Chapter Text
Red eyes, there, right in front of him, glowing in the dark of his room, filled with intent and rage an—
Sam woke, predictably, in a cold sweat. His hair was matted — stuck to the sides of his face like the beard Dean had bullied him into shaving off. Sam shook his head, shook it again. When that failed to give him even an ounce more sanity, he gave up trying to shake the clinging dread from his mind, instead dislodging the damp covers with a vicious kick and twisting to sit upright on the edge of the bed. Sam pressed a tired hand to his face, trying to wipe the grogginess of sleep from his eyes. The alarm clock standing guard on his nightstand identified the time as a little past four in the morning. His breaths were still ragged and haunted where they tore at his throat.
With a little more of his usual alertness regained, Sam stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping over the duvet where it lay limply on the floor. Sam knew he’d be the one to wash that; despite the abundance of people living in the bunker, he seemed to be the only one capable of loading and unloading a washing machine. With a chuckle that contained not quite enough humour and definitely too little breath behind it, he continued with his early morning trip to the bathroom.
When he turned on the tap, his hands were quivering gently. Sam filled them with water, splashing it onto his face. It was cool enough to wash away most of the lingering panic from the dream. Nightmare. Whatever. Stone tiling sent shivers up his bare legs, further grounding him.
Sam dragged his wet hands through his already dampened mass of hair and pulled the messy strands away from his face, securing them with a plain band from his pocket. If Dean ever spotted him with his hair tied back, Sam knew he’d never hear the end of it.
Luckily, his habit of wearing a ponytail tended to only strike in the dead of night. Sometimes, when he was deep in research and didn’t want the distraction of brown locks falling into his eyes, but mostly for times like this.
When something was bothering him, and it wouldn’t leave him alone, pressure building in his chest, lungs aching with not enough air to fill them, distant hum in his ears— and yeah, more often than not, it was those red eyes, tunnelling into his soul, that caused him to break.
To panic.
Sam had thought the nightmares were easing, and surely, compared to the endless insomnia he’d suffered through after his rise from hell, they had. The problem, Sam thought, as he stared into the slightly bloodshot hue of his eyes, was that the man who haunted his nightmares was now here.
If he was being logical, Sam knew Nick wasn’t actually Lucifer. That didn’t stop him from feeling as if something vital inside him was going to break down every time he saw the man’s face. Whenever he saw Nick’s shy smile or his troubled eyes, all he could think of were smirks and glowing irises that bled into the darkness of his dreams.
So yeah, the nightmares weren’t exactly better at the moment.
Sam wandered back into his room. He knew from experience there was no point in attempting to sleep again. Usually, when it got as bad as this, he would find a case to bury himself in. Which, he hated to admit, was a coping mechanism him and Dean had in common.
Today, there was no case to work, so he found himself preparing to indulge in his second coping mechanism. Exercise.
After pulling on loose fit shorts and a singlet, as well as lacing his feet into a comfortable pair of trainers, Sam felt marginally more in control of himself.
By the time he walked out his bedroom door, Sam was positive that burning out all his muscles against the bunkers training equipment was the best solution to all his problems.
The promise of sweat and aching limbs was enough to clear his head, banishing the dregs of his nightmare.
x~x~x
Sweat dripping down his spine beneath the cling of his cotton shirt and muscles rippling like water beneath his skin, Sam threw an unending series of punches at a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling.
He knew Sam wasn’t aware of his presence, and instead of alerting him, he took advantage of the opportunity to watch him.
Sam’s breaths were beginning to heave and his form just starting to slump out of its perfect rigidity when he finally stopped.
Watching from the corner of the room, he thought the man would turn and go back to bed, but just as he was readying to slip out unnoticed, Sam took a deep breath, and moved to the treadmill.
Restraining an entertained chuckle, Sam’s watcher perched on one of the many pieces of exercise equipment and pressed curled digits to his amused smirk, content — for now — to simply watch.