sky, echoing the hounds' baleful cries, calling down the hunt, calling for flesh and soul. They're always coming, locked on his scent with the smell of blood sweat violent on the air. They are ethereal, lost between shadow and light, never touching him, never, but their breath sears his neck, scorching and blistering the skin of his shoulders until he's ready for fang and claw to fall into him and turn him inside out.

The ground trembles, resonates from earth to heavens as they chase down the miles, until it becomes a howl of wind and crashing waves in his skull. A white noise storm and he grabs his head, palms over ears trying to stop it.

This is always when he hears his name, over and over, feels the gentle press of lips to his temple and the strong brace of arms around his shoulders. The stench is still thick in his nostrils when he opens his eyes. He tastes his own sweat, the metallic tang of a split lip, and his hands fist a death grip into the sheets. The cloth feels like a shroud.

There's a hand on his chest to calm his heartbeat, a soft murmur of words to calm his breath. And when his skin stops feeling so cold, there is Sam, warm against him, flesh and blood and life and suddenly the taste of twisted metal and ash wash away.

And always he says to Sam's quiet tears, "Shh. We're almost there." As if the words weren't for himself. As if he knew what they meant.

Once he thinks he sees a hint of them, just at the edge of his vision. If they are to look like his worst fears then it's fitting he sees the thrashing of angel's wings.

He stands, every night, and slowly he feels himself grow colder, his fists grow tighter, his own teeth gnash. He knows he will turn and face them with eyes searing dark fire and a howl loud enough to match. He knows they will take him, knows they come closer and closer to dragging him away, pulling him under with no hope of salvation. And one of these nights, Sam will not be able to wake him.