A/N: Dean's post-hell trauma and the ordeal of nightmares is, as ever, an incessant source of inspiration. I'm sure this has been transcribed in fanfiction in various permutations, but here's my coin into the post-hell brotherly comfort fountain.
Dean suffers through nightmares of Hell, and Sam has an idea how to help his brother cope with those. Mostly shameless fluff, with a speck of angst. Set sometime in season 4, after the 'Heaven and Hell' revelations.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Carry me home*
That was it. Sam made up his mind, having woken up for the third time that night to the sound of Dean's muffled groans. Dean was sprawled on top the covers, like he so often would, lately, brow creased in mute anguish. Sam noticed his brother's slumbering form tense yet a notch more, lips curved in a painful grimace. Sam knew now that would be when Dean gave in to Alastair's offer of taking to torturing souls. Over, and over, and over again - every single night in his sleep. Or lack, thereof. Not anymore, if Sam had a say in the matter.
"Dean! Dean, wake up!" – Sam's fingers squeezed Dean's upper arm a tad more forcefully, than was otherwise necessary, to register through his brother's dreamed up torment.
"Wha…?" – a pair of familiar green eyes cracked open almost immediately, gaze wild and suspiciously misty, bringing Sam to cringe inwardly. Dean battled sleep, that would evoke nothing else but suffering those days, so valiantly, letting it slip barely further than the surface, and yet nightmares should still take the better of him, hours on end.
"Is it morning already?" – Dean's voice rang more raspy in the dim silence of their room, than it usually would upon awakening, due, Sam could all but guess, to violent overuse the muffled grunts were only a shadow of an echo of.
"No, it isn't."
Sam scooped his own pillow and blanket in one fluid motion, while stepping closer to the side of Dean's bed. He had to do it quick, to make what he had in mind work, while Dean was still groggy and fairly disoriented.
"Scoot over," – Sam commanded, plopping his pillow next to Dean's, as if to prove the unwavering solidity of his intentions.
It was about to get rather cramped in that well-worn queen-size. Dean by no stretch of imagination could be qualified as a small guy, and Sam was even bigger, yet he was willing to give ensuing discomfort a shot if only that would help meet the much anticipated end.
"Sam?" – Dean's tone voiced bewilderment, at best, and a tinge of warning. – "What are you doing?"
"Trying to get us a night's rest." – Sam perched himself by Dean's form, busy spreading the cover over both their frames and shifting precariously in an attempt to find a relatively bumpless spot on his side of the mattress.
The good sign was, Sam pointed out silently, that Dean didn't jerk away, just ran the back of his hand over his eyes, still struggling to gather his bearings.
"Sammy, dude, you know I love you and such, but I'm not that cold or anythin'…"
The half-hearted jibe felt flat to Sam's rather stern glare, trained on his brother's perplexed and rather on the side of scruffy features.
"Dean, shut up and go back to sleep."
That spelled out too much like an order as well. Besides, the way Dean flinched at the word "sleep" didn't escape Sam's notice. So he hastily added "I'll be right here", by way of a softer sigh.
There was no ensuring Dean wouldn't jump off the mattress, or better still, dart out of the room, into the car and out of the state, at that. But oddly enough, he just offered Sam another long look and allowed his head to sink back into the thin motel-issue pillow, making Sam let out a breath he didn't know to have been holding. There was rue, exhaustion and unmistakable sorrow, threaded through that stare, but also a surge of gratitude. Which was more than fine with Sam.
The catch was to grasp the right moment. Sam lay still in the dark, listening intently, awaiting for the rhythm of his brother's breathing to stumble into ragged staccato again, or for Dean's hand to twitch convulsively, tagging at the now shared cover.
The minute Sam heard the mattress strings creak in tone to Dean's rapidly gaining shuddering momentum body, Sam's arms flew up and around his brother's shoulders, wrapping tightly. It took an awkward effort to maneuver Dean's now shivering form deeper into his embrace, Dean's head nestled in the crook of Sam's neck.
"Shhhh… I'm right here, Dean. I'm right here. You're safe."
Sam's muscles flexed, instigating a slight rocking movement. The kind he could recall lulling his own self back to sleep, as the shadows would grow too dark and scary, when he was little. Those were his brother's arms then, circled securely around his skinny frame. His brother's voice. Firm. Soothing: " 'Sokay… They won't get you. I'm right here."
If anything, Sam felt long overdue returning the gesture, at the very least.
"They won't get to you, Dean. Not anymore. I'm right here."
Sam lost track of time, his hand running up and down the expanse of Dean's back, when he could feel the lukewarm moisture running down his neck and seep beneath the shirt collar. Dean's ever cautiously suppressed turmoil had finally advanced to quiet tears. Sam exhaled in relief, clasping his brother's torso closer. They'd make it through the night alright now, he was certain, as long as they both managed to cry themselves to sleep.
*Borrowed from the 'Swing low, sweet chariot' lullaby.