Every Night
Title: Every Night
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Words:1,585
Summary:Sam struggles with nightmares after Dean rescues him from the cage (S11). He's trying not to worry Dean about it but nothing slips past his big brother.
Read on AO3
Sam can’t sleep. He’s restless, tossing and turning, too hot and too cold in turns at the drop of a dime, like Lucifer is still in control.
He was honest when he told Dean he wasn’t sure if he was okay after Dean pulled him from the cage, but he hasn’t owned up to just how not okay he really is. He’s dealt with Hell and the Devil before, holds onto the hope that it’ll get better, that he just has to tough it out. Dean has so much on his plate with the Darkness that Sam can’t bring himself to tell him he can’t sleep, hates to make his big brother worry. Or, well, worry more. He always worries.
Dean says he was only down there a handful of days but it felt like years. Lucifer has this handle on time that makes everything worse, drags it out, makes the things Sam clings to feel a million lifetimes away so it’s easier to break him. Not that he ever got close this time.
Sam’s faith in his brother is the only thing that’s never lead him astray. In the Cage-that-wasn’t-the-Cage, Dean was Sam’s rock through everything Lucifer threw at him and now he’s topside again, safe, in the bunker with his brother.
That’s what he clings to now, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, painfully tired but unable to close his eyes for fear of what he’ll see. If he succumbs to sleep he knows the kind of nightmares he’s have. He’ll wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, aching from pains that aren’t real but instead echoes of the Devil’s games, his heart pounding and frantic with all the feels-so-real panic and terror that he’ll never see Dean again.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s drifted off at first. This nightmare starts slow and subtle; his mind is all too skilled at reusing Lucifer’s own tricks. He thinks he’s still lying awake in bed until he shifts and turns onto his side and he’s not alone. Dean is lying next to him but there’s an unnatural angle in the turn of his head, his skin is sickeningly pale and there’s blood, oh God, so much blood, and it’s everywhere. It’s drying near his eyes and mouth but it’s fresh and glistening where it soaks the sheets and the metallic smell of it in the air is so strong Sam can taste it. He startles and tries not to retch from it, so sudden and unexpected and tangible, when Dean starts moving. His eyes open and they’re cloudy, the once stunning green replaced by the greys of death, but he’s looking right at Sam, reaching for him with a hand that’s dripping blood and-
“Sam.”
It’s Dean’s voice but not dead-Dean’s. The welcome, gravelly sound is firm and works like a bucket of ice water to the face. Dead-Dean vanishes as Sam wakes up, scrambling in the bed, trying to sit up but still fighting the nauseating image, looking from the vacant, clean sheets nexts to him to the silhouette in the doorway that belongs to his very real and very alive big brother.
“D-Dean,” Sam stutters out as he finally gets himself upright, a tremor in his voice and a pronounced shake in the hand he uses to push back his hair out of his face. He’s willing his racing heart to please slow as he takes in the sight of Dean leaning against the door jam, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes fixed on Sam. Even in the dark Sam can see how his brother’s face shows his concern, the lines at his eyes and across his forehead ones Sam knows that he’s responsible for.
Dean lets out a shaky sigh of his own as he uncrosses his arms and starts to move toward the bed.
“Jesus, Sammy. Why didn’t you just say?” He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches a hand out to place on Sam’s thigh. Sam still sees the stoney-grey hand dripping with blood and he flinches, tenses up. He softens quickly when he feels the reassuring heat from Dean’s palm. He’s staring at the hand, trying to see it for what it is and not what his nightmare wants him to see, doesn’t catch how Dean’s face looks pained at his pulling away. Dean gives him a moment before slowly smoothing his hand over his leg; it’s soft pressure and familiar and comforting.
“Sammy?” Dean prompts again when Sam still hasn’t said anything. His eyes snap up to Dean’s face and he’s blinking, forcing away the image and desperately taking in the Dean in front of him with big, shining eyes.
“W-what?” Sam finally speaks, quiet, his voice hoarse, though he can’t remember what Dean had asked, too caught up in the lingering nightmare to hold on.
“Sam, did you really think I wouldn’t notice you’re not sleeping? That you haven’t slept since I got you out? It’s been days, man. You look like hell. I’ve been trying to give you some space but maybe- maybe tonight you could just let me in, huh?” Dean’s voice is soft. Sam knows he’s trying, wants to do the right thing for Sam but struggles to know what that is; they both deal with hell in their own ways, though in the end it always seems to come back to each other. After a lifetime, they’re finally starting to get it. Dean won’t let Sam do this alone; Sam can hear it in his voice, the way he tries, can tell that Dean has probably been fighting the impulse to come to Sam since the first night and has finally given up letting Sam be stubborn and waiting for Sam to come to him. Sam knows he’s right.
“Okay, De,” Sam whispers, nodding, and the breath Dean lets out is one of relief.
“Shove a butt then, Sasquatch,” Dean quips playfully, the hand on his thigh giving him a light tap that reveals just how tender and careful Dean is being with him, their usual roughness stowed away for another night. Sam chuckles a little under his breath as he wiggles over and Dean stands, stripping off his t-shirt before climbing into the bed next to Sam in just his boxers.
As Dean settles, the weight of him dipping the bed makes Sam feel small and it feels so good, letting Dean be big. When Dean tucks his arm under Sam’s neck, Sam instinctively shimmies down the bed, tucking into the crook of his brother’s shoulder, curling his body into him like he used to when he was, in fact, little. Dean sighs and this time it’s easy. He pulls Sam against him with hands that make Sam feel at home, and their legs are all tangled up by the time Sam settles, too.
Sam feels better already.
He takes a deep breath and it’s steady, his heart has stopped thudding like a jackhammer in his chest, and as the scent of his brother fills his nose it erases the echo of copper on his tongue. Dean cards his hand through Sam’s hair even though it’s a greasy mess, combing through the tangles with little tugs that have Sam craning into the touch, humming against Dean’s skin where his lips are pressed and smiling.
“You’re so easy, Sammy. Just gotta let me take care of you, okay?” Dean tips his chin down to kiss at the top of Sam’s head, one hand still nested in the mess of his hair at his neck, thumb rubbing circles behind his ear, and the other holding Sam’s arm where it’s wrapped around his waist.
Sam is so tired and Dean feels so good; Sam already feels a kind of calm taking over him and he wants to kiss and lick at the nipple that’s so close to his mouth, wants to reach down the length of Dean’s body to work him up, wants Dean to take him. But Dean’s right. He hasn’t slept in days and he feels a little delirious, a little giddy as it hits him fully and tugs him down, finally winning easily because Dean holding him means he doesn’t have to fight it, he can just let go.
“Okay, De,” Sam mumbles it against Dean’s side, smiling, and his tongue comes out to lazily lick at the warm skin before he kisses it, a little sloppy, a lot sleepy. Dean squirms because it tickles and he huffs out a laugh.
“Sleep, you freakin’ overgrown puppy.” Dean is petting him when he says it, a little growl in his voice, and Sam thinks if he’s a puppy it’s Dean’s fault. It’s the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep.
Dean can feel the moment Sam’s body relaxes and gets a little heavier, the way the smile pressed to his side becomes a little shapeless as his mouth opens in sleep. He squeezes his brother to him and shuts his eyes.
Neither of them have been sleeping well. Dean always marvels at how long it takes them to come around, stop suffering for the other’s sake when in reality they both do better just where they are, wrapped up in each other. Dean will tell Sam tomorrow that they’ll just share his room, and leave Sam’s for appearances; it’s something they should have done ages ago. For now though, he snuggles in closer to his brother and lets go, too. They’ll both finally get some sleep tonight.
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Words:1,585
Summary:Sam struggles with nightmares after Dean rescues him from the cage (S11). He's trying not to worry Dean about it but nothing slips past his big brother.
Read on AO3
Sam can’t sleep. He’s restless, tossing and turning, too hot and too cold in turns at the drop of a dime, like Lucifer is still in control.
He was honest when he told Dean he wasn’t sure if he was okay after Dean pulled him from the cage, but he hasn’t owned up to just how not okay he really is. He’s dealt with Hell and the Devil before, holds onto the hope that it’ll get better, that he just has to tough it out. Dean has so much on his plate with the Darkness that Sam can’t bring himself to tell him he can’t sleep, hates to make his big brother worry. Or, well, worry more. He always worries.
Dean says he was only down there a handful of days but it felt like years. Lucifer has this handle on time that makes everything worse, drags it out, makes the things Sam clings to feel a million lifetimes away so it’s easier to break him. Not that he ever got close this time.
Sam’s faith in his brother is the only thing that’s never lead him astray. In the Cage-that-wasn’t-the-Cage, Dean was Sam’s rock through everything Lucifer threw at him and now he’s topside again, safe, in the bunker with his brother.
That’s what he clings to now, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, painfully tired but unable to close his eyes for fear of what he’ll see. If he succumbs to sleep he knows the kind of nightmares he’s have. He’ll wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, aching from pains that aren’t real but instead echoes of the Devil’s games, his heart pounding and frantic with all the feels-so-real panic and terror that he’ll never see Dean again.
Sam doesn’t realize he’s drifted off at first. This nightmare starts slow and subtle; his mind is all too skilled at reusing Lucifer’s own tricks. He thinks he’s still lying awake in bed until he shifts and turns onto his side and he’s not alone. Dean is lying next to him but there’s an unnatural angle in the turn of his head, his skin is sickeningly pale and there’s blood, oh God, so much blood, and it’s everywhere. It’s drying near his eyes and mouth but it’s fresh and glistening where it soaks the sheets and the metallic smell of it in the air is so strong Sam can taste it. He startles and tries not to retch from it, so sudden and unexpected and tangible, when Dean starts moving. His eyes open and they’re cloudy, the once stunning green replaced by the greys of death, but he’s looking right at Sam, reaching for him with a hand that’s dripping blood and-
“Sam.”
It’s Dean’s voice but not dead-Dean’s. The welcome, gravelly sound is firm and works like a bucket of ice water to the face. Dead-Dean vanishes as Sam wakes up, scrambling in the bed, trying to sit up but still fighting the nauseating image, looking from the vacant, clean sheets nexts to him to the silhouette in the doorway that belongs to his very real and very alive big brother.
“D-Dean,” Sam stutters out as he finally gets himself upright, a tremor in his voice and a pronounced shake in the hand he uses to push back his hair out of his face. He’s willing his racing heart to please slow as he takes in the sight of Dean leaning against the door jam, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes fixed on Sam. Even in the dark Sam can see how his brother’s face shows his concern, the lines at his eyes and across his forehead ones Sam knows that he’s responsible for.
Dean lets out a shaky sigh of his own as he uncrosses his arms and starts to move toward the bed.
“Jesus, Sammy. Why didn’t you just say?” He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches a hand out to place on Sam’s thigh. Sam still sees the stoney-grey hand dripping with blood and he flinches, tenses up. He softens quickly when he feels the reassuring heat from Dean’s palm. He’s staring at the hand, trying to see it for what it is and not what his nightmare wants him to see, doesn’t catch how Dean’s face looks pained at his pulling away. Dean gives him a moment before slowly smoothing his hand over his leg; it’s soft pressure and familiar and comforting.
“Sammy?” Dean prompts again when Sam still hasn’t said anything. His eyes snap up to Dean’s face and he’s blinking, forcing away the image and desperately taking in the Dean in front of him with big, shining eyes.
“W-what?” Sam finally speaks, quiet, his voice hoarse, though he can’t remember what Dean had asked, too caught up in the lingering nightmare to hold on.
“Sam, did you really think I wouldn’t notice you’re not sleeping? That you haven’t slept since I got you out? It’s been days, man. You look like hell. I’ve been trying to give you some space but maybe- maybe tonight you could just let me in, huh?” Dean’s voice is soft. Sam knows he’s trying, wants to do the right thing for Sam but struggles to know what that is; they both deal with hell in their own ways, though in the end it always seems to come back to each other. After a lifetime, they’re finally starting to get it. Dean won’t let Sam do this alone; Sam can hear it in his voice, the way he tries, can tell that Dean has probably been fighting the impulse to come to Sam since the first night and has finally given up letting Sam be stubborn and waiting for Sam to come to him. Sam knows he’s right.
“Okay, De,” Sam whispers, nodding, and the breath Dean lets out is one of relief.
“Shove a butt then, Sasquatch,” Dean quips playfully, the hand on his thigh giving him a light tap that reveals just how tender and careful Dean is being with him, their usual roughness stowed away for another night. Sam chuckles a little under his breath as he wiggles over and Dean stands, stripping off his t-shirt before climbing into the bed next to Sam in just his boxers.
As Dean settles, the weight of him dipping the bed makes Sam feel small and it feels so good, letting Dean be big. When Dean tucks his arm under Sam’s neck, Sam instinctively shimmies down the bed, tucking into the crook of his brother’s shoulder, curling his body into him like he used to when he was, in fact, little. Dean sighs and this time it’s easy. He pulls Sam against him with hands that make Sam feel at home, and their legs are all tangled up by the time Sam settles, too.
Sam feels better already.
He takes a deep breath and it’s steady, his heart has stopped thudding like a jackhammer in his chest, and as the scent of his brother fills his nose it erases the echo of copper on his tongue. Dean cards his hand through Sam’s hair even though it’s a greasy mess, combing through the tangles with little tugs that have Sam craning into the touch, humming against Dean’s skin where his lips are pressed and smiling.
“You’re so easy, Sammy. Just gotta let me take care of you, okay?” Dean tips his chin down to kiss at the top of Sam’s head, one hand still nested in the mess of his hair at his neck, thumb rubbing circles behind his ear, and the other holding Sam’s arm where it’s wrapped around his waist.
Sam is so tired and Dean feels so good; Sam already feels a kind of calm taking over him and he wants to kiss and lick at the nipple that’s so close to his mouth, wants to reach down the length of Dean’s body to work him up, wants Dean to take him. But Dean’s right. He hasn’t slept in days and he feels a little delirious, a little giddy as it hits him fully and tugs him down, finally winning easily because Dean holding him means he doesn’t have to fight it, he can just let go.
“Okay, De,” Sam mumbles it against Dean’s side, smiling, and his tongue comes out to lazily lick at the warm skin before he kisses it, a little sloppy, a lot sleepy. Dean squirms because it tickles and he huffs out a laugh.
“Sleep, you freakin’ overgrown puppy.” Dean is petting him when he says it, a little growl in his voice, and Sam thinks if he’s a puppy it’s Dean’s fault. It’s the last thing he thinks before he falls asleep.
Dean can feel the moment Sam’s body relaxes and gets a little heavier, the way the smile pressed to his side becomes a little shapeless as his mouth opens in sleep. He squeezes his brother to him and shuts his eyes.
Neither of them have been sleeping well. Dean always marvels at how long it takes them to come around, stop suffering for the other’s sake when in reality they both do better just where they are, wrapped up in each other. Dean will tell Sam tomorrow that they’ll just share his room, and leave Sam’s for appearances; it’s something they should have done ages ago. For now though, he snuggles in closer to his brother and lets go, too. They’ll both finally get some sleep tonight.