Chapter Text
It was said dreams held meaning: a hidden window to the depths of the human mind. In the case of Stan Marsh, he was no stranger to uncomfortable dreams though his focused on the nonsense his own father, Randy, inflicted on him and his family. It’d festered over the years – left a foul taste on the tip of his tongue – though nothing ever amounted to what happened that night.
Only this time the dream hadn’t been about Randy.
(He could still remember the crumpled, unconscious body of his best friend – remnants of the drug in Kenny's hand, dried blood on his mouth – and for a second, Stan felt sick to his stomach. Almost like he’d just witnessed him die, but of course, the blond had been alive and well in class the next day).
Stan had shot up in cold sweat, choking on a sob while silent tears streamed down his face, trying to make sense of the nightmare. He reached for his phone and shakily sent out a text to Kenny.
@thatmarshguy: dude, you awake right now?
@possumtrash: uh yeah, stan what’s wrong??
@thatmarshguy: no, nothing. just felt like texting you
He was being ridiculous.
“Hey,” Stan muttered tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. He’d chosen to meet with Kenny the next day after classes since the latter had a day off from work. “How’ve you been?”
“Me? I’ve been fine,” Kenny shrugged. Working two part-time jobs just to keep his family afloat kept him from seeing the gang so often and honestly, this had been a nice surprise. “What was with you last night? You were acting a little off.”
“Nah, it was nothing, dude. I just couldn’t sleep.”
Kenny hadn’t pressed, not asking anymore questions since Stan dropped the subject entirely after.
That should’ve been the end of it.
Until it happened again.
Except the dream – nightmare – had been different.
(None of them had seen it coming. There was so much blood and Stan could feel the SLAM of dread hit him again, frozen in his tracks, at the sight of Kenny against the cemented wall, a bullet lodged into his chest. Stan promptly hurled on the pavement – emptying the contents of his stomach – tremors running down his body).
He felt sick.
Why was he having these dreams in the first place?
@thatmarshguy: dude are you up?
@screamingfox: do you realize how late it is? what is it?
@thatmarshguy: been having nightmares
@screamingfox: about what?
@thatmarshguy: can i call you?
“What’s going on?” Kyle’s voice came through the phone.
“I’ve been- shit, will you give me one second?” Stan cut himself off, nails digging into the palm of his hand. He exhaled and kept talking, “I’ve been having nightmares about- about Kenny.”
“... Kenny? What do you mean they’re about him?”
“I don’t know,” Stan muttered, “they’re about his accidents but I almost swear he’s dead in some of them. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
Kyle went silent as the low, rhythmic tapping of the redhead’s fingers on his desk echoed out – beats of five and repeated once more – before he answered Stan.
“Have you thought about writing it inside a dream journal or something? It might help,” Kyle suggested.
“A dream journal?” Stan asked.
“You write dreams in them. It’s supposed to help you cope with bad dreams and everything,” Kyle explained. “Like it can just be an ordinary journal, you know? Writing them down might give you a sense of peace. Kenny’s alive and here with us, Stan.” He said the last part softly.
“Right, yeah. You’re right,” Stan sighed.
He couldn’t fathom the idea of living without Kyle and Kenny at his side.
Stan hung up the call once he and Kyle said their goodbyes, beginning to rummage around for an empty journal. He couldn’t shake the thought of Kenny’s too-still form in each dream and the blood – fuck, the blood was too much sometimes and he didn’t fathom why it made him so tense, a pit forming in the bottom of his stomach.
His fingers clasped clumsily around the pencil, fingers trembling as he tried to write the nightmares. Attempted to make sense of the dreams he’d been plagued with.
Okay, just write it down, Stan. Kenny’s not dead, Stan told himself.
He let the words flow shakily onto the page, stopping short when he had to mention the red marring Kenny’s lips, or the stained ground when he’d been shot.
(Stan was back there, blood coating his hands – tears falling down both cheeks and wanting nothing more than to scream into the heavens. He felt rooted in place, like he couldn’t move. He felt nauseous).
Stan wrote for a while until his hand cramped, at least getting some sense of relief when he’d gotten down how the nightmares had made him feel and hoping he might be able to stop having them for a while.
The next few days were quiet as Kenny had to go back into work, far too occupied to hang out. Stan could see the bags under his eyes and the way Kenny would be half-asleep in class, lazily taking notes while just barely paying attention to the teacher.
Until the weekend hit again.
“Dude, are you sure this is a good idea?” Stan asked Kenny, walking through the skate park. He had his own skateboard gripped under his arm. “Like this doesn’t seem very… safe? That’s a pretty high drop.”
“Oh, come on, mom. You worry too much,” Kenny teased, “I’ve learnt some sick maneuvers recently and thought you might want to see them.”
“Kenny, I’m really not sure about this.”
“Look, I’ll show you one and if you really don’t want to see anything else, we can just grab a bite to eat, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Stan nodded.
It wasn’t that Kenny didn’t know what he was doing, but Stan was ever concerned over Kenny’s insistent need to play Russian roulette with his own safety. Like he just danced between life and death, barely caring how it’d turn out.
Kenny positioned the skateboard under his legs before careening off the platform’s edge, wheels scraping on cement.
“See? Told you!” He crowed with laughter – deciding to play it further by making a spin in the air and trying to land back on top of the skateboard. And then his balance slipped.
(That night, Stan dreamt of the blood from Kenny’s head, split open from the hit he’d taken upon making contact with the concrete ground. He was stuck – screaming himself hoarse before managing to pull the blond into his arms, hoping he’d wake up. He had to wake up).
The nightmares wouldn’t stop.