Sweet Dreams
Disclaimer: Characters are taken from Supernatural as well as the novel "Gossamer" written by Lois Lowry. I own nothing but the plot and one original character.
For Rissa: because she's feeling under the weather, and I happen to love her.
Dean shifted in the large chair, giving a short groan in protest as his left toe was exposed to the cool air. He shifted once more, bringing the heavy blanket back over his toes and securing it under his foot. He switched the book from his right hand to his left and redistributed the blanket about his shoulders before settling back in the chair and turning the page.
Dean liked the boy in this book. His name was John. Kid had had a shitty dad and a shitty life, but as the book came to a close things were beginning to look up for him. Dean understood the fear the boy had lived with under his father's harsh rule. Could mirror the anger, the burning anger at being powerless to change your situation, to defend yourself, to protect the one person who gave two shits about you. He understood the reluctance to leave despite the abuse, felt the corresponding conflicted feelings of doting adoration and bitter resentment, lamented over the unanswered whys: 'why am I never enough? Why do you keep hurting me? Why don't you love me like I love you?'
Dean saw himself in the boy, and even though John was taken away from his mother it was okay, because it wasn't permanent. She hadn't died pinned to the ceiling, slowly burning alive. Soon the boy would return to his mother, and in the interim had a rare opportunity, for the first time in his little life, to be happy with this kind old woman who reminded Dean so much of Bobby. Thinking of the gruff man brought a sad smile to Dean's face, and even though Sam was out having his own fun with a beautiful dame, he picked up his mug of tea to hide it.
Dean thought about the dog food the boy in the story had been forced to eat. Winced as he remembered times when he would have been grateful for dog food; times when he had been forced to consume much more upsetting things. Raising the mug, he watched the steam continue its slow fade before he took a sip, letting the strong chamomile scent invade his lungs, and its liquid warmth fill his chest.
Mug in hand he finished the last few pages. And there it was, right there on the last line; the books namesake. A long, heavy sigh seeped from him as he gently closed the book and stared, unseeing, at the back cover.
He wondered if dream-givers truly existed. If the author had somehow caught a glimpse of the truth, knew no one would believe him, and so wrote it down in a book, an unassuming 'fairytale'. It wasn't within the realm of the impossible. They'd dealt with fairies before and these dream-givers sounded similar. Except for the fact that their sole purpose in life was to give people good dreams. Real fairies weren't ever that thoughtful. Perhaps he'd only ever encountered the Sinisteed type fairies; the ones who had lost their way. Perhaps there were good fairies, good dream-givers out there.
He played with idea that he had been assigned a dream-giver before dismissing it. Whenever he actually managed to catch some Z's good dreams didn't visit him. Perhaps his life had been too hard for such delicate work? Gathering already sounded like tedious work. Perhaps his dream-giver couldn't get through the Sinisteed Hordes that steadily plagued him with nightmares? Perhaps…perhaps he wasn't even on their list. Perhaps he didn't deserve any good dreams.
The thought provoked a wave of irrational grief at the resonating truth. Curling further in, he turned from wondering about himself to wondering about Sam. Sam had good dreams. Dean would know. Most nights he spent several hours watching his brothers still form, reassuring himself that Sam was alright; that they were safe.
Some nights Sam broke into a sweat and his quaking hands would clench the sheets, woeful moans escaping through his clenched teeth. But then Dean would be there, one gentle hand on a damp forehand, the other rubbing smooth circles into a familiar bare chest, voice soft with the lullabies his mother had sung to him (or on occasion the ones he'd made-up himself - just for Sam). And slowly, the large body would begin to relax, the trembling abating, and the eyebrows he knew better than anyone else's would smooth back into that peaceful undisturbed state.
Dean decided then, that Sam didn't need any damn dream-giver. He could protect Sam from the nightmares, from the Horde of memories that followed in their wake mind. Had, in fact, been doing it for years. He was Sam's personal dream-catcher.
Dean smiled softly. He liked that idea; of him standing in the gap and protecting his brother from such insubstantial, diaphanous foes.
Vaguely, he realized that he should get up to put the mug down and return the book to the unassuming (hidden) backpack, which was currently filled with books, as the result of a recent and discrete trip to the library. At the very least he needed to replace the blanket with an issue of Busty Asians and the tea mug with a beer. Dean could just picture Sam's face, walking in to see his older brother thoroughly snuggled in a warm blanket, with a children's book and a near empty mug of tea. There was no need to give Sammy any more fodder.
Yea, he should get up…
All at once his limbs were unbearably heavy and his eyes began to droop as if under a great weight. The girl Sam was with had been really, really hot, increasing the probability that the big oaf wouldn't return until the next morning. It was okay for Dean to sit here for a bit; just a little while longer.
He'd get up soon.
Eyelids fluttering with the strain of defying gravity, his mind wandered and he amended his earlier decision. Protecting Sam from nightmares wasn't the same as giving him pleasant dreams. Dean didn't have the power to give Sam such a gift. And Sam deserved good dreams. His little brother deserved so many good dreams.
The edges of his diminishing visibility glazed further. He ignored the blurring as he got caught up another memory of his brother's sleeping form. But this time the covers stayed in place, and the legs didn't kick, and there was a soft smile upon Sam's lips, eyes moving rapidly behind their curtains.
Sam had good dreams. Dean could recall several times when he'd sat studying his brother's soft smile in the dead of night; wondering…
So the dream-givers definitely visited Sam. Perhaps it was Dean's own vigilance to protect Sam that allowed them to break through the Horde. His heart warmed at that thought and he gave a wide sloppy smile at the mental image of him beating back an army of slithering Sinisteeds as the dream-givers, maybe even Gossamer herself, flowed safely past to bestow their gentle light, hope, upon Sam's psyche.
In a rare defeat he lost the battle with his muscles and his eyes slipped shut. A small jolt of fear ran through him as he raced toward the threshold between waking and sleeping. It had been a good day, a calm day, and he had passed on his usual assembly line of whiskey, believing he wouldn't need it until much later. But now here he was, damn near narcoleptic in his descent into the black and without any protection. He knew would dream. Knew exactly what he would dream about. He had little trouble controlling the ghosts of Hell that plagued his waking mind, but when he closed his eyes...Well, that's what the alcohol was for. It did a good job blacking everything out, or at the very least blurring the edges enough so that he could catch a few hours' sleep without waking up violently, in a panic, bile rising, nails bloody from clenching, throat worn raw from screaming. His father had taught him better than that early on. It was one of the first lessons he had learned. He was a soldier. He could handle it. He did handle it.
Tensing, he prepared to seize control and pull himself from grip of fatigue, but it slipped through his hands like sand. Surprised, he was left clutching the dregs of his will, before that too slipped away. He felt his chin come to rest on his chest, nose twitching at the proximity of the mug. Strangely, he was okay with his decent, knowing Sam was unlikely to witness the after effects.
And it was worth it; taking the brunt of the nightmares. Sammy was worth it. He'd resign himself to a lifetime of battling Sinisteeds if it meant the dream-givers could bestow Sammy with even one more peaceful night. 'Do your worst' he thought as he slipped into the unconscious.
*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN****SPN***
Hazy sparkling flared in the darkness he'd fallen into. One of the translucent shimmerings was already upon him before he realized what they were. His eyes grew wide and he stared in awe at the tiny limbs climbing up his shoulder, over his chin, perching on his nose.
"You're a hard one to reach." Came the little voice, hardly distinguishable from the last dying tinkering of a bell. His eyes crossed trying to keep his gaze on her.
"What are you?" he breathed, already knowing the answer and breaking into a grin when his breath blew her off the tip of his nose to land on her face between his eyes.
She huffed as she pulled herself up, stomping back down resume her precarious post.
"Are you Gossamer?" he asked, this time taking care not to breath too heavily. His efforts were rewarded when she stayed firmly put.
She answered him with a smile, which wasn't really an answer at all, but he was okay with that. But as he watched, it slipped from her face and she crossed her arms.
"It figures you'd be a 'show-me' human," she reprimanded. But her shoulders soon drooped and her arms fell to her sides, scowl falling to a sad frown. "Although, none of that is really your fault is it?"
His brow furrowed. He didn't know what she was talking about, but he liked it better when she smiled.
"So…you're not Gossamer?" he asked with a raised brow. The smile slowly returned to her face and he felt better.
"Always my most difficult assignment." She grinned "And the most rewarding." She reached down to lightly pat his nostril before standing once more.
"Well! Now that we finally have your attention." Her smile softened with a sigh, but was no less radiant. "We have so many good gatherings for you Dean. If only you had let us give them."
He felt his hand raise, intended to touch this thoughtful delicate creature sitting atop his face, but he stopped when he spied another wispy outline on his wrist. Rolling his eyes up he caught a shimmering at the very tip of where his sight ended. He wondered how many more there were.
"I couldn't carry them all." She told him crouching, eyes alight with anticipation. "But we brought the all the best. There'll be time for the rest," she reassured, but Dean jarred at the meaning of her words.
Suddenly he understood.
"No." he breathed, forgetting his control; the little strands of her hair blew about her and he sucked in his breath, tried to speak more carefully. "Sammy. You have to go to Sam. He needs you more."
His frowned as she shook her head.
"No Dean." She breathed. "Sam has attendants. Attendants that he let's do their job." She said firmly and with an accusing lift of her tiny brow. He shook his head but stopped abruptly as she dug into his skin, hugging the curve of his nose to keep from flying off. Where her nails dug in there was a light tickle.
She huffed largely before readjusting herself and continuing. "Do you know how long I've been trying to get through to you Dean? How long it took me to circumvent your walls and your poisons because you no longer believed? How many laws we are breaking right now at this moment?"
He went to shake his head again; stopped short. "No." he whispered instead. His eyes burned with the sudden overwhelming need to cry. His sinuses burned with the effort of keeping his emotions at bay. Who was this tiny that she had put in so much effort to reach him? Didn't she know that he didn't deserve it? Didn't deserve such unrelenting devotion?
Her eyes softened, the tension in her body disappearing as she draped herself over the bridge of his nose in an awkward hug; hands he could no longer see resting gently on the skin under his eyes, legs dangling on his cheeks.
"Oh Dean-o." She breathed "'We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.' It's time to sleep now Dean."
The heaviness returned then and she faded from sight. He tried to protest. She didn't understand. Sam needed them. Their gatherings were wasted on him. He was unworthy of such a gift.
His rejections grew weaker as he suddenly appeared in the unforgettable meadow where he and Sam had set off those fireworks. The protests dwindling further when his dad with a flashing grin; not the man who his dad had become, but his four-year-old dad who had laughed easily, always eager to give piggy back rides and play tickle toes.
And then his mother was there, and his resistance was expunged as he buried his tear streaked face into her chest, gave in to the dream-givers and their sedulous gatherings.
It was a good dream.
*****SPN******SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN*****SPN****SPN****SPN***
Sam strolled through bunker door at dawn feeling extremely relaxed. That Daisy chick had been…well! He knew for certain he was definitely going to call her later that day.
A light in the sitting room drew his attention. Dean was probably still up watching reruns of questionable program and polishing off a liter of Jack. He brought a disapproving frown to his face as he stormed into the room – and came up short.
Sam's jaw dropped at the sight of Dean curled up in the large recliner, completely swaddled in a warm blanket, face tucked into his chest, head resting atop the foreign book on his knees, nose halfway into tea mug.
He raised a brow as amusement ran through him. He bit back a barking laugh, waiting, expecting Dean to jump up any moment now, face red and sputtering as he attempted to 'macho' his way out this 'adorable' scene. Sam already knew he would never let Dean hear the end of it!
Except Dean didn't jump up. He didn't even move. Worry replaced humor and he crossed the room in four quick strides, focusing as he kneeled down next to his brother. The blanket rose before he could truly go into panic mode and he breathed a sigh of relief. Dean was just sleeping.
Sam gasp out a harsh breath in disbelief. His brother could bolt awake at the drop of a feather. Nowadays it was rare for Sam to even catch his brother sleeping. And here was Dean, not only sleeping, but doing it soundly. His hand rose to shake his brother awake, anticipating the inevitable, undisguised, horror that would grace Dean's face, and once more stopped short.
A shimmer of something had caught his eye. He focused his gaze on his brother's face, but there was nothing there. Nothing but the small lift of Dean's lips, and the freckles across his nose, and the smooth - smooth? - area between his eyebrows.
Sam jerked as he tried to process the fact that his brother was smiling in his sleep. Dean must be dreaming. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his brother sleep this hard, and with a smile on his face to boot.
Suddenly, the scene wasn't so amusing to Sam anymore.
That realization prompted Sam to stand and back out of the room. He contemplated removing the mug from Dean's hand as it still contained dregs of tea, but decided against it. The mug was snuggled just as close to Dean's chests as the book was and the possibility of Dean dropping it in his sleep and spilling it everywhere wasn't a good enough reason to wake him.
A gentle smile tugged at his lips as he turned off the light and quietly retreated to his room, silently wishing his brother sweet dreams.