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Entry tags:
Day Dreams About Night Things, 1/1, PG, Gen (no pairing)
Title: Day Dreams About Night Things
Pairing: None, this is Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: General for S4 thus far
Words: ~375
A/N:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lemmealone commented about how we keep seeing Dean sleeping—but it's like he falls asleep when he can't stay awake any more. This is just a little snippet that kind of slithered into my head after reading her comment, about why he might not want to sleep. Hope you enjoy :) Also, apologies to Ronnie Milsap for nabbing his song title for my own *g*
If he could just manage without sleep, he'd be golden.
No rest for the wicked, dances through his mind, sharp and gleeful, shiny-sharp blades made of words and thoughts.
Right behind them are wet, red images in start-stop motion, blurred by inky black shadows.
Dean swallows the rest of his coffee, grimacing at the cold, bitter flavor, and glances over at the small coffee pot in the kitchenette. He'll make some more in a minute or two.
~~~~~
During the day, it's not so bad. He keeps moving, he and Sam talk, walk, eat, drive. There is research to do and people to save, and all kinds of shit to deal with.
Worst-case scenario, there's always daytime television, and that's good for annoying him back awake. So no, not so bad during the day.
But at night, once the sun starts slanting downward, Dean feels the weight of the shadows press in on him. Hears the wet, squelching noises and the shrill screams of the tortured damned. No matter how many lamps he turns on in their room; no matter how strong the flickering fluorescent bulbs shine, it's not enough. The shadows grin at him, silver teeth waiting to bite into him.
His hand shakes from lack of sleep, and the razor cuts him, red dripping onto the white porcelain of the sink, an obscene splash of color.
~~~~~
There aren't enough clothes in the world that he can wear, that will keep the nightmares at bay. No armor, no protection, nothing to block the hisses and shrieks; nothing to keep images from fluttering, flashing, twirling around him.
Dean knows he slept because he has crease marks on his cheek when he stands in front of the mirror, stark light streaming over him from the single overhead light. The shadows retreat, except for the ones under his eyes, in his eyes. He peers into the mirror and sees spider webs of pain, hears the spears made of screams coming to pierce him. He scrubs his hands over his face, then splashes it with some cold water.
Waits for the sizzle that should come, but doesn't.
Watches his hand tremble again as he reaches for towel.
Wonders if he's still sleeping, or awake.
Wonders if he'll ever know for sure, either way.
~fin~
Pairing: None, this is Gen
Rating: PG
Warnings/Spoilers: General for S4 thus far
Words: ~375
A/N:
lemmealone commented about how we keep seeing Dean sleeping—but it's like he falls asleep when he can't stay awake any more. This is just a little snippet that kind of slithered into my head after reading her comment, about why he might not want to sleep. Hope you enjoy :) Also, apologies to Ronnie Milsap for nabbing his song title for my own *g*If he could just manage without sleep, he'd be golden.
No rest for the wicked, dances through his mind, sharp and gleeful, shiny-sharp blades made of words and thoughts.
Right behind them are wet, red images in start-stop motion, blurred by inky black shadows.
Dean swallows the rest of his coffee, grimacing at the cold, bitter flavor, and glances over at the small coffee pot in the kitchenette. He'll make some more in a minute or two.
During the day, it's not so bad. He keeps moving, he and Sam talk, walk, eat, drive. There is research to do and people to save, and all kinds of shit to deal with.
Worst-case scenario, there's always daytime television, and that's good for annoying him back awake. So no, not so bad during the day.
But at night, once the sun starts slanting downward, Dean feels the weight of the shadows press in on him. Hears the wet, squelching noises and the shrill screams of the tortured damned. No matter how many lamps he turns on in their room; no matter how strong the flickering fluorescent bulbs shine, it's not enough. The shadows grin at him, silver teeth waiting to bite into him.
His hand shakes from lack of sleep, and the razor cuts him, red dripping onto the white porcelain of the sink, an obscene splash of color.
There aren't enough clothes in the world that he can wear, that will keep the nightmares at bay. No armor, no protection, nothing to block the hisses and shrieks; nothing to keep images from fluttering, flashing, twirling around him.
Dean knows he slept because he has crease marks on his cheek when he stands in front of the mirror, stark light streaming over him from the single overhead light. The shadows retreat, except for the ones under his eyes, in his eyes. He peers into the mirror and sees spider webs of pain, hears the spears made of screams coming to pierce him. He scrubs his hands over his face, then splashes it with some cold water.
Waits for the sizzle that should come, but doesn't.
Watches his hand tremble again as he reaches for towel.
Wonders if he's still sleeping, or awake.
Wonders if he'll ever know for sure, either way.
~fin~
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