Enter Sandman
6-14-13
Sam tries to help Dean unload the Impala when they finally stop at a motel for the night but Dean orders him away from the trunk with a growled "Get inside and go to sleep." It's a throwback to their childhood, when John would get a room and drop them off at the door while he went off to do whatever it was he had planned for the night. Most of the time, it was hunting but on more than a few occasions he headed straight for the nearest bar. Either way, it was on Dean to get Sam inside and to bed. It's a role he hasn't played in years but he slips back into it easily, almost comfortably. It's a mark of Sam's exhaustion, though, that he doesn't argue, just goes inside and lays down.
Dean stares at the trunk, pushing back every last thought and emotion that is fighting its way to the front of his consciousness. He's fully aware it's a battle he's eventually going to lose, but he really can't afford to indulge himself right now. Sam's sick. And without him, Sam's alone with Lucifer. He'd left Sam in hell for over a year with him as it was. He'd be damned if he was going to leave him alone with the devil again. Not if there was anything, even the slightest thing, he could do. He finishes packing up the duffle and heaves it over his shoulder with a sigh then turns and walks inside.
Sam's stripped down to his boxers and laying across the farthest bed when Dean gets inside but his eyes are wide open and staring off into one corner of the room. Dean's eyes follow but of course can't find anything. It's a safe bet that's where Sam sees Lucifer sitting, though. Dean walks over to the bed and positions himself between the corner and Sam and sits on the edge, taking in his brother's pale skin. His eyes are shot through with red, in contrast to the dark circles beneath. His hair is disheveled and the mask of strength that he usually puts on when he knows Dean is watching is gone. Dean feels a surge of fierce protectiveness. Sam may be 29 years old, but right now he looks for all the world like he did when they were kids and Dad had driven all night and Sam hadn't been able to get comfortable in the car.
"Sammy," he says softly and Sam shakes his head, a cross between a yes and a no and Dean wonders whom Sam's answering. Not that it matters. He hasn't asked a question. Sam shifts his gaze and meets Dean's eyes as though only just realizing that Dean's made it into the room. Lucifer then. He gets up and walks over to the bed Sam's lying on and hesitates. What the hell is he going to do? He runs a hand through his hair, fighting back the insane urge to grab whatever heavy object is within reach and start hacking away at the corner his brother is staring at like he used to do to the monsters in the closet when Sam was a kid. The devil might be every bit as imaginary as the monsters but the memories fueling it were real and he wasn't going to ease his brother's fears with a few well-placed hits of a tire iron and some rock salt. Destroying the corner of their hotel room might make him feel a little better but it sure as hell wasn't going to do a damn thing for the crack in his brother's head that had him seeing the devil in the first place.
Dean sighs. "Move over," he says.
"What?" Sam asks, confusion registering around the exhaustion in his voice.
"I said move over," Dean says again, wishing Sam would just listen so he didn't feel quite so ridiculous crawling into bed with his overgrown little brother.
"Yeah, I know, Dean. Why?"
"Because the only thing that helped you sleep when you were seeing imaginary monsters as a kid was me singing you lullabies and I—"
Sam's gone rigid now, almost angry and Dean's trying to figure out what he's said when Sam bites out, "We're not kids anymore. I know he's not real, Dean. And I don't need you to chase him away for me."
Dean contemplates giving up and going back to his own bed. "I said move over," he says, giving Sam a slight shove. "I know you're grown and I know you know he's not real but I am pretty sure you knew the ones in our closet weren't real either. Somehow knowing it didn't help you sleep, did it? But for some reason, me singing to you DID, so scoot your ass over before this gets any more awkward than it already is."
Point taken, apparently. Sam offers no argument, just shifts in the bed and props himself up slightly on his elbows as he waits for Dean to sit down. Dean closes his eyes, swallows again against the rising tide of emotion, and crawls into bed with Sam, who drops his head into Dean's lap and lays back down.
"Close your eyes," he says and Sam obeys, the lines on his face softening as Dean begins to trace his thumbs in soft circles across Sam's forehead and down over his eyelids then allows his fingers to glide through Sam's hair, rubbing over his scalp and down to the back of his neck. "Say your prayers little one, don't forget my son to include everyone," he sings quietly.
Sam lets out a muffled laugh. "Enter Sandman, really, Dean?"
"Shut up!" Dean retorts. "It's a classic. And I had to sing it to you every night when you were 8 or else you wouldn't shut up and go to sleep, remember?"
Sam's answer is a muffled "Mmmhmm" as he burrows more deeply into Dean's lap. "Good," Dean says, resisting the urge to kiss Sam on the forehead, his fingertips instead resuming the pattern they were tracing over Sam's face. "So shut up and go to sleep already." The lullaby won't keep Lucifer at bay. He knows it. Sam knows it. But if it gives him even an hour of rest it could give Sam the strength he needs to resist him for another day.
"I tuck you in, warm within, keep you free from sin, 'til the sandman he comes…"