Soul-eating battalions of nightmares spin like barbed wire around Dean Winchester’s battered heart. They have marshalled their forces, screaming their war chants. They are drawn to the scars left by his deeds in Hell and Purgatory. They tighten their grip, looking for a way in.
Sam, the Heir Apparent of Gehenna, the Boy King, draws a line in the sand, and the armies retreat. They’re turned back by Sam’s slow kisses, Sam’s whispers, Sam’s dimpled smiles, Sam’s hands caressing Dean, anchoring his brother to his broad chest.
Instead of visions of pain and sorrow or oblivion at the bottom of a bottle, Dean sleeps sober and sated, slow deep breaths, Sammy curving around him like a warrior’s shield.
The lovers are cocooned together in dreams of an endless summer, smelling of cut grass, tasting of ice cream and pie, under the azure arch of a Kansas sky.
And when Dean wakes up, the good dreams are just beginning.