A/N: This takes place right after Dean runs to the hotel and has the hallucination of Sam with yellow eyes and Sam walks in.
When Sam was five and learned that all the monsters in his closet were real he slept in Dean's bed for three days. It might have gone on longer, but Dad came home and they were both back to crawling onto Sam's mattress with their father once more taking the one between his boys and door. It was fear driven, although he'd deny it to this day, but at five comfort and the illusion of safety are all that mattered. His brother never mentioned it, and if it weren't for the sickness infecting Dean's body now, Sam may have gone the rest of his life thinking the older man had forgotten it.
He'd gotten into bed that night, taking the one furthest from the door on pure habit, it didn't exactly surprise him to see Dean standing at the foot, that half-crazed look in too wide eyes that no amount of logic could make look natural to him; his big brother had never shown fear in this manner.
He waits for it, wondering if he's to check the locks once more or if he needs to leave a light on when Dean surprises him, crawling in next to him and curling the cheap blanket over his shoulders. He has a second to think he's supposed to move to the other bed, that it's his job to be the guard of the room this night, until his brother moves closer, just brushing his wrist against Sam's shoulder and it clicks.
He kind of regrets allowing the surprise look to cross his face, but the flinch and stubborn set of his chin reminds him a bit of the normal Dean and he can't bring himself to be sorry.
"You did it. When we were little and you found out about…" The words are low and rushed, and some part of his brain used to store statistics and rituals whispers to him that it's only fear causing him to speak at all, to offer up the excuse needed to keep Sam there, a warm blanket of comfort and familiarity that scare the monsters away just by existing.
He could argue, go on about ages, or even pretend to not know what the hell Dean is talking about, but the truth is none of it even crosses his mind. His brother needs him, that's the truth here. One long fingered hand reaches out to turn the little knob, extinguishing the light from the cheap table lamp before he settles back in, trying not to move to allow the other bed's occupant the chance to fall into slumber quickly.
Jess had never been a cuddlier, and the few girls that had stayed the entire night usually followed his lead. Waking up to a body pressed like a warm line down his side, one foreign leg tangled with his own, is not the norm for him. The glaring red letters declaring an hour a bit earlier than he's used to, he'd have to say that it's the hot breath uncomfortable hitting his ear, or perhaps the newly acquired scabs on his brother's forearm rubbing roughly against his upper arm with every breath taken that roused him from his sleep.
He's awake, too hot, somehow maneuvered himself to the far edge of the bed during the night and he has to pee, all with the too heavy body of his brother buried into his side. Sam's fairly certain that any attempt to move on his part would only wake up the other man and as much as he hates to admit it, the idea of cutting short what little bit of peace Dean has found is not something he's willing to do.
It takes less than five minutes before nature wins out and he's slowly moving the blankets down and wiggling his body over the edge. He thanks God or whatever entity it is that looks out for whatever this is as he tip toes his way to the bathroom that his brother remains dreaming.
He's just finishing up when he hears movement, and then he's back in the room, looking at older man sitting up in the bed.
"I'm right here," he wants to say, but it's still Dean and he won't take kindly to any acknowledgement to his (temporary, it has to be temporary) weakness. He doesn't comment when his brother gets up, not surprised that he can't go back to sleep now that he's awake.
Both men move around the room, robotically getting ready, neither wanting to mention the countdown that's begun until the hunter's clock runs out.
There's some kind of war happening on screen when he turns the TV on, hoping for a distraction and to drown out the worry and doubt creeping up in his mind. He quickly changes the channel when he hears the shower stop, turning it to a kids' show that seems safe.
"I'll call you when we find something." He's careful to say "when" because there's no "if" here, there can't be. He can't lose him again. His own panic rises up, threatening to overwhelm him before he beats it down, Dean needs him to be strong, and hurries out, only looking back once as he rushes off to meet Bobby.