The first time Sam was awakened by Dean screaming his name, he sprung to his feet, gun in hand. His brother was face down on the bed, arms and legs outstretched spread-eagle. His head was thrown back in a scream, and every muscle was quivering.
It was before The Conversation. Before Dean admitted he remembered Hell. Before ripping Sam's heart apart choking his way through the confession of what he'd done there.
He knew Dean well enough to move swiftly out of punching range after waking him up. "Just a nightmare. Let it go, Sam, I'm fine."
Each time it happened, it was an additional night before Dean would even try to sleep again.
The last straw was the evening a week after The Conversation when Dean punched an alligator.
Sam unloaded ten rounds into the thing while his brother sat there slumped against the Impala, bleeding from the head and daring it to, "Come at me, you son of a bitch!"
"Problem is, it really was coming at you," said Sam, holstering his gun. The Florida humidity did absolutely nothing for their moods, and Sam wiped sweat from his forehead, panting.
Dean staggered to his feet. "I just ganked a damn skunk ape. Think a gator scares me?"
"My point is, it should scare you," said Sam. "And I wouldn't have had to slaughter some poor prehistoric lizard if you hadn't taunted it."
Dean glanced at the gator with a tinge of remorse in his expression. "Let's get outta here."
"Let's tend to that gash on your scalp."
"No." Dean got in the car, slammed the door, and started the engine, and Sam joined him with a sigh.
They peeled out of the gravel parking lot, and directly into the path of an oncoming RV the size of an ocean liner.
"DEAN! Dean!"
Dean jerked, and Sam grabbed the wheel from the passenger seat, yanking them into the correct lane.
"Whooooo! Did you see that?!" Dean flashed Sam an excited look and what he only thought was a charming grin. It was more of an exhausted mask of misery.
"Did I see you almost kill us both? Yes, yes I did. What the hell's the matter with you, Dean? Oh, right. You haven't slept for four days and you thought an alligator was mocking you."
Dean's eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, flew open wide and he slammed on the brakes in the middle of the highway. "We gotta go back!"
"Uh, why?" Sam's reply was almost drowned out by furious honking behind them.
"Boots! I always wanted a pair of gatorskin cowboy boots. Huh? Huh?"
"So tempted to slap you right now," muttered Sam. "Drive. Or better yet, don't. I don't want you behind the wheel right now. I'm taking over."
When they hit town, Sam pulled into the Orange Gator Motel purely on the basis of their sign boasting the most comfortable beds in town. It was slightly above their usual budget, but he didn't give a crap.
Dean staggered when he slung his bag down beside one of two double beds boasting white sheets, bright orange pillow cases, and faux gator-skin headboards. His eyes were bloodshot, and Sam couldn't even object when Dean glugged the remains of a bottle on his way to the shower. If it might help him sleep...
Sam couldn't take the screams. Dean was calling for him. The true desperation in his brother's hoarse voice was one of the worst things Sam had ever heard.
He grabbed Dean's shoulder and shook, and he was too slow and sleepy to dodge the fist that collided with his jaw. Sam backed off, sat on the other bed, and held the stinging bruise until Dean stood and stumbled towards him with body language that resembled a dog that'd just peed on the floor.
Dean nudged Sam's fingers out of the way and replaced them with his own, disgusted with himself. He was still breathing heavily from the adrenaline of his nightmare, and his hand shook. But his touch was soft and gentle against Sam's cheek, and he held it too long. It couldn't be plainer that Dean was desperate for comforting physical contact, but something dark in his eyes warned Sam not to touch him.
"Sorry."
"I'd be punchy too," said Sam. "You were screaming my name, Dean. Why?"
Dean backed away and sat heavily on his own bed, rocking the mattress.
"Sam, I was in Hell. Literal Hell. Excuse me if I wanna leave that behind, okay? If you knew what it was like…." Dean's eyes grew heavy and wounded as his voice choked. "You'd never ask a damn thing that'd make me remember. Only reason I don't put a bullet through my own juicebox is I know where that'll put me."
"I wouldn't," said Sam. "I don't have to know what it was like, I wouldn't ask that of you. But I can't listen to you scream my name without waking you, okay? I can't. You wouldn't be able to look at me stretched out like that and screaming without doing something."
"Sam - when Cass came for me, I wasn't suffering. I was - on the other side. You look at me and see a guy I'm not any more. I was on my way to the black-eyed brigade. I spent - I spent… ten years as the apprentice of Hell's head torturer. I'm more a monster than anything we hunt. I deserve every nightmare. Hell turned me into a guy who deserves Hell, and - and I dread the day you realize that, Sammy."
Sam was filled with longing to hold Dean tight and never let go, but his brother's face told him that would merely get him punched. Dean was no monster, but he was feeling shattered. Dean was good, and kind, and protective. He had been all those things before Hell, and still was.
How to get him to believe that….
DEAN
Dean's mind felt raw, and he was terrified. He needed sleep to be able to cope with the things in his head, and the things in his head weren't letting him. He snapped on a dim bedside lamp and wrapped his fingers around the blankets, trying to ground himself in reality. The mattress and blankets were soft, and unusually clean. Cozy, even.
His head throbbed. His eyes stung. He was dizzy, and his hands shook. Sleep deprivation was a default state for a hunter, and he was used to pushing through it. But this was beyond running on a few hours sleep a night. He wouldn't admit it to Sam, but he'd fallen asleep at the wheel earlier, almost killed them both. And his poor car. Wasn't like she needed to be wrecked again.
He also wasn't about to admit he was so profoundly exhausted, he really kinda hoped the gator would get in a chomp or two. At least then he'd have an excuse to pass out.
Sam was looking at him with that adorable little-brother sweetness and worry that had melted him inside from day one. But Sam wasn't little any longer. He was strong and tough as nails and smart and educated and a damn good hunter.
He was going to have to talk to Sam, and hope to hell the man would listen.
"Look… Sammy, let me say some things. No interruptions, okay? You can fight me later."
"Okay," said Sam, his voice and eyes gentle.
"When I clawed outta that grave, I was Earth me again. I remembered Hell me, but not like I'd just been there. It was context. Like you know how to act different in a church than you do in a dive bar. You're aware of reminding yourself a time or two, but it's not like every word you say has to be calculated. You just turn parts on and off automatically."
"I get that," said Sam.
"Earth me is pretty okay. Really. So long as he doesn't think about Hell me, or connect to that poor son of a bitch emotionally. 'Cause if I do, oh, boy. That guy is so far past traumatized, it's - it's unspeakable. I couldn't form words to-"
Dean stopped himself and drew a deep breath, wiping at the tears in his eyes. "I became something truly evil, Sammy. Yeah, it took a bit to get me there. If Hell me were walking the Earth, it's fifty-fifty. He might be catatonic in a mental hospital shaking and crying. He might be the worst serial killer in history. But whatever he is, it's trauma on a level you do not come back from, or heal from, not ever. There's no fixing that, get me?"
"Yes," said Sam, his voice sober. To Dean's relief, his expression said he was listening for real, and he got it.
"That's why I'm not talkin', Sam. There's a demon on the other side of that wall, and I'm not inviting it for dinner. I got no need to open up to that, and if I do, it might kill me. Or a whole hell of a lot of other poor sons of bitches. But now-"
Dean wiped his face and tried to keep the terror off it, and out of his failing voice. "He's coming out, Sam. He's coming for me in my sleep. I don't - I can't - I'd ask you for help if I knew what to ask. There is no amount of you caring that'll fix this. Castiel said - what he can do for me, he did when he raised me up. I think he's why I'm mostly okay, rest's up to me."
"Dean?" Sam wasn't arguing. He was trying with every fiber of his being to truly comprehend, and relief unwound Dean's clenched fists. He couldn't take a fight with Sam and his immovable opinions right now. "Why you screaming for me?"
"Because I was alone. And I was terrified, and I - and I was being slowly ripped apart by meat hooks hanging in a friggin void of outer space and I couldn't take it. All I wanted was you to save me."
Dean was too exhausted, the nightmares too raw, his head hurting too much to filter the scrambled mess into something coherent or strong. "Save me, Sammy. I need you to save me."