"SAM!"
It was instant. There was no moment of processing, no cloudy transition from being asleep to being awake, no drowsy wish for a jolt of caffeine. It was the flip of a switch, off to on. He was asleep, and then he was running down the hall, gun drawn, ready to lay waste to whatever stood between him and his brother.
"SAAAM!"
The sound of it tore through him, stealing his breath, filling him with an indescribable fear. His mind raced at what could possibly draw that kind of terrified, desperate cry from his brother's lungs. I'm coming, Dean. hang on! Please... The floor was cold beneath his bare feet as he raced through the dimly lit hallway. The few seconds it took to reach Dean's room seemed to stretch on endlessly, as though he were trying to run in a dream where he couldn't move. Finally, he burst through the door to find... nothing. Nothing but his brother, thrashing slightly in his bed, his arm drawn tightly across his middle, the fist of his other hand clenched and pressing into the mattress.
"Noo!" Dean's face contorted in distress.
Sam stood for a moment, confused, torn between relief and anguish. He put the safety back on the gun and watched as Dean seemed to settle for a moment.
He debated whether or not to wake him.
Suddenly, Dean sat straight up, clutching the blankets to his chest and sucking in a gasp of air. "Sammy!" he choked out in a sob.
Enough, Sam thought as he set the gun down behind some books. He moved forward and approached the side of Dean's bed. "Ok, hey...hey, it's-"
Dean spun around to face him and shoved him hard. "Sam, no!" Dean's tone was threatening as he backed away from Sam, slamming himself up against the head of the bed.
Sam caught himself before toppling over. "Whoa! Whoa... hey, take it easy," Sam put his hands up slowly. "I'm not gonna hurt you, ok? Dean? It's me..."
"Sam?" Dean panted, looking down at his hands as though he expected to be holding something. Then his eyes, still wide with terror, darted back up to Sam.
Sam approached him again, and when he was fairly certain that Dean wasn't going to lash out anymore, he cautiously sat down beside him.
He was surprised, though, when Dean reached out suddenly and patted at Sam's chest, looking questioningly at him. Dean's expression was fearful and guilt-ridden, and the tears running down his face tore at Sam's heart.
Sam realized then that he'd misinterpreted Dean's reaction. Dean wasn't afraid Sam was going to hurt him. He was afraid that he was going to hurt Sam. "Dean, it's ok. Just a dream, all right?" Sam whispered, "I'm ok, everything's fine."
Dean closed his eyes and took a breath. It was just a dream. It was just a dream. He kept repeating in his head. Sam is ok.
But no matter how many times he repeated it, he couldn't get the image of killing his brother out of his head. He knew he was a mess. He knew he'd been crying, or maybe still was, and he knew if he could just get one smart-ass comment out of his mouth, he could stop this train wreck before it got any worse, but most of his mental effort was being spent remembering to breathe and trying not to throw up.
Sam. Before he could stop himself, he had leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Sam's neck and was hugging the life out of him.
Sam's ok.
Breathe.
Don't throw up.
I'm sorry...
Sam went rigid at first, not expecting this reaction at all, but quickly softened and leaned into his brother, his voice gentle as he patted his back. "Dude, hey... it's all right. Everything's ok..."
Dean took a few steadying breaths before letting go. He sat back and put his head in his hands. "I could've hurt you."
"I know, I've learned that the hard way on more than one occasion. I was being careful..." Sam said, and he was still being careful, because he knew that this was Dean at his most vulnerable. And Dean at his most vulnerable usually resulted in one of two things: Dean getting pissed off, or Dean getting really pissed off.
"You're an idiot," Dean muttered quietly without looking up.
"Mmm, so I've been told," Sam said gently, tilting his head and trying to catch his brother's gaze. He didn't seem quite fully awake yet, but Sam knew better than to over stay his welcome in a situation like this. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to reach over and wipe the tears off his brother's face, sit with him for a little while, tell him it was going to be ok, but that wasn't how Dean worked. So, reluctantly, he stood up. "I'll let you get back to sleep-"
Sam hid his shock as a trembling hand reached out and grabbed his wrist as he turned to go.
Dean immediately let go of him, but could not meet Sam's eyes.
"Dean?"
Dean pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes as he sighed again. "Yeah. Sam, I'm...good. Go back to bed, ok? Sorry I woke you up."
Sorry I woke you up? Where was the 'leave me alone' or 'get the hell out of my room, Dr. Phil'? Sam wondered as he sat down again. "You didn't," he lied.
His brother was scared. Scared enough to try to ask for comfort, or not awake enough to stop himself. Either way, the situation was adding to Sam's growing concern, but at least for the moment, Dean wasn't pushing him away. "I was, uh... actually rummaging around in the liquor cabinet. I... couldn't sleep."
Sam wasn't sure if Dean believed him or not, but he finally did meet Sam's gaze. Whether or not Sam had effectively pulled off the small lie, he was rewarded with a half smirk from Dean. "Find anything good?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact, yes, I did. I was going to open that Scotch in the den."
"You mean the one I told you not to open?"
"Yep. That one," Sam stood up again. "Come on, it's time."
"Dude, that thing is almost 200 years old! You don't just crack open something like that in the middle of the night for no good reason-" Dean threw back the covers and grabbed his robe.
Sam was already heading to the door, turning away to hide the small smile on his face as his brother followed. "What makes you think I don't have a good reason? I can think of a million reasons to open that bottle right now."
"Like what," Dean asked padding along behind Sam, but making no move to stop him. "It's Wednesday?"
"Sure! Or, it's spring."
"Oh, that's a great reason," Dean quipped sarcastically. "How about 'all of the blood stains came out of my clothes in the wash this week'?"
"Yes, now you're talking." His brother was up and out of bad and successfully distracted. Sam barely had to feign his enthusiasm. "Or better yet, 'I found the missing volume of Myths and Legends of the Northeastern United States'!"
Dean shook his head. "You are such a geek."
"Hmmm... that reason is a little weak, but ok. How about the fact that I can't sleep? Isn't that good enough?"
"There are half a dozen other bottles of booze that you could get into if you need something to help you sleep. Why that one?" There was a sudden pause. "And what do you mean, you can't sleep? What's wrong?"
Sam had found a two-for-one distraction, and he was very pleased with himself. A good stiff drink and something wrong with little brother would take Dean's mind off of just about anything. He wouldn't be able to get Dean to talk about his nightmare, that much he was sure of. But he could probably push it to the back of his mind long enough to get him back to sleep. He just had to be careful not to get Dean too concerned because he really didn't want to deal with the mother-henning. "Oh, I don't know... sometimes I get reading some of that demon/possession/exorcism stuff and I need to take a break- think about something else before I try to sleep, you know?"
"Too much geeking-out in the library?"
Sam snorted. "Something like that."
Dean shook his head as they turned a corner and entered the room they had deemed "the den". There wasn't much about the room that was actually den like, except for the three couches that formed a "U" shape in the center of the room. The ceilings were too high and the couches, Sam always felt, should be surrounding a fireplace instead of a wall of filing cabinets. But it was a comfortable place to sit, or lie down if the need arose. Most often, Sam just fell asleep at the table in the library if he got too involved in research, but occasionally, he would catch a quick nap in the den when he felt too lazy to walk back to his room. There was a liquor cabinet against the back wall of the room that was mostly empty when they'd found it, except for a few bottles of bourbon, a gin, and one very old and very rare bottle of Scotch that Dean had forbidden Sam to open. It was from the Finnieston Distillery in the city of Glasgow, and how the Men of Letters had come upon such a bottle was probably a story unto itself, Sam had decided from the research he had done.
Sam pulled two glasses out of the cabinet and handed them to Dean. "Would you like to do the honors? I'll be right back." He turned quickly before Dean could ask where he was going and headed for the kitchen. He returned momentarily carrying a yellow box tied with a string and two forks.
Dean was setting the two tumblers of Scotch on the small table. His eyes widened when he saw the box. "That isn't-"
Sam grinned and nodded. "Oh, it is."
And then an honest to goodness smile lit up his brother's face and Sam could've dropped the pie box on the table right then and offered to drive into the next time zone to find an open bakery to buy ten more if it would keep that smile where it was. But instead, he set it down carefully just handed Dean a fork. "I got it on the grocery run tonight. I was going to get it out for tomorrow, but..." he shrugged and sat down.
Dean reached over and lifted his glass. "To 200 year old free Scotch and surprise pies."
Sam laughed. "Ok, I'll drink to that."
The Scotch was smooth, like nothing Sam had ever had before. It left a gentle burn in his throat as he drank it, and it warmed him soothingly from the inside. Perfect, he thought. Exactly what Dean needs right now.
"Holy crap. Why the hell didn't we break this out sooner?" Dean asked finally.
Sam gave him a look that very clearly said, because you told me not to.
Dean shot him a look right back- and when do you ever do what I tell you?
Sam frowned. He had actually meant to sneak in and sample the Scotch just for the very fact that he'd been forbidden to do so. He just hadn't gotten around to it yet.
Dean continued as though the silent conversation had not occurred. "I mean, you're here, I'm here, this stuff is awesome... and hell, we deserve it!"
"And that," Sam said raising his glass again, "is the very best reason I can think of to open a priceless bottle of the good stuff."
Dean looked at him for a moment with that gentle gaze he used sometimes that said more with his eyes than he ever could with words. Then he raised his own glass to Sam and agreed. "Well, then... here's to that."
They shared comfortable silence and quite conversation as they sipped the Scotch and ate more pie than was good for them. Three tumblers and more than half a pie later, Dean was out cold. Sam grabbed a couple of blankets from a closet in the hall. He draped one gently over his brother and turned off all the lights except one lamp on a desk in the corner. He stretched out on the opposite couch, right in Dean's line of sight should he wake up again during the night.
Early in the morning Sam got up, leaving the blanket on the couch so Dean would know he'd been there. He went back to Dean's room and got the gun that he'd left on the shelf. He went to his own room and made his bed. Then he went into the library and called Cas.
He would save his brother.
Or he would die trying.
Dean came wandering in a few moments later with a tea cup of coffee.
"How'd you sleep?" Sam asked, glancing up.
"Like a drunk baby."