TORTURE, SUPERNATURAL

ꜰɪᴠᴇ. ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ

I dream of a man.

My face is buried in the crook of his neck, the curve of my nose pressed into his warm skin. He smells of whiskey, burnt wood, and something else—familiar, like safety, or longing. His jacket scratches against my cheek, a rough canvas material that's been through too many storms. I pull him tighter, desperate to stay here, wrapped up in this feeling that I can't name but don't want to lose.

He has one hand cupped against the back of my neck, his fingers tangled in my hair, anchoring me to him. The other hand travels slowly up my spine, firm but trembling. He holds me like I'm slipping through his fingers, like this embrace is the last thing keeping him alive. There's desperation in the way he clutches me closer, folding me into him until our heartbeats sync.

And then—he kisses my forehead.

A kiss so soft, so reverent, that it cracks something wide open in my chest.

He loves me.

He doesn't say it, but I feel it. It's there in the press of his lips. In the way he trembles.

But I can't see his face.

I try to pull back, to lift my head, but something resists. My muscles won't respond. My eyelids are sealed shut. My voice, when I try to scream, is just a whisper of air. My hands won't move, my jaw won't clench, my body remains frozen.

Fear coils in my gut like a snake. Panic sparks, flickering to life behind my ribs.

I struggle harder. I push and strain and twist—but the more I fight, the tighter his grip becomes. His arms become a vice. The pressure builds, suffocating me.

It hurts.

I scream.

And then I wake up.

My heart drums in my chest as I gasp for breath, lungs starved for air.

The motel room is cloaked in darkness. My sheets are twisted around me like chains. I'm still trembling when I feel the mattress dip beside me.

I turn my head slowly.

Dean Winchester blinks at me, green eyes half-lidded and gleaming with sleep. He gives me the kind of lopsided smirk that would be charming if it weren't so irritating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he whispers, voice thick with sleep and amusement. "Mind if we play bunk buddies tonight?"

I glare. "I mind. You have your bed."

"Not anymore." He lazily points over his shoulder toward the other bed and then dramatically flops onto my pillows like a cat claiming a new sunspot.

I follow the direction of his finger. Sam is writhing in his sleep, drenched in sweat, clutching the pillow so hard his knuckles are bone-white. His mouth opens in a groan that never quite makes it to a scream.

Watching him, I feel a strange twist in my chest—like empathy and guilt got tangled up with something else. Something softer.

I can hear my mother's voice, sharp and clear: "Pity kills. Attachment is a weapon pointed at your heart."

She would see my expression and tear it apart with words. I can imagine her standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, scolding me for feeling anything at all.

I turn back to Dean, sighing. "Stay on your side of the bed. I mean it."

Dean folds his arms behind his head, his biceps flexing a little too casually. "You're lucky, you know," he says, grin still in place. "Most girls would kill for a chance to share a bed with me. I'm told I radiate body heat and charisma."