Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep | Sam/Dean | PG
Title: Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep
Author: __tiana__
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG for language, mild sexual situations
Length: 2,100 words
Summary: Set post-7x17. Sam finally sleeps. Dean can't seem to do anything but stay awake.
Disclaimer: This is an act of fiction, and no harm is meant.
Author’s Note: Written for theheartofspn
Dean didn’t have insomnia, exactly. What he had was an inability to fall asleep until Sam was asleep. It went back to when they were kids, and he would watch Sam and make sure he didn’t roll out of his bed or wander off when Dean fell asleep. It never stopped.
It got worse over the years, and he never told Sam that he started drinking more not just because Sam was gone to Hell but because Dean couldn’t sleep. Not without Sam, not without knowing Sam was okay and sleeping and there. And Sam wasn’t any of those things, and so Dean stayed up for four days, drank a fifth of whiskey and passed out on Lisa’s couch. It didn’t get much easier.
Now that Sam was back, Dean hadn’t quite broken the drinking habit, but he could at least usually get to sleep now by watching Sam fall deep into his own dreams.
Dean drove for eight hours straight when they get away from the hospital. Sam, eyes hollow and skin pale, leaned his head against the window and stared at the pavement in front of them long enough that Dean started to wonder if he was conscious.
And then Sam would start, a sharp jerk of his shoulders, and sit up, rubbing his face. He looked over at Dean, a soft look in worn out eyes, and it made something hitch in Dean’s chest, hard and sudden.
When they stopped for gas, with the sky gone pinkish red as the sun dove for the horizon, Sam came back from the convenience store, tossed Dean his coke and a Snickers, and crawled into the back seat. The solid thump of the door closing and the creak of the shocks when Sam flopped face down on the bench seat made Dean smile, affection welling like blood. For a moment, he could almost forget that he didn’t have his baby to drive tonight. Sam was a big part of what made the car home, after all. This stolen junker would do.
“‘Night, princess.” Dean smirked as he started the engine, tearing open his candy bar with his teeth.
Sam’s reply sounded suspiciously like ‘fuck you’, muffled by his mouth snuggling deep into his sleeves. Sam’s mild snoring had never been so welcome, so comforting, as it was down the dark stretches of highway 42.
When Dean spotted a decent motel, he pulled in for the night, though the sky had only just shifted to a murky blue, near-black. Stumbled and cursed as he half-carried Sam into the room, getting only mumbled apologies and barely upright cooperation. He dropped Sam on the far bed as easy as he could. Sam didn’t budge.
Sam slept for another nine hours without moving much. Lurched up once to take a leak and then shoved the covers back and fell back into bed without a word.
And Dean, Dean stayed awake for those same nine hours, plus eight from the car, and honestly, he didn’t really remember sleeping during the time he hunted for Sam’s cure. Sleep was a waste of time, when Dean had precious little to waste. Even with Sam there sleeping, Dean didn’t feel safe leaving him for his own rest.
Dean was sitting on the opposite bed, nursing a beer and pretending to watch TV when Sam shifted into consciousness. Without looking, he could hear Sam stretch and move, breathing changing from the deep sounds of slumber to the more shallow sounds of wakefulness. The curtains were drawn tight, hiding any hint of the approaching sunrise.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was a croak, and it made Dean flinch a little. So rough, so lost.
“Yeah, Sammy. ‘m here.” Dean put the bottle down with a soft clink and shifted his gaze to the other bed, knowing what he’d see, knowing how it would affect him, and doing it anyway.
Sam had the sheet shoved halfway down his body, legs impossibly tangled, the way they always were. His hair was a halo around his bed, sticking out at ridiculous angles. Some of the stubble he’d happily shaven off coming back in. And his eyes. Dean looked at him in the eyes and took a deep, deep breath at what he could see by the light of the table lamp. Just Sammy. All Sammy, for the first time in a long time.
“Time is it?” He dragged a hand over his face and blinked bleary eyes at him.
Dean checked his watch. “Quarter past four.”
“Why...why...” Sam pushed himself up on his hands, and Dean glanced over quickly, then away. “...are you awake?”
Dean shrugged, like it was an answer. “Can’t you see that I’m watching TV, little brother?” He gestured at an infomercial for some kind of pasta cooker and Sam snorted in disbelief.
“C’mon, Dean.” Sam shifted, exhaled.
“Sleep some more, man. We got nowhere to be.” Dean picked up the beer and sipped at it, but it had gone lukewarm and sour, and he sniffed in distaste before putting it back down.
“Not unless you do.”
Huffing a breath, Dean shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Jesus, you’re not. Dead on your feet. And Dean. I’m fine.” Sam laughed softly, answering Dean’s argument before he could voice it. “Okay, I’m a work in progress, but he’s gone. Gone.”
Dean looked over and Sam’s head was on his pillow, hair splayed against the white fabric. Sam tapped his skull.
Closing his eyes, Dean turned away, not opening them again until he was looking at his own hands. He’d gone through overwhelming surges of relief and anxiety ever since they left the hospital, coupled with a healthy dose of his own version of survivor’s guilt for leaving Cas behind with only his fallen brother for company. He bet Sam felt the same way, but damned if he was going to bring that subject up. The guilt was outweighed by the fact that Dean got to take his own brother with him, mostly intact.
“Dean.”
Dean set his mouth. He’d spent the first three hours watching Sam sleep. Watching for any hitch in breath, any stirring, any frowns or spasms or outward sign of any distress whatsoever. But Sam was so exhausted, he didn’t even seem to dream. Just flat out dead to the world. Only not. Actually dead.
Thank God. Or whoever.
For a short period, Dean thought he could maybe get some sleep of his own, but he couldn’t. Mind racing with Sam and Sam being okay. And thinking that Sam was okay, but they were going to be slaughtered by Leviathans. Which seemed like a sucky reward for getting rid of the goddamn Devil.
And that son of a bitch Frank seemed to have gotten himself killed, and he was the most paranoid piece of work Dean had ever met. How were he and Sam going to stay clear? Even without this pulsing need to just watch over his brother, it didn’t look like Dean was going to be sleeping, so he didn’t.
But god, he was tired. He ached from head to toe, inside and out. Emotionally sucked dry, living with his brother’s death within sight for hours, for days, and it had taken a toll.
“You’re thinking really loud, man. Cut it out, get some shuteye. We both need it.”
Dean got up, walked across the room to the sink. One of those weird bathrooms where the sink and mirror were out in the main room, and when he looked up from splashing cool water on his face, Sam was looking at him in the mirror, eyes focused and intense. Dean looked at him, then dried his face with the scratchy hand towel before chucking it down.
“If you don’t lie down, I’m going to get up and make you lie down.” Sam was sounding stubborn and Dean groaned inwardly.
He could fake it, that would shut Sam up long enough. Sam was barely able to keep his eyes open, he wouldn’t wait it out for more than a few minutes.
“Fine, fine. Whatever. Like you even could, anyway. Weak like a big, dumb kitten right now.” Dean turned off the table lamp, and the TV, and then flopped on his back, on top of the comforter of his bed, arms crossed on his chest. The room was almost completely dark, only the security light in the parking lot bleeding in a sallow yellow light where the curtain gapped.
“There, happy?” Dean barked it, sharp.
“Gettin’ there.” Sam’s voice was inexplicably light, considering the ever present darkness of their lives. Of course, getting the Devil off your shoulder was no small reason for relief.
Dean shifted onto his side, arms still crossed. He looked for the gleam of open eyes on Sam’s bed, and saw them. Darkness made him foolish and brave. Always had, since he was a kid.
Usually that meant he could throw himself headlong into the unknown, armed with salt and Latin. This time it translated to something else, something that should have scared him more.
“‘m glad you’re okay, Sammy. I was...I was going crazy, thinking I was gonna-.” Fail you. Once he started, Dean realized with horror that he couldn’t stop, his words falling into the space between them with alarming speed. “Can’t lose you, you know that. It’s not just that you’re the only one left.” Dean swallowed, face hot. “It’s that you’re - you’re you. You’re...” He trailed off, vocabulary failing to supply him with words beyond ‘my world’, and he couldn’t say that out loud. He couldn’t. And if Sam didn’t know, well, Sam was a dumbass.
The other bed creaked, groaned and Dean saw the movement before he could process it, the hitching breath, the shadow growing taller, which meant Sam was moving. Was up and moving.
“Shift over.” Sam’s words sounded like a command, but ended slightly higher, like he thought to change it to a question at the last second.
Dean stood his ground, figuratively, for the space of five heartbeats, looking up into the shadowed face of his brother.
Then he shifted over.
Sam’s body came down slowly, carefully. Dean waited him out, waited until Sam was settled on his back, hands loosely clasped on his stomach. Dean was still on his side, looking right at Sam. His knees were pressing lightly into Sam’s thighs.
His right hand moved, landing on the cover between them first. He didn’t look away from Sam, and Sam looked at the ceiling. Sam didn’t move when Dean’s hand came down lightly on his chest, fingertips just digging into the cotton of his t-shirt. And Dean shifted his gaze to his own hand, and he waited. And then Sam exhaled, and inhaled, and Dean just watched his hand rise and fall with that the rhythm. The warmth of Sam’s skin seeped into his palm.
When Sam covered Dean’s hand with his own, it did something to Dean. He thought maybe he could blame the next five minutes on sleep deprivation, if he had to. But suddenly, he couldn’t be satisfied. Needed to check all of the vitals of his brother.
He shifted up the bed, leaned in, ignored the inward swoop of air from Sam (and no, he’d never heard that particular breathing from his brother before) and pressed two fingers to Sam’s neck, and waited.
The steady thrum of Sam’s heartbeat under his fingertips, and there it was. Proof. His brother was breathing and his heart was beating, and his blood was on the inside, where it belonged, pumping through his veins.
Without a conscious thought about it, Dean replaced the fingers on Sam’s neck with his mouth, needing to be closer to the proof. Needing to taste warm skin. He pressed a light kiss there, then moved further, added another one to Sam’s cheek and then his temple. He held still there, mouth still touching, white hot panic burning through him.
What was he doing?
Sam’s arm was sliding between Dean’s neck and the bed, and abruptly he was pressed all along Sam’s length, body solid and warm against his.
“Dean.” The voice was equally solid, equally warm.
“Yeah, Sam.” Dean murmured it against his temple and then shifted down, pressing the heat of his flushed face into Sam’s neck. The arm around his back tightened, a leg pushed gently between his.
They might have to talk about this. Dean didn’t like to think about that conversation, about how much less brave he was going to feel in the daylight.
But for now, he could rest. He had Sam.
And Dean smiled, a private little smile, and fell asleep.
Author: __tiana__
Characters: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG for language, mild sexual situations
Length: 2,100 words
Summary: Set post-7x17. Sam finally sleeps. Dean can't seem to do anything but stay awake.
Disclaimer: This is an act of fiction, and no harm is meant.
Author’s Note: Written for theheartofspn
Dean didn’t have insomnia, exactly. What he had was an inability to fall asleep until Sam was asleep. It went back to when they were kids, and he would watch Sam and make sure he didn’t roll out of his bed or wander off when Dean fell asleep. It never stopped.
It got worse over the years, and he never told Sam that he started drinking more not just because Sam was gone to Hell but because Dean couldn’t sleep. Not without Sam, not without knowing Sam was okay and sleeping and there. And Sam wasn’t any of those things, and so Dean stayed up for four days, drank a fifth of whiskey and passed out on Lisa’s couch. It didn’t get much easier.
Now that Sam was back, Dean hadn’t quite broken the drinking habit, but he could at least usually get to sleep now by watching Sam fall deep into his own dreams.
Dean drove for eight hours straight when they get away from the hospital. Sam, eyes hollow and skin pale, leaned his head against the window and stared at the pavement in front of them long enough that Dean started to wonder if he was conscious.
And then Sam would start, a sharp jerk of his shoulders, and sit up, rubbing his face. He looked over at Dean, a soft look in worn out eyes, and it made something hitch in Dean’s chest, hard and sudden.
When they stopped for gas, with the sky gone pinkish red as the sun dove for the horizon, Sam came back from the convenience store, tossed Dean his coke and a Snickers, and crawled into the back seat. The solid thump of the door closing and the creak of the shocks when Sam flopped face down on the bench seat made Dean smile, affection welling like blood. For a moment, he could almost forget that he didn’t have his baby to drive tonight. Sam was a big part of what made the car home, after all. This stolen junker would do.
“‘Night, princess.” Dean smirked as he started the engine, tearing open his candy bar with his teeth.
Sam’s reply sounded suspiciously like ‘fuck you’, muffled by his mouth snuggling deep into his sleeves. Sam’s mild snoring had never been so welcome, so comforting, as it was down the dark stretches of highway 42.
When Dean spotted a decent motel, he pulled in for the night, though the sky had only just shifted to a murky blue, near-black. Stumbled and cursed as he half-carried Sam into the room, getting only mumbled apologies and barely upright cooperation. He dropped Sam on the far bed as easy as he could. Sam didn’t budge.
Sam slept for another nine hours without moving much. Lurched up once to take a leak and then shoved the covers back and fell back into bed without a word.
And Dean, Dean stayed awake for those same nine hours, plus eight from the car, and honestly, he didn’t really remember sleeping during the time he hunted for Sam’s cure. Sleep was a waste of time, when Dean had precious little to waste. Even with Sam there sleeping, Dean didn’t feel safe leaving him for his own rest.
Dean was sitting on the opposite bed, nursing a beer and pretending to watch TV when Sam shifted into consciousness. Without looking, he could hear Sam stretch and move, breathing changing from the deep sounds of slumber to the more shallow sounds of wakefulness. The curtains were drawn tight, hiding any hint of the approaching sunrise.
“Dean?” Sam’s voice was a croak, and it made Dean flinch a little. So rough, so lost.
“Yeah, Sammy. ‘m here.” Dean put the bottle down with a soft clink and shifted his gaze to the other bed, knowing what he’d see, knowing how it would affect him, and doing it anyway.
Sam had the sheet shoved halfway down his body, legs impossibly tangled, the way they always were. His hair was a halo around his bed, sticking out at ridiculous angles. Some of the stubble he’d happily shaven off coming back in. And his eyes. Dean looked at him in the eyes and took a deep, deep breath at what he could see by the light of the table lamp. Just Sammy. All Sammy, for the first time in a long time.
“Time is it?” He dragged a hand over his face and blinked bleary eyes at him.
Dean checked his watch. “Quarter past four.”
“Why...why...” Sam pushed himself up on his hands, and Dean glanced over quickly, then away. “...are you awake?”
Dean shrugged, like it was an answer. “Can’t you see that I’m watching TV, little brother?” He gestured at an infomercial for some kind of pasta cooker and Sam snorted in disbelief.
“C’mon, Dean.” Sam shifted, exhaled.
“Sleep some more, man. We got nowhere to be.” Dean picked up the beer and sipped at it, but it had gone lukewarm and sour, and he sniffed in distaste before putting it back down.
“Not unless you do.”
Huffing a breath, Dean shook his head. “I’m good.”
“Jesus, you’re not. Dead on your feet. And Dean. I’m fine.” Sam laughed softly, answering Dean’s argument before he could voice it. “Okay, I’m a work in progress, but he’s gone. Gone.”
Dean looked over and Sam’s head was on his pillow, hair splayed against the white fabric. Sam tapped his skull.
Closing his eyes, Dean turned away, not opening them again until he was looking at his own hands. He’d gone through overwhelming surges of relief and anxiety ever since they left the hospital, coupled with a healthy dose of his own version of survivor’s guilt for leaving Cas behind with only his fallen brother for company. He bet Sam felt the same way, but damned if he was going to bring that subject up. The guilt was outweighed by the fact that Dean got to take his own brother with him, mostly intact.
“Dean.”
Dean set his mouth. He’d spent the first three hours watching Sam sleep. Watching for any hitch in breath, any stirring, any frowns or spasms or outward sign of any distress whatsoever. But Sam was so exhausted, he didn’t even seem to dream. Just flat out dead to the world. Only not. Actually dead.
Thank God. Or whoever.
For a short period, Dean thought he could maybe get some sleep of his own, but he couldn’t. Mind racing with Sam and Sam being okay. And thinking that Sam was okay, but they were going to be slaughtered by Leviathans. Which seemed like a sucky reward for getting rid of the goddamn Devil.
And that son of a bitch Frank seemed to have gotten himself killed, and he was the most paranoid piece of work Dean had ever met. How were he and Sam going to stay clear? Even without this pulsing need to just watch over his brother, it didn’t look like Dean was going to be sleeping, so he didn’t.
But god, he was tired. He ached from head to toe, inside and out. Emotionally sucked dry, living with his brother’s death within sight for hours, for days, and it had taken a toll.
“You’re thinking really loud, man. Cut it out, get some shuteye. We both need it.”
Dean got up, walked across the room to the sink. One of those weird bathrooms where the sink and mirror were out in the main room, and when he looked up from splashing cool water on his face, Sam was looking at him in the mirror, eyes focused and intense. Dean looked at him, then dried his face with the scratchy hand towel before chucking it down.
“If you don’t lie down, I’m going to get up and make you lie down.” Sam was sounding stubborn and Dean groaned inwardly.
He could fake it, that would shut Sam up long enough. Sam was barely able to keep his eyes open, he wouldn’t wait it out for more than a few minutes.
“Fine, fine. Whatever. Like you even could, anyway. Weak like a big, dumb kitten right now.” Dean turned off the table lamp, and the TV, and then flopped on his back, on top of the comforter of his bed, arms crossed on his chest. The room was almost completely dark, only the security light in the parking lot bleeding in a sallow yellow light where the curtain gapped.
“There, happy?” Dean barked it, sharp.
“Gettin’ there.” Sam’s voice was inexplicably light, considering the ever present darkness of their lives. Of course, getting the Devil off your shoulder was no small reason for relief.
Dean shifted onto his side, arms still crossed. He looked for the gleam of open eyes on Sam’s bed, and saw them. Darkness made him foolish and brave. Always had, since he was a kid.
Usually that meant he could throw himself headlong into the unknown, armed with salt and Latin. This time it translated to something else, something that should have scared him more.
“‘m glad you’re okay, Sammy. I was...I was going crazy, thinking I was gonna-.” Fail you. Once he started, Dean realized with horror that he couldn’t stop, his words falling into the space between them with alarming speed. “Can’t lose you, you know that. It’s not just that you’re the only one left.” Dean swallowed, face hot. “It’s that you’re - you’re you. You’re...” He trailed off, vocabulary failing to supply him with words beyond ‘my world’, and he couldn’t say that out loud. He couldn’t. And if Sam didn’t know, well, Sam was a dumbass.
The other bed creaked, groaned and Dean saw the movement before he could process it, the hitching breath, the shadow growing taller, which meant Sam was moving. Was up and moving.
“Shift over.” Sam’s words sounded like a command, but ended slightly higher, like he thought to change it to a question at the last second.
Dean stood his ground, figuratively, for the space of five heartbeats, looking up into the shadowed face of his brother.
Then he shifted over.
Sam’s body came down slowly, carefully. Dean waited him out, waited until Sam was settled on his back, hands loosely clasped on his stomach. Dean was still on his side, looking right at Sam. His knees were pressing lightly into Sam’s thighs.
His right hand moved, landing on the cover between them first. He didn’t look away from Sam, and Sam looked at the ceiling. Sam didn’t move when Dean’s hand came down lightly on his chest, fingertips just digging into the cotton of his t-shirt. And Dean shifted his gaze to his own hand, and he waited. And then Sam exhaled, and inhaled, and Dean just watched his hand rise and fall with that the rhythm. The warmth of Sam’s skin seeped into his palm.
When Sam covered Dean’s hand with his own, it did something to Dean. He thought maybe he could blame the next five minutes on sleep deprivation, if he had to. But suddenly, he couldn’t be satisfied. Needed to check all of the vitals of his brother.
He shifted up the bed, leaned in, ignored the inward swoop of air from Sam (and no, he’d never heard that particular breathing from his brother before) and pressed two fingers to Sam’s neck, and waited.
The steady thrum of Sam’s heartbeat under his fingertips, and there it was. Proof. His brother was breathing and his heart was beating, and his blood was on the inside, where it belonged, pumping through his veins.
Without a conscious thought about it, Dean replaced the fingers on Sam’s neck with his mouth, needing to be closer to the proof. Needing to taste warm skin. He pressed a light kiss there, then moved further, added another one to Sam’s cheek and then his temple. He held still there, mouth still touching, white hot panic burning through him.
What was he doing?
Sam’s arm was sliding between Dean’s neck and the bed, and abruptly he was pressed all along Sam’s length, body solid and warm against his.
“Dean.” The voice was equally solid, equally warm.
“Yeah, Sam.” Dean murmured it against his temple and then shifted down, pressing the heat of his flushed face into Sam’s neck. The arm around his back tightened, a leg pushed gently between his.
They might have to talk about this. Dean didn’t like to think about that conversation, about how much less brave he was going to feel in the daylight.
But for now, he could rest. He had Sam.
And Dean smiled, a private little smile, and fell asleep.