Dean jerked awake, the knife from under his pillow suddenly in hand. He bit his tongue to stop himself from calling Sam. His shirt was damp from sweat and he couldn't stop his chest heaving.

It was just another dream. Sam wasn't in hell with Dean. If Dean had his way about it, Sam never would be. Sam would never learn what it was like.

Dean did a quick scan of the room. There weren't any whisps of black smoke or dark eyes waiting to get to him or Sam. The room, aside from his brother, was empty.

He stuffed the knife back under his pillow.

It'd been two weeks since he'd dug himself out of his own grave only to find himself in a field of mowed down trees. It'd been two weeks and he still woke up every night, after dreaming that he was either in that coffin again with six feet of dirt above him or still in hell and that he'd never really escaped. Those dreams he could deal with though. He'd almost grown used to them.

Maybe that was why his head had decided to throw this new thing at him.

Dreaming of hell and coffins were fine, expected even. But this time, Sam had been in hell too.

In reality, he knew he was in a motel in Tampa Bay, and if he opened the door the humidity would remind him, but his lungs didn't know that right now. His heart felt like it was about to beat out of his chest and, if it was anyone but himself, he would have said he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

He wanted to fight something. They'd just finished a werewolf hunt a few hours ago, but it wasn't enough.

Every fiber of his being was convinced he had to save Sam from something that he knew wasn't real.

He put all of his focus into just trying to get his lungs to cooperate. Sammy was safe and Dean wasn't in the coffin, he wasn't dead, and he wasn't in hell.

So why did it feel like he was?

He could still hear the other souls who had also been idiot enough to get themselves trapped in hell. He could feel the heat and hear Sam—

"Dean?"

Dean hadn't noticed his brother sitting up.

"Go back to sleep," Dean managed to say, running a hand across his face. "Everything's fine."

Dean waited for the creak of the bed springs to tell him Sam had listened to him.

He glanced at his jacket and considered just going outside and walking it off. Maybe he could distract himself enough to forget about it. But if he did that, it would involve leaving Sam. After the images his mind had conjured up, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Sam's bed creaked, but instead of Sam going back to bed, he was getting up and walking over to Dean.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked. His voice wasn't croaky. It wasn't.

"Move over."

"What—"

"Nightmare Pact goes both ways, asshole. Scoot."

Since he didn't have a better idea of what to do, Dean did as Sam asked.

Ever since they'd made the agreement, Sam hadn't ever reversed it on Dean. The thought of that being an option hadn't ever occurred to Dean.

Sam stole most of the covers but Dean didn't really care.

"Goodnight Jerk."

Dean looked down at his brother. Already, Sam was almost asleep again. The fact that Dean was able to breath again and his heart rate had slowed wasn't something Dean was ever going to mention. Dean laid down again, his back to Sam.

"'Night Bitch."