Destiel One-Shots

It Was Hell

That blinding pain he knew all too well shot through his abdomen, soon followed by more and more slices of this agony. It was an unbearable amount of pain, but the hunter was forced to bear through it, his screams to Sammy, Cas, Bobby, anyone, were no help. When he was lucky enough to fall into the sweet sleep that was death, he would simply wake up again, feeling no less exhausted, his injuries healed, his body renewed for the torture to restart.

It was hell.
No, you don't understand.
It was hell.

Dean's eyes flew open, his body shooting up into a sitting position, his hands attacking his upper body in an attempt to stop imaginary blood. His breathing was frantic, gasping and heavy as he rubbed his calloused hands over his face and dirty-blonde hair, leaving them to rest on the back of his head.

He lay back down, his head resting on his hands, and stared at the blank grey celling. He finally noticed how cold the small motel room was and the sweat sticking his dark shirt to his skin.

He let his emerald-green eyes fall to Sammy's bed. His little brother - who was much to large to be addressed as such - was still out finishing up a simple spirit case. He forced his eyes closed and let out a long, shaky breath.

Now, Dean never found out if this next part really happened, but he has always secretly believed and hoped it did. He could've sworn he heard a quiet flutter of wings and the bed dip beside him. A soft kiss pressed into his still sweaty forehead and that deep, gravely, yet still so heavenly voice of his angel quietly sung;
"Carry on my wayward son,
There'll be peace when you are done,
Lay your weary head to rest,
Don't you cry no more."

For the first time since being pulled from hell, he slept without a single nightmare.