As Sam slept, his awareness paced the room, keeping vigil for any sign of threat. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. A Winchester was never truly at rest - even in death, it turned out.
By sheer necessity, Sam had learned by now how to filter the real danger from the ordinary interruptions. On the road, there was rarely peace and quiet. With Sam asleep in the passenger seat, Dean would crank up AC/DC and bellow along to stay awake and Sam never stirred.
So for Sam, the rhythmic whine that had notched him awake a few levels was nothing too alarming. Probably that damn fan belt again. He'd had to change it a couple months back when Dean was - when Dean was gone. It had sounded like this - like tennis shoes screeching on a gym floor.
Then Sam opened his eyes and discovered the slope of his pillow. His eyes shifted slightly and found moonlight patterns on a wooden headboard. Not in the Impala. Ok? His fingers scrambled spider-like to seize the handle of the knife beneath his pillow. Motel. Right. We stopped for the night - so what is that -
Sam drew out the knife and rose to his knees in one movement. Then, comprehension struck him like a shotgun blast between the shoulder blades and propelled him across the space between his and Dean's bed, where his brother writhed, fighting for breath. Each attempt was punctuated by that shrill wheezing gasp. Not the fan belt slipping. Dean - slipping.
Sam bent close to Dean's ear and spoke his brother's name. No yelling, no panic. He'd learned that now. The first time Dean had lost his battle to exhaustion and dropped into a post-Hell nightmare, Sam's wake up call was all flailing limbs and alarm bells. Back then, Dean had woken up all right - startled and swinging. Before Sam could react, Dean had his knife out and arcing towards Sam's throat. Even in stupor, the man's aim was true. Fortunately, his protective instincts towards Sam were truer. He pulled back at the last possible moment, leaving a thin cut rather than a fountaining jugular. Sam wasn't about to press his luck again though.
"Dean, come on man," he urged. Slow and gentle was damn near impossible when each of his brother's shrill gasps cut through his own chest like a knife. Bent down like this, Dean's gaping mouth was right at his ear. Sam felt his own skin dewing from the heat poring off his brother. Sam had experienced his share of nightmares. He knew the agony all too well. But this - this was different. Dean had escaped Hell, but there was still something trying to drag him back. That wasn't going to happen on Sam's watch. Not again.
One hand clenched in an instinctive fist. The other, he pressed flat onto Dean's heaving sternum. He couldn't hold him down. Instead, he dragged his palm in circles, applying gradually increasing pressure. It was the only way he'd figured out how to coax him back. It was what they did - before they learned how to stitch each other up and dig out bullets - or before they needed to. Up until he was three or four, Sam thought Dean had magic hands. He'd crumple into tears over ever bumped head or skinned knee, just so Dean would come work his mojo. It was a ritual. Ten times in a circle, deeper and deeper, and the pain was gone. Dean would count out loud and make Sammy repeat it. It just now occurred to him, his big brother was multi-tasking. Healing his boo-boos and teaching him how to count.
God Dean. Sam winced at his big brother's tormented struggle. It wasn't fair. While his brother slept, his awareness wasn't dutifully guarding the room. It was being gutted in New Harmony or strung up on Alistair's rack. Hooks or fangs, Dean's lungs were being ripped to shreds and his body didn't know the difference.
"Hey Dean, it's Sammy. Come on, wake up man. I need you to wake up," Sam pleaded, hoping the nickname would trigger his brother's protective instinct. But Dean's wheezing only became more thin, now barely audible. Sam wondered if he was even managing to draw any air at all through his strangled airway. This had to stop. Now.
Sam's clenched fist unfolded and found its way to Dean's shoulder, aching to give him a violent shake. His fingers found the jagged edges of the angel's handprint, where Castiel had gripped his brother to wrench him from Hell and into his buried grave. Sam had to remind himself that his brother wasn't as fragile as he looked. If he could survive that, he could certainly handle being jarred from a nightmare without having some apoplectic fit.
So Sam did what he had to do. First, for his own protection, he slid his hand beneath Dean's sweat-soaked pillow and retrieved the hidden pistol. Then, channeling a strange mix of fury and desperate love, he drew back his hand and smacked his brother clear across the jaw.
Dean's writhing movements stilled into one solid contraction. For far too long, he was silent - neither wheezing, nor making any attempts to draw breath. Sam hovered, hands quaking, not sure whether to deliver another dose of pain or comfort.
But when Dean's already pale lips began to mottle purple, Sam opted for the most effective option. This time, he didn't hold back.
"WAKE UP JERK!" he yelled, clocking Dean's jaw so hard he could hear the dull chink of his teeth colliding.
The nightmare broke like a fever. Dean's lips parted in a wide O and air rushed in like he'd just turned on a vacuum hose. Then, as noisily as it had entered, the air escaped - venting and deflating him as his body dropped bonelessly into the mattress.
In his next exhale, he managed a response: "Bitch'm'awake"
Sam was far too shaken to hold back the seal bark of a laugh that leapt from his gut. Dean's hazel eyes slid open.
He blinked several times, then shifted his eyes onto Sam. Even half in shadow, Dean could see Sam wincing down at him like a kid who'd stumbled on puppy road kill. Goddamnit. This whole role reversal thing was getting to be too much for him. Despite the fact that Dean had crawled out of his grave with his earthbound memories fairly uninterrupted, he'd must just as well come out backwards. Before, Dean had been the one coaching Sammy through his nightmares. Big Brother Hero strength was one of the few cards Dean had left in his deck. This wasn't making it any easier to hold onto himself.
Then Sam said the two best words he could have.
"Welcome back."
Right. Because Dean had been in Hell. Like, literally in Hell. And Sam knew it now. Dean'd finally managed to open up his mouth and let a bit of black smoke out. Not all of it - but enough. And Dean was pretty sure that forty years of perdition to resurrect your little brother was enough to buy a lifetime supply of Big Brother Hero points. No matter how much Sam looked up to his new demon pal, no matter how many sad glances and "let's talk about your feelings" speeches he got all day long, Dean was damn sure of that one thing and Sam knew it too.
"You good?" Sam prodded.
Dean nodded and then rolled away from Sam, pretending sleep had dragged him back in. Of course, it was fairly obvious to both of them that Dean wouldn't drop off again until his body literally shut itself down.
Sam clapped him gently on the shoulder and then climbed back into his own bed. He was out the moment his head dropped. Dean could tell from the tell-tale rhythm of his breathing - those soft rhythmic puffs hitting his pillow like he was blowing out birthday candles in some rare happy dream.
Dean checked the clock. Just after five. Late enough to get up and make himself useful. Three hours back in the pit had been enough. His body had been through worse than exhaustion and it wasn't like they had a case to be sharp for - though he was itching for one.
So he got up, took a long, satisfying piss and then settled into the table by the window with Sam's laptop. Before getting to work, he wrenched the window pane open a crack, letting some of the heavy must out and the dewy air in. The familiar scent of exhaust fumes and wet gravel teased his nostrils. There were only three smells that got to Dean Winchester. The powdery lavender lilac of his mother's perfume. The smokey sulfury tang of his father's jacket. And this - the Road. Home.
Beside him, Sam let out a drumroll snore and Dean felt weightless for the first time in a long time. This was as close to resting in peace as he'd get for a while - maybe ever. Dean's lips didn't move, but he felt something like a smile behind them. Welcome back. It was something else to hold onto at least.