The Impala's hood is cold, beaded with dew drops that roll and string together under his weight, but Sam doesn't mind. He leans against the black metal, watching the first tendrils of light make their way across the horizon of the night sky. Only half an hour left before sunrise; he finds comfort in that fact. His night owl of a brother would find that laughable.
Dean has always been content to sleep through the day, if they didn't have a case that required interviewing the grieving widow du jour, or otherwise interacting with the normal world. He tends to perk up after dark, excited to hustle pool, engage in some B&E, or just hang out at the local bar. Even grave digging seems to be fine by him, most nights.
Not this week, though. Nighttime has been different since Lawrence. Visiting that house (if "visiting" is the right term for going into your childhood room armed) didn't do either of them any favors, but it was harder on Dean. He actually remembers; this was home to him once, before it was a case, before it was the unmarked grave of their potential lives.
Ever since they drove away and left Jenny and her kids on that front stoop, Dean has been quieter than usual. Which is not to say he hasn't been doing his absolute best to make up for the lack of his usual inspiring conversation - Sam is pretty sure he'll be hearing The Best of AC/DC in his dreams long after his eardrums recover - but still, something is definitely off.
Sam cranes his neck to study his sleeping brother's face through the windshield. Dean hasn't even tried to find a pool hall or a bar since they went back on the road; stranger still, he hasn't so much as tried to flirt with their waitresses in any of the diners they went to - which, while probably being a welcome respite for womankind, is yet another sign that Dean is not doing so hot.
He's asleep now, though, snoring softly in the front seat, which is at least something.
Sam was re-introduced to actual sleep some time after he met Jess, who told him, all serious, that she HAD to have her Enchanted Sounds of the Ocean album on repeat in the background at night.
"I can't fall asleep without it," she said, and he knew she was lying, that she was doing it for his benefit, because she was hoping that masking the sounds from outside would help him stop listening.
She spoke a lot about hypervigilance, and about how he was tense and how it was okay to relax sometimes - "it's just college," she said - and he nodded, always, because he couldn't (wouldn't) tell her about all the reasons.
And anyway, he was listening for Dean as much as he was listening for things that went bump in the night - but family was another topic he couldn't discuss with Jessica. So Sounds of the Ocean it was, and it kind of grew on him, to be honest; he found that with time, he slept better and listened less.
Dean did come, and he pulled him out of that room where he would have been happy to burn with her, because he deserved to. Sam went back to sleeping like a hunter after that, half-awake most of the time, never truly comfortable, never naive enough (stupid enough) to feel at home.
Home.
He thinks about the look in Dean's eyes when the Impala pulled up by the mint-green house. Tries to imagine a young version of his brother sitting at the table in that kitchen, smiling happily at their mother over scrambled eggs and toast, getting crumbs everywhere. He can't.
Dean shifts slightly in the front seat. He mumbles something incoherent, frowning. Resistant to Sam's worry even in his sleep.
Sam turns back to watch the sky. They parked miles away from anywhere, no houses or lights around, and though the absence of humans doesn't ever mean safety, at least he doesn't have to worry about some random cop taking an interest in two bruised men spending the night in a '67 Chevy. It's dead quiet, nothing but the wind, and Sam feels relatively safe; almost impossible to sneak up on them here. He closes his eyes, just for a second or two, breathes in. Breathes out.
There's movement behind him again; Dean is getting restless. He thinks he must have dosed off for a few minutes on the hood, because the sky is not as dark now, and because Dean is completely drenched in sweat when he peers through the glass to check on him. Shit.
Sam slides off the hood, scurries around the car and crawls into the back seat; he knows better than to get in front and place himself directly in the path of Dean's swift kick. It only took one error in judgment to teach him that rule.
He watches his brother cautiously for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Dean is obviously having a nightmare, and a bad one, too; but that's a common occurrence, and experience has proven that even waking him up from regular sleep is never, ever a good idea. Too much going on in there, too much that needs to be locked safely away before he can afford to be conscious.
Dean's face is pale in the scarce light, glowing with sweat, his short hair sticking to his scalp. He's breathing fast and shallow, eyes moving frantically behind closed lids, hands fisting in his lap and on his chest like he's desperately trying to hold on to something. It's painful to watch, but it's when he whimpers – actually whimpers – that Sam decides enough is enough. If he gets punched for his trouble, that's fine.
He reaches out and places a careful hand on his brother's shoulder, shakes him gently. Just me, okay - -
"Dean. Hey, Dean. Dude, wake up, you're having a bad dream."
Dean's only response is to thrash around even more violently in the tight space, now seemingly in full panic mode. He's hyperventilating, kicking hard, grabbing at thin air.
"No no no no no - -"
"Shit, Dean, hey, hey! It's just me, it's Sam, wake up. Wake up!"
Dean's fear is so palpable that Sam feels his own lungs constrict with irrational terror. He tightens his hold on his brother's bicep, squeezing painfully. "DEAN!"
Finally, mercifully, Dean's eyes blink open. His gaze is bleary, pupils dark and alarmingly wide, and Sam knows he isn't seeing anything yet, won't for a while; he's still trapped.
Knowing doesn't make it any easier, though, because his brother looks painfully desperate.
"No, no, please, oh god - -"
The tremors wrecking Dean's frame are so powerful now that they shake Sam's hand right off his sweaty shoulder.
"Hey, hey, breathe. C'mon. Dean, you're okay, it's – "
Dean isn't listening, isn't capable of hearing him. And then, somehow, he's out of the car, tumbling through the driver side door and onto the weeds, landing hard and struggling to get up.
Cursing, Sam slides out of the Impala and crouches down on the wet ground next to his brother, reaching out; he needs to get Dean lucid before he manages to hurt himself by running God-knows-where. He decides, for the 1000th time, that he hates his brother's sleep issues. If for no other reason, he believes in the existence of a higher power because there has GOT to be some twisted sense of humor behind giving night terrors to a man who sleeps with a gun under his pillow.
Dean is in no condition to appreciate the irony, though, and Sam grabs him by both shoulders, raising his voice.
"Dean, hey, you're awake, it's over. You're okay."
The words feel useless, and they don't seem to resonate; whatever horror took place in Dean's dream, it has somehow chased him across the divide and followed him into consciousness.
Dean is looking down at his shaking hands now, his face reading utter devastation.
"I can't find him. I can't find him. Must have dropped him. I gotta - - " his breath hitches, and he closes his eyes against some horrible realization.
Sam can't remember ever seeing his brother so distraught - anxious, sad, sure, but not like this, not like his heart is breaking. The sorrow on Dean's face causes his own eyes to water, makes his throat close.
He somehow still manages to speak.
"Dean, what - who are you looking for?"
His brother shakes his head, opens his red-rimmed eyes but doesn't meet his gaze. "Sammy. Can't find him. T- - took him, I thought, I thought I had him, I, you said run, you said don't look back, you said - - "
Sam suddenly tastes bile. He has to take a deep, slow breath, let it out, then inhale again. In. Out. Don't throw up, not now not now.
Speechless and short of breath, he watches as his big brother frantically searches around, eyes impossibly huge in his bruised, tear-stained face. Dean seems so disoriented, so stripped of his usual defenses; Sam just wants to look away.
But he never could. He speaks to the desperate four-year-old looking in the grass for the baby he doesn't think he saved.
"Dean", he says, softly this time, "it's okay. You didn't - you didn't drop Sammy, I promise. We made it out. Buddy, look at me."
For the first time, Dean stops and looks up. God, he looks so exhausted, so hopeful.
"- - Huh?"
"I'm Sammy, remember? We made it out. You got me out of that fire just like he told you, and I'm good. And it was a long time ago, years ago. You know this."
Dean appears to consider the information.
"Yeah?"
Sam nods. "This is 2005. You were just having a nightmare. I know it feels real, I know it's – you with me yet?"
Dean's hands stop moving in the damp weeds, his eyes seem to regain some of their focus. He frowns.
"I'm not - - what?"
Sam sighs.
"Try to calm down. Everything's okay. I'm here, you're here. Remember today? We had some chili cheese fries, got some beer for the cooler, parked here in the middle of nowhere and called it a night. Oh, and you lost your toothbrush, as usual, and you bitched about that, as usual. Then you fell asleep. Any of that coming back to you?"
Dean nods sheepishly. He rubs his eyes, looking confused when his hand comes away wet. He's already forgotten he was crying, Sam thinks.
"Yeah. Yeah. Sorry, Sammy. I - - "
Sam interrupts his brother's apology by wrapping his arms around him, ignoring the surprised, muffled sounds of protest Dean makes against his shirt.
"S'okay, Dean. We're good."
SNSNSNSNSNS
They're having lunch at a Biggerson's when Sam decides to bring it up. He spends ten minutes pecking nervously at his poor imitation of salad - a sad pile of lettuce, dwarfed by his brother's victorious mountain of onion rings - before he gets up the nerve to mention, vaguely, that last night was rough.
Dean thinks for a moment, then nods, squinting at the sun.
"Thought I might have had a nightmare or something, but I wasn't sure." He fishes an onion ring out of the pile, examining it in the light like a precious stone before covering it with an obscene amount of ketchup.
"So what happened? Did I say what the dream was about?"
Sam stares at his brother. He can never get over the way these episodes just evaporate from Dean's mind once he goes back to sleep. He's read all about night terrors and everything related to them, but no amount of research can make him be okay with THAT.
He tries to sound casual.
"You don't remember, huh?"
"Nope." Dean flicks a bottle cap into the trash can, faking nonchalance. "Why? What weird shit did I say this time?"
Sam clears his throat before he answers.
"Uh, home. Something about home."
Dean's face darkens.
"Oh."
He doesn't ask anything else after that, and Sam doesn't offer further information. They finish their meal in silence.
As they make their way back to the Impala, Dean clears his throat.
"You can drive for a while, if you want."
The look of puzzlement on Sam's face must be comical, because Dean chokes back a laugh as he throws him the keys.
"Don't get all starry-eyed on me, dude. It's just until we cross the state line."
Sam says nothing. He looks down at the keys, and when Dean uncharacteristically squeezes his shoulder on his way over to the passenger side of the Impala, he bites his tongue, refusing to get emotional.
Which gets so much easier when Highway to Hell comes blaring out of the speakers before he even gets into the damn car.