Where I Sleep
Where I sleep
Title taken from the Emile Sande’s Where I Sleep.
Set after 9.21
Sam POV mostly.
Angst with a touch of schmoop.
Sam/Dean PG13
Word Count 1741
Unbeta’d
Where I Sleep
He looks worn out and threadbare nowadays, his brother, his once vibrant coloring, pallid, it’s like he’s starting to morph into one of their overused plaid shirts. If he wasn’t so worried he’d be down right furious. Instead he’s left dumbfounded by how unrecognizable his brother’s behavior is. By the tightening and twisting of his guts and the endless circuits made by a myriad of doomsday scenarios racing through his head, leaving no space for a single, useful, practical thought.
He must have stared at dozens of books, eyes pinballing over endless lore blogs, before admitting to himself he wasn’t taking any of it in and giving up. It wasn’t that he saw the joy of the kill light up in Dean’s eyes, he’d always walked a tight rope in that respect and it felt like it had been building to this…this…bloodlust ever since purgatory. Dean had always been somatic, needed comforting tactilely, even though he’d never admit it & Sam would never say it, just in case it stopped. Dean needed to lash out too and whilst Sam may never fully comprehend how Dean eased his own pain that way, he didn’t care, he never hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming a hundred fold and Sam loved him just the same. This was different though. It was not the rage in his brothers eyes when he held the first blade that worried him, well, ok, maybe the rage scared him more than he cared to admit. But what terrified him the most was the emptiness he saw in Dean’s eyes the rest of the time, especially when he looked at him. And that, that pained him deeper than he thought he could even hurt anymore. Those eyes had always saved the softest, happiest most meaningful gazes for him. Now Sam was deprived of them and all he got to witness were fleeting pale imitations used for the throw away charming of others, a means to an end. And it hurt in his chest like being robbed of air.
He’d slumped into one of the armchairs with a tumbler of whiskey, hunters helper, as Dean used to call it, once upon a time. He was at a total loss of what to do. This was new territory for him, both Dean’s behavior and him not knowing how to react to it and that left an ominous darkness haunting him. Sure, Dean went off the rails, lost his temper, a lot, was overbearing, unreasonable, downright controlling and a total dick at times! But he’d never crossed a line this big, never broken his trust this way before. How did he really expect him to be ok with tricking him to being possessed? So Dean had tried to fix things between them, in his own clumsy way with more left unsaid than said, and he had shot him down, still too angry to hear it. He’d lashed out, said the thing he knew would hurt Dean the most, told him they weren’t brothers, that he wouldn’t save him at all costs, not anymore. And now this seedling of fear was growing and curling around his intestines, creeping up to his throat, that this time, he’d pushed one too many times and Dean would never come back to him again. Instead of Dean backing off the subject, time easing things, their proximity and fondness for each other coaxing good humor between them, smoothing the way for forgiveness, Dean just backed off full stop. Walked away and Sam was too stubborn to stop him. Was this how Dean felt during and after Ruby, was this how he felt when he left for Stanford?
A big plump tear loitered on the tip of his nose before splashing into his whiskey, sniffing he took a hearty gulp, wondering just when their roles got so reversed. Why was he maudlin in the semi darkness worrying about his brother hopped up on some ethereal high? He did feel guilty, he did, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him make Dean take responsibility for how he’d acted, how he’d always acted. If he didn’t suffocate him with his over protective presence he’d never need to run away and escape. Wasn’t all of it down to the same root problem that Dean just can’t let go of the back of his bike. I mean does he really expect him to be ok with him tricking him into being an angel condom, into not letting him die, again? He had meant some of what he said, Dean’s motives were selfish. The selfish bastard left him all alone on this Earth to live with the memory of him being torn apart by hellhounds, seared in glorious technicolor into his brain. And when Dean crawled back outta of Hell, he just strode right back into big brother mode and Sam was supposed to just fall into step. Dean had gone right back to questioning every minutiae of his life, whilst still managing to retain honest to God affronted shock, over the most wide reaching and valid a question in return. How, how could he possibly do that? It was almost enough to make Sam’s skin split with irritation from the unfairness of it all. So he’d walked out, and he’d been the bad guy, again.
But he can’t lie to himself, there’s an overwhelming comfort from knowing Dean is always there for him. That there is another person in the world who knows you inside out, knows all your flaws, but still loves you enough to do anything for you. Someone who would die a thousand times for you, in a thousand torturous ways, just to protect you. Someone who no matter how strong and brave and fearless they are, need you, and you alone. Someone who’s whole being lights up, when he sees you. Even though you’re impure, even though you’re the reason our mom died, and their whole life sucks. And the thought that he may have lost that for good is the most terrifying thought in the world to him. He let out an exasperated sigh at his own stupid stubbornness. Trying to teach Dean boundaries, at this late stage wasn’t worth this; it wasn’t worth risking losing him, seeing him get so ill and reckless with himself. He needed Dean, he always has, always will, he makes him feel enveloped in love, makes him feel safe despite this dangerous world. The idea that he might have finally crossed that line, found the limit to what Dean would take, that he could lose Dean altogether, made him reel. He had to clasp his head as an overwhelming surge of pressure pushed against his skull threatening to push him into unconsciousness. After sitting slumped with his head in his hands for a while until the pounding of waves in his ears ebbed away, he slowly lent back, breathing deeply. His twisted stomach experienced rolls of nausea with the full realization of all the worry and heartache he’d caused Dean by putting him through these emotions in the past. It racked him with guilt. Dean had after all tried a few times to put things right and each time he’d thrown them right back. Surely though, Sam hoped, those attempts show it’s not beyond repair, it’s not too late, that Dean must still care. He had dropped the blade when Sam had told him softly that he could, and he’d even called him Sammy earlier. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to talk him down from this ledge after all. He has to try, he’s his brother, he’ll never forgive himself otherwise.
Embolden by whiskey and fuelled by the need to be close to Dean, he pulled off his shirt as he slinked stealthily into his brothers room. He watched him sleeping, so gentle and peaceful looking and he hoped his dreams didn’t belie his image. Dean had drunk his own far share of liquor and had tossed his clothes messily onto the floor, rather than folding them neatly away like he was apt to nowadays. Sam used bitch and moan so much at how messy he was in the close quarters of motel rooms, but he missed it now. Dean had always been there, his presence unbearable at times, but never unfelt, and now, here, it felt like he was shrinking away. Bending down Sam picked up Dean’s T-shirt and inhaled the familiar scent of his brother before slipping it on, it didn’t cover all of his stomach yet he wouldn’t stretch it out, but even when he had in the past, Dean had never minded, not really. He pulled off his jeans and slowly and carefully climbed into the bed next to Dean. He tentatively placed a hand on his chest as he shuffled up close to his side, without waking Dean made a low rumble in his throat and stretched out his arm, wrapped it around Sam and pulled him closer. A cocktail of relief and joy burst through Sam conjuring a few more tears as he laid his head on his big brothers chest. Some things it seems are timeless after all.
__________________________
Dean woke feeling rested for once, and, erm, glowing. He panicked. Then he felt his weight, smelt and heard him all at the same time as his realization switched on. The glow was a warmth that fired outwards from his heart and threatened to set himself alight if he didn’t calm the frig down. He couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face, hurting his cheeks it was so wide. The god damn little shit could still surprise him. Looking down at him in his Led Zeppelin t-shirt all snuggled up in his arms made him realize why he missed those gaudy, icky motel rooms or the freezing cold cramped backseat of baby, because this, not some room in a bunker, this, Sam lying asleep in his arms was home.
Tilting his head he gave him a soft lingering kiss on his forehead, Sam smiled and opened his eyes, looking up at him, he splayed his hand out across his chest and asked,
“We gonna be okay Dean?”
Smiling Dean kissed him softly again before replying,
“Yeah Sammy, we’re gonna be okay”.
The End
Title taken from the Emile Sande’s Where I Sleep.
Set after 9.21
Sam POV mostly.
Angst with a touch of schmoop.
Sam/Dean PG13
Word Count 1741
Unbeta’d
Where I Sleep
He looks worn out and threadbare nowadays, his brother, his once vibrant coloring, pallid, it’s like he’s starting to morph into one of their overused plaid shirts. If he wasn’t so worried he’d be down right furious. Instead he’s left dumbfounded by how unrecognizable his brother’s behavior is. By the tightening and twisting of his guts and the endless circuits made by a myriad of doomsday scenarios racing through his head, leaving no space for a single, useful, practical thought.
He must have stared at dozens of books, eyes pinballing over endless lore blogs, before admitting to himself he wasn’t taking any of it in and giving up. It wasn’t that he saw the joy of the kill light up in Dean’s eyes, he’d always walked a tight rope in that respect and it felt like it had been building to this…this…bloodlust ever since purgatory. Dean had always been somatic, needed comforting tactilely, even though he’d never admit it & Sam would never say it, just in case it stopped. Dean needed to lash out too and whilst Sam may never fully comprehend how Dean eased his own pain that way, he didn’t care, he never hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming a hundred fold and Sam loved him just the same. This was different though. It was not the rage in his brothers eyes when he held the first blade that worried him, well, ok, maybe the rage scared him more than he cared to admit. But what terrified him the most was the emptiness he saw in Dean’s eyes the rest of the time, especially when he looked at him. And that, that pained him deeper than he thought he could even hurt anymore. Those eyes had always saved the softest, happiest most meaningful gazes for him. Now Sam was deprived of them and all he got to witness were fleeting pale imitations used for the throw away charming of others, a means to an end. And it hurt in his chest like being robbed of air.
He’d slumped into one of the armchairs with a tumbler of whiskey, hunters helper, as Dean used to call it, once upon a time. He was at a total loss of what to do. This was new territory for him, both Dean’s behavior and him not knowing how to react to it and that left an ominous darkness haunting him. Sure, Dean went off the rails, lost his temper, a lot, was overbearing, unreasonable, downright controlling and a total dick at times! But he’d never crossed a line this big, never broken his trust this way before. How did he really expect him to be ok with tricking him to being possessed? So Dean had tried to fix things between them, in his own clumsy way with more left unsaid than said, and he had shot him down, still too angry to hear it. He’d lashed out, said the thing he knew would hurt Dean the most, told him they weren’t brothers, that he wouldn’t save him at all costs, not anymore. And now this seedling of fear was growing and curling around his intestines, creeping up to his throat, that this time, he’d pushed one too many times and Dean would never come back to him again. Instead of Dean backing off the subject, time easing things, their proximity and fondness for each other coaxing good humor between them, smoothing the way for forgiveness, Dean just backed off full stop. Walked away and Sam was too stubborn to stop him. Was this how Dean felt during and after Ruby, was this how he felt when he left for Stanford?
A big plump tear loitered on the tip of his nose before splashing into his whiskey, sniffing he took a hearty gulp, wondering just when their roles got so reversed. Why was he maudlin in the semi darkness worrying about his brother hopped up on some ethereal high? He did feel guilty, he did, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him make Dean take responsibility for how he’d acted, how he’d always acted. If he didn’t suffocate him with his over protective presence he’d never need to run away and escape. Wasn’t all of it down to the same root problem that Dean just can’t let go of the back of his bike. I mean does he really expect him to be ok with him tricking him into being an angel condom, into not letting him die, again? He had meant some of what he said, Dean’s motives were selfish. The selfish bastard left him all alone on this Earth to live with the memory of him being torn apart by hellhounds, seared in glorious technicolor into his brain. And when Dean crawled back outta of Hell, he just strode right back into big brother mode and Sam was supposed to just fall into step. Dean had gone right back to questioning every minutiae of his life, whilst still managing to retain honest to God affronted shock, over the most wide reaching and valid a question in return. How, how could he possibly do that? It was almost enough to make Sam’s skin split with irritation from the unfairness of it all. So he’d walked out, and he’d been the bad guy, again.
But he can’t lie to himself, there’s an overwhelming comfort from knowing Dean is always there for him. That there is another person in the world who knows you inside out, knows all your flaws, but still loves you enough to do anything for you. Someone who would die a thousand times for you, in a thousand torturous ways, just to protect you. Someone who no matter how strong and brave and fearless they are, need you, and you alone. Someone who’s whole being lights up, when he sees you. Even though you’re impure, even though you’re the reason our mom died, and their whole life sucks. And the thought that he may have lost that for good is the most terrifying thought in the world to him. He let out an exasperated sigh at his own stupid stubbornness. Trying to teach Dean boundaries, at this late stage wasn’t worth this; it wasn’t worth risking losing him, seeing him get so ill and reckless with himself. He needed Dean, he always has, always will, he makes him feel enveloped in love, makes him feel safe despite this dangerous world. The idea that he might have finally crossed that line, found the limit to what Dean would take, that he could lose Dean altogether, made him reel. He had to clasp his head as an overwhelming surge of pressure pushed against his skull threatening to push him into unconsciousness. After sitting slumped with his head in his hands for a while until the pounding of waves in his ears ebbed away, he slowly lent back, breathing deeply. His twisted stomach experienced rolls of nausea with the full realization of all the worry and heartache he’d caused Dean by putting him through these emotions in the past. It racked him with guilt. Dean had after all tried a few times to put things right and each time he’d thrown them right back. Surely though, Sam hoped, those attempts show it’s not beyond repair, it’s not too late, that Dean must still care. He had dropped the blade when Sam had told him softly that he could, and he’d even called him Sammy earlier. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to talk him down from this ledge after all. He has to try, he’s his brother, he’ll never forgive himself otherwise.
Embolden by whiskey and fuelled by the need to be close to Dean, he pulled off his shirt as he slinked stealthily into his brothers room. He watched him sleeping, so gentle and peaceful looking and he hoped his dreams didn’t belie his image. Dean had drunk his own far share of liquor and had tossed his clothes messily onto the floor, rather than folding them neatly away like he was apt to nowadays. Sam used bitch and moan so much at how messy he was in the close quarters of motel rooms, but he missed it now. Dean had always been there, his presence unbearable at times, but never unfelt, and now, here, it felt like he was shrinking away. Bending down Sam picked up Dean’s T-shirt and inhaled the familiar scent of his brother before slipping it on, it didn’t cover all of his stomach yet he wouldn’t stretch it out, but even when he had in the past, Dean had never minded, not really. He pulled off his jeans and slowly and carefully climbed into the bed next to Dean. He tentatively placed a hand on his chest as he shuffled up close to his side, without waking Dean made a low rumble in his throat and stretched out his arm, wrapped it around Sam and pulled him closer. A cocktail of relief and joy burst through Sam conjuring a few more tears as he laid his head on his big brothers chest. Some things it seems are timeless after all.
__________________________
Dean woke feeling rested for once, and, erm, glowing. He panicked. Then he felt his weight, smelt and heard him all at the same time as his realization switched on. The glow was a warmth that fired outwards from his heart and threatened to set himself alight if he didn’t calm the frig down. He couldn’t control the smile that spread across his face, hurting his cheeks it was so wide. The god damn little shit could still surprise him. Looking down at him in his Led Zeppelin t-shirt all snuggled up in his arms made him realize why he missed those gaudy, icky motel rooms or the freezing cold cramped backseat of baby, because this, not some room in a bunker, this, Sam lying asleep in his arms was home.
Tilting his head he gave him a soft lingering kiss on his forehead, Sam smiled and opened his eyes, looking up at him, he splayed his hand out across his chest and asked,
“We gonna be okay Dean?”
Smiling Dean kissed him softly again before replying,
“Yeah Sammy, we’re gonna be okay”.
The End