#no15

Dean’s been doing this job far too long to not recognize a dreamscape for what it is . 

Everything about this feels off from the moment Dean wakes up on a king-size memory foam mattress instead of his single bed in the Bunker. The world around him seems too soft, too cozy and peaceful to be his reality, like he’s experiencing it through a thin veil that might tear if he looks at it too closely. The most random sounds are amplified to an almost obnoxious level—the twittering of the birds in the trees, the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the sound of bacon sizzling somewhere below him. It feels every bit like Dean imagines waking up as the female lead in a chick-flick would feel like. Too perfect, too immaculate, too clean. 

Though the biggest red flag is the fact that when Dean wanders downstairs to investigate the smells of breakfast, he’s greeted by the sight of Cas flipping pancakes over the stove, wearing a blush blue apron that only sets off the brilliance of his eyes more. The sight sends a pang of want through Dean, slowly replaced by something dangerously close to anger or grief. These two emotions have been raging inside his head for so long, long before the Empty claimed his Cas, that Dean struggles to differentiate them. But then this Cas, Dreamland Cas, turns around and smiles at Dean with so much warmth and softness that all rational thought leaves the hunter’s mind within seconds. 

Dean knows then that he’s trapped in the dreamscape of the djinn he and Sammy have been hunting for the past couple of weeks. He knows he should be doing something about that. He would have done something about it, were it not for Cas reaching out for him and pulling him close, their lips meeting in a loving kiss that has Dean feeling weak in the knees. 

“Morning, handsome. Just in time for breakfast,” Cas whispers in the air pocket between them, as if Dean isn’t blinking back overwhelmed tears. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the table. I’ll be through in a moment.”

And really, what harm is there in indulging just a little bit longer? 

It was only as Scott shifted to reach his mini medpack that he realised that he may not have got off so lightly. The sharp pain had him gasp out loud and then, as The Mechanic stirred, Scott bit down hard to prevent any further noise.

He could do this. He’d worked rescues with bigger injuries before.

Gritting his teeth he slowly turned until he was kneeling and pulled out of the medpack some wipes and a bandage and made to move forward to get to work.

Brown eyes, clouded with confusion – and probably some concussion as well – were watching him with a frown, and as Scott plastered on what he hoped looked like a sincere smile the man flinched back.

‘I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.’

Scott hissed quietly as he rocked back away from The Mechanic, who was trying to get up. It didn’t last long as the man’s arm gave way and sent him crashing onto his back.

‘You have a bad cut on your head, probable concussion, and, judging from the way you can’t put any pressure on your arm, possibly a broken wrist. Stop being stubborn and let me do my job.’

If looks could kill Scott was aware that he’d be a very dead man right now, but he didn’t care. The Mechanic held his glare for precisely 35 seconds before giving a curt nod that he immediately regretted and Scott got to work.

Ten minutes later the man’s head and wrist were bandaged and Scott’s medpack was empty. With another suppressed hiss Scott fell back away to sit on his backside, stretching his legs out a little in the cramped space.

Whatever he’d done to his side was really starting to protest being ignored, and working on The Mechanic’s wounds hadn’t helped. There was nothing left he could do about it except clamp his hand over it and pretend he couldn’t feel warmth seeping over his fingerless gloves.

Damn.

It was Scott’s turn to glare defiantly as the Mechanic looked at him. Scott almost barked at the man to try and keep him away.

‘I’m fine.’ ‘Sure you are. And that red stuff oozing all over your fingers is just paint.’ ‘I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.’ ‘I wasn’t going to offer. Rescuing people is your job, not that you’ve done spectacularly well today.’

Scott snorted at the sarcasm and then gasped. Ok, maybe he was hurt worse than he had initially realised, but it wasn’t like he could do much about it now other than apply pressure and pray that Virgil would come get them soon.

Of course, that thought immediately made known that his comms were silent, and he bolted upright only to crash back down again as the ceiling was unyielding to his helmet.

It was to the sound of ripping material that he woke up.

He blinked and The Mechanic was leaning over him, a wad of material in his hand. The remains of what looked like a sheet was on the floor behind the man. Scott tried to shrink away but there was nowhere for him to go to.

‘Stop being stubborn, Commander, and take this.’ ‘I’m fine. I…’ ‘Yeah, yeah. You’re fine, you don’t need any help. God, are you like this with your brothers? You’d drive me insane, how do they cope with you?’

The shock of being spoken to like that made Scott loosen his grip and his hand was batted away. The Mechanic took the makeshift padding and pressed it hard into his side and Scott gasped. But he held on tightly to the pad as he was helped to sit up a little.

‘Good. Now behave while I attempt to bandage you.’

For once Scott did as he was told. Yeah – Virgil would be amazed and Gordon would laugh at him, but Scott did know when to listen to advice about his health.

It was as The Mechanic tucked the end of the bandage in that he felt the familiar vibrations of a mole pod and Scott sat back with a sigh.

He couldn’t help but notice The Mechanic looked uneasy, but then again he supposed he couldn’t blame the man.

‘Thank you, Mechanic.’

The man’s eyebrows shot up and he blinked in surprise. Scott found himself wondering when was the last time that anyone had said thank you to the man, and, knowing that he was in league with the Hood, Scott concluded that was…never. The man’s gravelly voice spoke softly.

‘You’re welcome. And thank you.’