Sweet Dreams

A/N: So, Supernatural. May be the most fantastic fandom out there, and may possibly have the most beautiful characters and everythings. This is my first contribution :)
Wincest, nightmares, h/c galore. Not mine, don't blame me.

Sam has pictured this moment before- of course he has- but somehow, never like this. He's imagined leaping in front of a bullet for Dean, or taking one too many hits to the head in a fight, being strung up by a wendigo or sliced into little pieces by a witch. He's pictured guts splaying onto the floor and mixing with grit until everything surrounding him is painted in blood, comic-book-action-thriller style, dying for a noble cause or a girl or a father or a brother, smile on his face until the very last. Saying 'go on without me' and using his puppy-dog eyes on Dean one final time. He's pictured Dean there, holding his hand and begging him to hold on for a minute, he's pictured staring into Dean's face and screaming 'don't let me go' with his eyes and clutching onto Dean's shirt until the world narrows into rough flannel and pain and green and everything that is Dean. He's pictured bravery and causes, because there are lots of things worthdying for- people are worth dying for, the world is worth dying for.

But instead he's here- slouched in a parking lot, with blood spilling out of him and swirling into a puddle, a mix of burning hot and fucking freezing and past numb into nothingness, with two skinheads standing above him and laughing. One of them leans over him, whispers something filthy into his ear with a voice made out of bitumen which Sam can't hear for the blood pounding in his ears. Sam had thought Dean would be here for this, had thought Dean would be anchoring him to life or dying next to him, had thought there would be someone to be strong for- but instead there's just Sam, covered in his own sweat and blood and snot, curled into himself and dying for nothing, for no-one. Dying alone, and breaking like a human. Like any other human.

One of the skinheads turns to his mate and says something else- his lips twist into a smile which is closer to a snarl, and Sam thinks fucking humans, but the anger isn't enough to stay the knife which is drifting towards his neck.

"Playtime's over." the lips curl around the words as slowly as if they were smoke rings, needing to be teased out before curling up to cover the stars, and Sam gets a breath full of air that suddenly seems vital, lovely simply because it's life-giving, and it seems stupid to pass away the gift. The moment's stretching on forever, the only thing up-to-pace being Sam's heart, which is trying to cram all of the beats of the rest of his life into one final second even as the knife slips closer and closer.

Sam hears a whimper, looks around for someone to warn, for someone to die for. But it's his whimper, and he feels more alone than ever.

Now that he's dying, he suddenly remembers all the things there are to live for- girls as curved as summer, the road stretched out in front of him, someone's arms to fall into. Whiffs of scent which remind him of Jess, or of Dean, whisky to drown in and clear nights like this when the wind blows his thoughts clean. There's people he promised to remember and things he promised Dean he'd do- get a complete collection of those stupid cereal toys, Madison's birthday to light candles on, a whole series of stupid movies which Dean used to quote by heart but Sam had never even watched. Fuck- he'd wanted to have a picnic at three am, learn to ballroom dance and grow a moustache just to shave it off again, spend a whole week just walking wherever the will took him.

There's another whimper and it seems to cut through the air in front of him to let the knife through. He feels the start of the slash along his throat, wonders what they'll write in the obituary and realises that it'll be nothing- he has no name, no ID, he's officially dead already, and suddenly the binge Dean and him had been on to celebrate the fact seems bloody wasteful, sacrilegious. Why did they never celebrate life?

The slash finishes, and Sam feels it like a strike of heat across his throat, feels his storming heart pumping the blood from his veins to kill him all the faster, splutters a word which just turns into more blood and is greeted with a kick to the stomach. Fear slips between his legs, warm and hot and liquid, and there's nothing glorious about the moment- sweat and blood and piss and snot and tears all mixed together. Sam sees Lucifer's point for a second, a flash of heat as sharp as that on his throat. Humans- what are they but glorified bags of liquid? Sam slumps forward, can't pull in a breath and sees the kaleidoscope patterns burst across his vision, dimly registers his head missing his knees and colliding with the pavement, concentrates on trying to gasp another breath and-

And succeeds, and one breath turns into another, and another, though his heart's still pounding. The blood's gone now, and the pavement is softer, though still soaked in something warm, and suddenly Dean is beside him, whispering nonsense about "'c'mon, Sammy, wake up, nightmare's over, c'mon, I've got you, kiddo." And for a second Sam thinks he really has died, and perhaps he's on his way to Hell, except Dean is here and there's no pain and- "hey, Sammy, shhhh, c'mon..." and then he feels the fear seeping through the sheets, mingled with embarrassment and relief and- "all a dream, Sammy, hey, you're okay." He clutches at Dean's shirt, feels the flannel between his fingers- soft and slightly lint-pebbled from too many washes in harsh soap powder, smelling of oil and cheap shampoo and a tiny bit of whisky, everything smoothed over by a smell that's nothing but pure, unadulterated Dean.

He shoves his nose into Dean's chest, unashamed for a second to hide his face and let his heartbeat fade until it almost matches Dean's, steady and comforting. Dean shifts a little on the side of the bed, pulls Sam half into his lap and leans back against the headboard. Dean's fingers are carding through Sam's hair now, catching a little on the ends, and he runs a calloused finger in soothing circles along Sam's temple, still murmuring "Hey, kiddo, you're alright, Sammy. I got you." like an iPod stuck on shuffle-and-repeat.

His breathing slows now, deep breaths to take in as much of Dean as possible, as if he can breathe the whole of his big brother in, pull him inside his chest.

Dean leaves off the hair-stroking with one hand to slip it under the sheets. "We'll just check if you've-" he's saying, and Sam feels so small in this moment, four-years-old again with his big brother sliding a hand down his back to check if he's wet the bed. Sam wants to protest, to tell Dean that yes, he may currently be drying the tears of his little brother who's just had a nightmare, but said little brother isn't actually four, and he has some amount of self-control. But now the warmth is cooling around his legs, and Dean's saying "c'mon, let's get you into something dry, ok? Get you all cleaned up.", and Sam realises what the wetness is, what new thing he can add to his list of most embarrassing moments in his life ever.

Dean's pulling him up now, and Sam's scrambling away, away from Dean and the bed and ever looking Dean in the eye again, but the sheets twist around his legs and he slams into the flo- into Dean's arms, and Dean lifts him up like Sam doesn't have inches and pounds on him, like he really is the little brother again. "Not this time, Sammy. C'mon, I've got you. Let me help you out." Dean's muttering, steering Sam towards the bathroom.

He shuts the lid on the toilet, and the sound echoes around the tiles for a second, sounding loud in contrast to Dean's murmurs and Dean's heartbeat and Dean's breathing. Sam is pushed down onto it, far more gently than you'd think was possible from Dean, and though he wants to up and run away again, when he half-stands Dean just pushes him back. Dean turns to grab the wash-cloth off the towel rail, and Sam manages all of a step before his knees buckle and somehow he's back on the floor, the cool of the tiles sinking into his skin and sucking away the warmth from the slap of his flesh with the ground.

Sam whimpers, a sound that seems forced from a sick puppy, tiny and pathetic and not at all befitting Sam- tall and brave and powerful. But Dean doesn't even smile, isn't bitching about the extra washing they're going to have to do or the beauty sleep he's missing out on, isn't muttering about chick-flick moments and trying to back away, and Sam allows himself to be grateful.

Dean puts the cloth down again to pull Sam up, settles him on the toilet seat and tells him to put his arms up. Sam goes to argue, to tell Dean thanks, but no thanks, tries to stand and is pressed down again with a "Sammy." that is all order, no nonsense attached. He lifts his arms with a huff that's more of a sniff, and Dean slides off the shirt, wipes Sam's face and chest with the cloth.

"Even got warm water for you." Dean's saying, and somehow that's the tipping point for Sam, and he's sobbing again. Sobbing like a little boy- sitting on the toilet seat being stripped and washed because of a nightmare and a wet bed, and fuck if that doesn't make him feel the tiniest he's ever been. Now Dean smiles, just a little bit.

"Hey, Sammy- not angry, kiddo." he's saying, rubbing the cloth a little more gently along Sam's skin. "C'mon, settle down, now." He pulls a tissue from somewhere, and for a fleeting second Sam thinks about what a good father Dean'd make- remembers that growing up, Dean pretty much was Sam's father. Sam's carer, at any rate. He was closer than a father, closer than a brother had a right to be. "Blow." Dean's saying, and Sam has no time to think about anything except trying to stop crying and blowing his nose and feeling the cloth on his skin all at once.

Dean starts sliding off Sam's track-pants now, pulling his boxers down with them in the same move, and Sam can't do a thing because somehow his arms are twisted into a cloth and half-caught in the lapels of Dean's shirt. "Legs." Dean says, and gives Sam no option but to lift his legs until he's sitting on the toilet seat stark naked.

He lifts Sam up again, leads him over to the sink and sloshes warm water down his chest, running in rivulets down his thighs and leaving a hundred little soapy bubbles behind. Sam closes his eyes, as if that can somehow combat the fact that he's naked and smells of piss, is being sloshed down by his brother in the middle of the night. "Clever boy." Dean says, and Sam concentrates on the crack in the tiles running under his feet, slips his toe along it to feel the grime and the grit.

He gasps, eyes bursting open again as Dean rubs the cloth along his cock, says "Dean!" in a tone which wears a fur coat of scandalised.

"What?" Dean says, pulling the cloth into a shrugging gesture. "Nothing I ain't seen before, kiddo. Though yours is somethin' special, like the rest of you." he adds, bopping Sam on the nose and pinching his cheeks like Sam really is four. Sam keeps his eyes open now, fixing Dean with a reproachful glare that Dean is surely categorising into bitchface #666 or something. Dean innocently splashes the cloth in the water again, runs it down each of Sammy's thighs, but Sam doesn't move quickly enough to stop him swiping it over his cock again, looks down in horror as it jumps and starts to swell under his gaze. Dean looks up at him and winks. "I think it likes me." he grins, and Sam goes to snatch a towel and run away before Dean can kick him out with a look at disgust, but instead finds himself backed against the sink, hands pinned behind his back and hips jutting forwards.

"Dean- I'm, sorry, Dean sorry!" Sam says, words garbled and desperate, if Dean will only let him go-

"Shh, Sammy." Dean says, runs the cloth along the ridge of Sam's cock again and watches as it hardens further. He drops the cloth now, ignores the wet thwack of it on the tile, runs a finger down Sam's length instead and makes Sam shiver.

"But you- you don't understand, it's -you, Dean!" Dean slips his hand back between Sam's legs, rolls his balls around in the cup of his fingers and Sam can't help but moan, low and lost.

"Course I understand, Sammy. It's you for me, too. Idiot sasquatch." The insult is softened by the tone of his voice, and fairly negated by the hand slipping up Sam to pinch at his nipple. Sam arches up, tries to pull some thoughts together around the thrum of pleasure running through him more powerfully than demon blood, and purer, somehow. Warmer.

"But- Dean? Dean-" Dean shushes him with a finger over Sam's lips, hand still pumping down Sam's length with slow, even pulls. His hands aren't soft (not like Jess', something whispers), but Sam knows every crease and callous, knows Dean's hands as well as his own.

Sam opens his eyes as Dean swirls his thumb over the head, his gaze catching Sam's like he wants to prove this slice of truth.

Dean's eyes are always beautiful, Sam thinks, but now something seems to slide off them- all the things Dean's ever hidden from him. Like the wind sweeping away a curtain of leaves to get to the heart of the tree, Sam has a clear view of everything that is Dean, a tiny green window to his soul. And everything in Dean? It's open for him, looking at him like he's the core and the heart of everything.

"Got it?" Dean asks, and if his voice is a little rougher than usual, Sam doesn't comment. He nods weakly, thrusts his hips into the air as Dean's hand slips off his cock. Dean laughs, grabs a towel off the bench behind him and wraps Sam in it, ignoring Sam's disappointed moan. "C'mon, Sammy." he says, steers him out of the bathroom again and towards the beds. Sam goes for his, intending to strip the sheets and just slide under the blankets for a change, jerk himself to a finish like Dean seemed unwilling to do, but Dean stops him with a hand on his stomach. "Nuh-uh," he says, "want to keep an eye on you." He pushes Sam towards his own bed, the one with the dry and untangled sheets.

Sam goes to argue, like usual, to say that his nightmare quota is all used up for the time being, that he doesn't need to crawl into bed with Dean like a four-year-old, but Dean just shakes his head, manages to insist without saying a word.

"Will you-?" Sam asks, gestures down at his cock, hard and straining against his stomach. "Please? Or can I?" Dean just shakes his head.

"Want you to have sweet dreams, princess." Dean says, laughing when Sammy shifts uncomfortably.

"But the sheets-" Sam says, and Dean stops to consider.

"Back in a sec," he says, "And no touching." He winks and steps into the bathroom, and Sam rolls his eyes. As if he would- he slides a hand down his body, slips his fingers around his cock and gives it a few pulls. If he can work fast, he can get off before Dean comes back, can say it was accidental or someth-

Dean's hand comes down with a smack on Sammy's ass, and he drives his hips as far forward as he can, hoping something might materialise to give him a bit of friction. Dean laughs, and slips a couple of towels under him, rolls Sam on his side and clambers into bed so he's facing Sammy's back.

"Like that, huh?" he says, laughing and grabbing at Sam's ass cheek, which is still tingling a little with the heat from the slap. "Maybe next time you're a naughty little boy." Sam tries to hide his moan but to little avail, and his hips pump uselessly into the air.

He worms a hand sneakily down his side, only to deliver it right into Dean's grip. "I don't think so." Dean says, tone amused, and wraps his hand around Sam's two wrists. He slides closer in the bed, tucks his legs into the folds in Sammy's and lays a kiss into the back of Sam's neck, lips warm and chapped and Dean. "Night, kiddo." he says, and Sam moans in annoyance but closes his eyes, falls asleep with his cock throbbing and his brother's warm breath against his neck.

Of course, he dreams of Dean.

reviews are love
MS xxx