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Chapter 8: Nightmares

A/N: Stay tuned later in the day. This chapter is somewhat of a 2 parter, so I'll be uploading that one a little later. :)

You startled awake to Dean gently whispering for you to wake up. Sweat beads sat on your forehead. Judging by how the sheets were tangled around your feet, Dean was woken up by your nightmare induced thrashing.

"You okay?" he whispered through the darkness.

"I'm fine," you said, voice wavering. Rather than staying beside Dean and trying to pretend you were fine, you carefully slid your feet to the floor.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked, grogginess was clinging to his voice.

"Bathroom."

Without another word, you entered the bathroom and sank to the floor after the door was shut. Images of hellhounds and werewolves and sirens and every other bad monster that has ever caused you hurt flashed through your mind. Silent tears fell from your eyes. It had been years since the nightmares haunted you.

A soft knock on the door caused you to stand and hastily wipe the salted streams from your cheeks. When you opened the door with your head down, Dean shoved a pair of the leggings you bought earlier into your arms.

"Put these on," he ordered. The door was shut and cut you off from him. The confusion you felt momentarily distracted you from the nightmare.

You quickly tugged the leggings on under the thigh length flannel and fixed the tangles in your hair. Dark circles were pooled under your eyes from the makeup that you were too lazy to remove earlier in the day. While trying to look presentable, you couldn't help but wonder what Dean had planned. The time was...really late in the night. Or was it morning now?

You shook your head, deciding that no matter how sub par you looked, it was going to have to do. When you opened the thin door, the dim lighting softly illuminated Dean waiting by the motel room door. He was wearing a dark blue jacket over a plain white shirt. Even dressed simplistically he looked handsome, and that was a fact that you hated admitting to yourself.

"What are we doing?" You kept your voice hushed so as not to wake Sam.

"Getting your mind off things." He opened the door and motioned for you to exit the room.

He followed closely behind as you exited into the brisk night air. The motel parking lot was lit by dimly shining street lamps. There was a light layer of dew settled on the Impala. Dean climbed into the vehicle, so you did the same.

He keyed the ignition and the car roared to life, cold air blasting onto you. A shiver went down your spine and you pulled your arms tight against your chest.

"Sorry," Dean said. Noticing your discomfort, he changed the air from AC to heat.

"Thanks," you mumbled. To you, awkwardness was no stranger. The familiar feeling washed over you as Dean drove off in silence. The two of you had a very rocky start to your relationship and it left you not knowing what to talk about. Maybe it was best that way. It left less chance for the two of you to get into an argument. So, rather than force conversation, you watched the starry sky through the window.

Dean pulled into a diner after several minutes of driving and parked the car in the deserted parking lot. He turned to look at you, though you made no move to look at him.

"Seriously," he said. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," you answered coolly. It wasn't even that you were mad at Dean, you were just a little uncomfortable and still upset over the nightmare. The death of your parents had been a memory you successfully repressed years ago. The pain eventually stopped hurting once you learned how to effectively control your memories.

Dean didn't push the subject and climbed out of the Impala. He quickly rounded the front of the hood and opened your door.

"Dean, what are we doing here?"

"Nothing fixes the mind like a nice, warm slice of pie."

You groaned. "It's late. You should still be sleeping, not dragging me out for pie."

He placed his hand on your lower back and gently pushed you forward as he walked. Nerves bundled in your stomach from Dean's touch, but you ignored it to the best of your ability. He opened the door for you like a perfect gentleman. What had happened to the gruff man arguing with you over almost anything he could find.

The diner was small and cozy. The lights were dim, but plenty, leaving a nice glow to the muted pinks, blues, and yellows found in the tiles on the walls and floors. The two of you sat in one of the hard, off-white booths near the back corner.

A friendly looking middle aged woman approached your table with a pad and pen in hand. She smiled warmly at us. "What can I get for you two?" She kept her pen poised above her paper, ready to write whatever we ordered at this odd hour of night.

Dean looked at her closely. At first, you weren't sure what he was doing, but when he addressed her by name you realized he was reading her nametag.

"Tammy, what kind of pies do you got?" His smile was wide and the corners of his eyes were crinkled with happiness as Tammy spouted off their various pie flavors. You admitted to yourself that it was adorable how happy he was about something so simplistic. He ordered the cherry pie, as the waitress claimed it was their specialty. Though cherry certainly wasn't your favorite flavor, you ordered a slice of it, hoping that it was as good as Tammy claimed.

"Comin' right up," she smiled.

Rather than finding something to foolishly babble about, you looked around the small little diner. It really was charming. You imagined the diner being like all the cute ones seen in movies. The staff seemed friendly enough, even though it was somewhere around three in the morning. You pictured the place during an early morning rush, with the regulars sitting at the counter and sipping their coffee. You were so busy trying to avoid talking with Dean, you missed how he was staring intently at you and wondering what was going on in your mind.

Tammy brought the pie out and set them gently in front of Dean and you. You looked up at her with a smile and thanked her. After she walked away, you began taking small bites of the pie, occasionally scraping your fork over the top of the golden crust as you chewed.

"Y/N," Dean said, placing his fork down on the plate where half of his pie was already missing.

"Hmm?" You kept your eyes staring at the middle of the table.

"Would you look at me?"

Your eyes met his and his brows cinched together. "Why are you crying?"

You mentally kicked yourself for not even noticing the tears sitting on the rims of your eyes. Maybe repressing your memories wasn't the best choice, because the second they came flooding back in through nightmares, you were reeling and had been since Dean woke you up. Crying made you feel so weak and you hated yourself for it.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk. I get it, but if you do want to talk I'm willing to listen and so is Sam."