Count Sheep, I Dunno
Unabashed wee!chester fluff. Written for a prompt courtesy of my best friend, TrueLoveFan: Wee!chesters. Dean's better than any teddy bear when Sam's scared.
I wrote this almost a month ago in about 30 minutes, so don't expect much depth or masterful, life-changing quality, but oh look, five-year-old Sammy!
"Dean?"
Dean huffed a sigh and resettled himself under the covers, as far as possible from the side of the bed that held a certain five-year-old brother of his who would. Not. Go. To. Sleep. He didn't see what the problem was. He could hear Dad snoring away in the next bed over, having just gotten back from doing a "Job" that he wouldn't tell Dean about no matter how many times he asked, stumbling through the door coated in dirt and sweat and splattered with what Dean suspected might be dried-up blood though he didn't ask, heading straight for the shower and then falling into bed right afterwards. He'd be asleep too right now-the red glowing numbers on the alarm clock said it was past midnight-if it wasn't for the fact that Sam wouldn't stop fidgeting, whimpering, and hogging the blankets.
"Dean?" came another, more panicked-sounding whisper.
"What?" Dean hissed back, rolling his eyes towards the shadowy ceiling. It was gonna be a long night.
"I can't sleep." The admission sounded slightly embarrassed, but with a definite pleading note to it.
Dean growled a little, frustrated, and flipped over to face a set of wide, terrified eyes. "That's 'cause you're not trying," he told him.
"Yes I am!" Sam protested, shrill voice cutting through the otherwise silent room. Dean shushed him, with a pointed nod over at the next bed on his other side, and Sam repeated, this time in a whisper, "Yes, I am."
"Well you're not doing a very good job, huh?" Dean said, scrubbing a frustrated hand through his hair and letting it fall on the pillow. "Just shut up and close your eyes. Count sheep. I dunno."
"I tried," Sam said, and even in the dark Dean could see his bottom lip sticking out, petulant. "It's not working."
"Well that's because you suck," Dean informed him.
"Do not!"
"Do too."
Suddenly, Dad shifted and muttered something incomprehensible in his sleep. For a few long seconds, they both shut up, holding their breaths until he was quiet again.
Then, "Do not." Another pause. "I keep...thinkin' 'bout stuff," Sam said, then chewed his lip, a nervous habit of his.
"'Bout what?"
"Stuff…"
"What stuff?"
"Monsters."
Oh.
Wait, what?
He wasn't supposed to know about that. Not yet, anyways.
"Why are you thinkin' about monsters?"
"I dunno… Martin at school, you know, who's dad's a cop, was talkin' 'bout all those people who were on the news. You know, who got missing?" He breathed the last word, as though afraid to voice it fully aloud.
"Uh-huh…" Dean didn't like where this was going. First thing after school Monday he was gonna teach that Martin punk a lesson…
"He said a monster ate them. Took 'em while they were camping in the woods."
Crap. Crap crap crap crap…. Again, Dad hadn't exactly told him about the job he'd just worked, but that didn't sound too far out of the ballpark.
"You scared?"
"No," came the defiant response.
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh." Vigorous nodding.
"Good." He shifted a fraction, so that he was completely facing Sam now. "'Cause you know there's no such thing as monsters, right?" It was a flat-out lie, and his stomach squirmed a bit, but he clamped down on it and looked at Sam steadily as he spoke. He needed Sammy to believe this. Just for tonight.
If it hadn't been the middle of the night, Sam might've rolled his eyes and huffed out an 'I'm not stupid, Dean' with all the five-year-old disdain he could muster, but right now all he could do was nod, eyes wide as saucers.
"Good. Now go to sleep and don't think about nothing, okay?"
"Okay." Sam dutifully shut his eyes.
Not even two minutes later—
"Dean?"
"What?" he snapped.
"I want Joey." His voice was quiet.
Joey was a teddy bear. A stupid cheap freaking teddy bear that Sam had had since he was three that they'd left behind in a motel room in Detroit a few months ago. And for all Dad thought that Sam was too old to be sleeping with stuffed toys by now, he really had been sorry that he hadn't turned around on the highway once Sam had realized he was missing the thing, because Sam had sniffled pitifully and slept badly for a few nights afterwards. Dean thought Dad would get him a new one for Christmas, about a month from now, and had reminded him a few times—Dad had promised to replace it—but if he forgot, Dean would figure it out on his own. Wasn't like it wasn't stupidly easy to slip past toy store clerks. And it'd be a freaking awesome one, too, if he had anything to say about it.
"Yeah, well," he muttered back, "You'll have a new Joey soon, alright?"
"I don't want a new one." His voice was small.
"Too bad," Dean groused back, rubbing over heavy eyelids with the back of his hand. Geez, he really was tired….
Silence again. Dean almost dared to hope he'd finally gone to sleep this time.
Then—
"Dean?"
"What, Sammy?" He couldn't even muster the energy necessary to sound irritated at this point.
"Uh…"
"What?"
"Can I, um…" he trailed off awkwardly, but Dean felt him scoot closer towards him under the covers.
And then Dean got it. She shook his head and chuckled, wrapping an arm around Sam's tiny shoulders as Sam nestled himself against Dean's side, resting his head on Dean's shoulder. "Dork," Dean mumbled affectionately.
"Thanks," Sam said, voice awash with relief as his body finally relaxed, burrowing his nose into Dean's t-shirt.
"Whatever." Dean pulled the covers up higher around them, using one arm to tuck them around Sam.
"'Night," came Sam's muffled, finally drowsy voice.
"Night, Sammy." A minute or two later, Dean added, for good measure, "Tell anybody about this and you're dead meat, I swear."
But Sam didn't answer. He was already asleep, head limp on Dean's shoulder. Dean smiled and closed his eyes.