7. Chapter 7

Dean didn’t like wearing the pull-ups. He'd almost forgotten how annoying they could be. He hadn’t worn them since just after he turned five, when John roughly sat him down and told him that big boys didn’t wet themselves and that Dean needed to start being a big boy because he had to look after Sammy. Now, years later, Dean was old enough to realize that it was partly a question of money. Even back then, pull-ups and diapers weren’t cheap and it wasn’t like Sammy could have been expected to stop using diapers anytime soon.

After that John stopped buying pull-ups until Sammy had need of them, though it hadn’t really changed anything. Much as it shamed him to think about it, Dean had a few memories of spending the night naked and wrapped in towels because he kept having nightmares about the fire and wetting himself. Sleeping in towels was easier than making his father mad. When he inevitably woke up in the middle of the night, he could push the pee soaked towels under the bed (if they were leaving) or out the window or anywhere else John wouldn’t find them.

He hadn’t thought about that time in years, but he could still remember it vividly: the terror of the nightmares fading away into hot, prickling shame and the fear that his dad would find out he wasn’t being a big boy. Once or twice, he’d even blamed an incident on Sammy when he couldn’t come up with any other explanation. John never found out, and by the time Dean was seven or eight he was old enough that it stopped. Mostly because by then Sammy was old enough to want to crawl into his bed at night.

Somehow, he didn’t think that Castiel would have reacted the same way. He kept an eye on the angel the whole time they were baking, unable to really enjoy the chocolate chip cookies because his mind was so busy spinning. If the scene in the bathroom had played out in any other way, they would probably still be in there, Castiel's stubbornness be damned. But he kept hearing the words Castiel had said and seeing the complete sincerity in Castiel’s blue eyes. If he was lying, he’d done a damn good job of faking it.

But it just didn’t make any sense. Regardless of whether Castiel had money to waste, pull-ups were expensive. There was no need for Dean to wear them when underwear would work just as well. Screw the whole ‘needing a physical reminder’ aspect. What Dean needed was a boost from grace so that he could actually get out there and gank some monsters. The last time he’d taken a break this long from hunting, it was because he’d been trapped in hell.

His stomach churned unpleasantly at just the word, and he jumped when the sound of the television suddenly stopped. His head snapped up and he realized that Castiel had come into the room without his notice, and that Castiel was looking at him as he set the remote down on the coffee table. “Time for bed, Dean.”

“Okay,” Dean said, not even bothering to protest that it was only nine and that he hadn’t had a bedtime since he was four years old. It was like the standoff in the bathroom had drained him of all his energy, and he was so tired it was hard to stay awake long enough to piss, wash his hands and brush his teeth. When he was finished, he shuffled into his bedroom and threw himself down on the bed. He tensed when the covers were pulled up around his shoulders. God, now he was being tucked in?

"Would you like me to read you a story?"

Dean rolled his eyes into his pillow. Maybe at this point he shouldn't have been surprised at how far Castiel was determined to take this kid thing. "No, I'm fine."

"Okay. Good night, Dean."

"Night," Dean mumbled, turning his head just enough to watch as Castiel shut the light off and left, leaving the door open just a crack. He wondered what the angel planned to do while Dean was sleeping. It had to be boring staying in the house all night. Maybe he would leave? There had to some things in heaven that still required his attention, after all.

Not that Dean cared. He rolled over and curled up, trying to ignore how weird the pull-up felt when he moved. Part of him was tempted to take it off again, but he had the feeling that Castiel would somehow know. And while he certainly wasn't afraid of the angel, there was a tiny part of him that wasn't sure he wanted to risk it. Risk what, exactly, he didn't know, but that tiny part was pretty strong. He was in the middle of trying to decide whether he should or not when he finally drifted off to sleep.

It had been a little while since he'd dreamt about Alastair, mostly because he'd been depending on a combination of not sleeping for as long as possible and then, when he couldn't stay awake any longer, using alcohol to keep the nightmares at bay. He had no such protection right now, and Alastair was there: Dean was tied to the rack again, choking on smoke and brimstone, and he was being sliced apart, flesh and organs dangled in front of his eyes, and Alastair just laughed when he cried and made him whole again so that they could start over.

This time, he transformed himself into Sam and started in with a fish hook, and when that hook plunged into his left eye Dean woke up and couldn't breathe. Or at least he thought he was awake, couldn't even be sure about that, because that was the thing about hell. Sometimes Alastair found it funny to give him false hope.

The blankets on the bed were tangled around him and he thrashed free, falling off the bed and hitting the floor with a jarring thud. The impact was enough to make him throw up and then couldn't stop, his chest still so tight with panic that he couldn't get enough air. With the terror ringing in his ears, he didn't even realize he wasn't alone in the room until hands reached down and grabbed his shoulders.

"No, please, don't. Please," Dean begged, wrenching away, still breathing in the fires of hell. He sobbed once and covered his face. "Please, no more, I can't, I'll -"

The hands didn't stop. They scooped him right up off the floor and carried him away. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, shaking all over, and waited for the pain to start again. Waited for the images of Sam and John and Bobby to carve into him, mutilate him in every way possible, and then when he was on the verge of breaking, make him whole again. Waited for the blade to be offered to him, blood clinging to it like the sweet promise of freedom if only he'd take it in hand.

But it didn't.

Slowly, he became aware of the sound of crickets. The smell of fresh air and the wind right off the river. The feel of warmth and fabric, and of a beating heart. Shivering, he dared to take a peek. Right in front of him was a scene that a lot of people would've paid thousands of dollars to see: a big, round moon rising over the river, while a couple of deer - what looked like a doe and her baby - drank from the water on the banks. It was quiet and calm and the opposite of what he saw when he blinked.

He stared for a moment in bewilderment and then, sensing movement, turned his head. Much to his surprise, Gabriel was sitting in the chair beside him. There was an unusually grave look on the archangel's face, but, when he saw Dean watching him, he smiled. "Hey, kiddo."

"Gabriel?" Dean said, or tried to. His throat ached something awful. He remembered gagging for air and throwing up then, and looked down at his pajamas. They were clean, but the sour taste lingered in his mouth.

"Dean," Castiel said above him. Dean flinched and looked up, for the first time realizing who was holding him - holding him like a baby, because Castiel had one arm around his back and the other tucked under his knees. His hands were clasped and he was pressing Dean against his chest in a grip so tight that it would have hurt had it not been so comforting.

"I," Dean started, and then stopped. He never talked about his nightmares. Ever. Sam didn't even know that he was still having them. He rarely woke up screaming because that had been drilled into them a long time ago; he always tried to be quiet, and that meant he could get out of the room before he had a panic attack. Most of the time, once he was out of the room, he'd collapse somewhere quiet and try to breathe through it. If he was lucky, he'd make it to the Impala and the case of beer he always kept in the trunk.

He didn't think that Castiel had stocked the house with any alcohol.

"How about some water?" Gabriel suggested, shooting a look that Dean couldn't interpret at Castiel.

"I think that would be wise," Castiel said quietly, biting his lower lip. "You know where the kitchen is."

Gabriel nodded and got up, walking back into the house. Dean watched him go, and it was like Gabriel's exit made the situation seem much less surreal. He made an attempt at sitting up, embarrassed at both the way he was being held and at having been seen in the aftermath of a nightmare. It was a weakness he strove to keep to himself and, until now, he'd been successful.

Castiel only tightened his grip, though. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"About what?" Dean mumbled, the struggle tiring him far more quickly than he was comfortable with. Castiel was way stronger than he had any right to be. He looked up at the angel, uncomfortable with how vulnerable he felt. It felt like Castiel could see everything.

"I wanted you to get more comfortable with the situation before I gave you any grace. I wasn't thinking about your nightmares. I'm sorry. I should have remembered."

"It's fine," Dean said, his embarrassment growing. His nightmares were his own problem. He tried to squirm free again. "You can let go."

"No," Castiel said.

Dean frowned, but before he had the chance to argue Gabriel came back out on the porch. He was holding a cup, only it didn't look like the kind of cup Dean was used to. It had a top screwed on that made it look like a sippy cup. But Gabriel was acting like that was perfectly normal as he extended the cup for Dean to take and said, "Here you go."

"I'm not -"

"It's got grace in it," Gabriel cut him off. "Grace that would be dangerous if you got it anywhere except for your mouth, Dean-o. Believe me, you don't want to know what raw grace could do to human flesh. It's for your own benefit."

After the pull-ups incident, Dean wasn't so sure about that. But when he reached out to take the cup, he saw his hand was shaking badly enough that he probably would have sloshed the contents of a regular cup everywhere. It was humiliating. At least Castiel allowed him to sit up to drink, though he wrapped a proprietary arm around Dean's waist to keep him on his knee.

He brought the cup to his face and sniffed at the spout. Not much of a smell. Hesitantly, aware that he was crossing a line there was no turning back from, he brought it to his mouth and tipped the cup back. Even with gravity he had to suck hard to get the liquid to come to him, but he allowed only a mouthful before he pulled the cup away to assess. It was cold, shockingly so, helping to clear the remnants of hell's fire from the back of his head. It had no particular taste that he could identify. It seemed to be plain, if cold, water.

When nothing happened except Castiel and Gabriel continued to stare at him, he drank the rest.