Chapter 2
Something woke him.
He listened, unmoving. Hardly breathing. Whatever it was, it would happen again. It was usually a pipe. Motel plumbing was never that efficient. Or, it would be someone next door. Paper thin walls were a standard in the types of Motels the Winchesters frequented. He continued to listen. The beat of his heart providing a comforting rhythm in the otherwise still night.
And then Dean shifted in his sleep.
Ah. Dean. A sigh and a gentle cough, and more movement. And then it started.
"No...not me..." he began. Sam sighed and rolled onto his back. Well, here we are again, he thought to himself. After a welcome break of what...three weeks or so...it was 'hello' nightmares and 'goodbye' shut eye. He turned a sleepy head towards his brothers bed.
Dean, on his back had one arm raised up, pushing something, someone back. Away from him. A warning gesture? Or a threat. His hand was opened. On the defensive. Not fisted in rage and fear. Sam tried to imagine what demons existed in Dean's dream now.
A sob, swallowed back. And then, "Back again...please..." Sam frowned. Dean saying please. Must be bad.
Sam listed his options. Past strategy had seen him calling Dean's name gently. That sometimes worked. Other times, the commanding, 'Dean, wake up!" usually worked, but the tone had to be just right, and he didn't feel he had the energy at that point. He closed his eyes and drifted for a beat.
"Hm...'cos...hurts me..." Some uneven breathing, and more wrestlessness. Sam opened his eyes to see Dean flipping over onto his stomach. Such a baby face when he sleeps. Takes years off him. No scowl or frowns. No dark circles under his eyes. An innocent expression of blissful naivety. Like a child.
Sam rolled onto his side. He blinked hard in the darkness, trying to see if the paper stitches he'd applied only 2 hours ago to Deans left eyebrow were still in situ. They were. No dark stain of blood evident. As far as he could see.
Another sob. Sam hated it when he cried in his sleep. He did it most just after he'd come back from hell. Not so much now. It would be Alistair, he concluded. That sleazy bastard had a lot of broken nights to answer for. Sam snorted at the memory of ending that demon's life...for good. How satisfying had that one been? Totally.
"C...can't do it...don't," Dean murmered, his voice rising as if avoiding a confrontation. Sam tutted.
"Dean," He ventured quietly. No response. "Dean," he tried again. He watched Dean scratch the back of his head. Well, that was something. A sign of raised consciousness perhaps? A moment later he felt his eyes slide shut. Deans steady breathing lulling him to sleep.
Another shift of position. Erratic breaths. Now he's struggling. Fighting. Defending something, or someone. OK, so the gentle name calling thing had failed – and plan B required a lot more concentration than he actually wanted to expend at this time in the morning, so the next step was to physically wake him. Now, you really had to be on your toes for that one, because you had to be close enough to touch him, but far enough away to avoid the left hook that would sometimes fly out and catch you unawares.
Still, he was on his stomach. It was worth a shot.
Comfortable in his own position, Sam tried one last time. "Dean." A broken sigh, like a quiet sob a child would make in between wails of grief. And then he moved onto his side.
"Stay back!" Louder. With meaning. Oh, this had to stop, Sam told himself. He lifted his head from the pillow and sat up, elbows on his knees. He scrubbed his face and leaned forward to place a hand on Deans upper arm.
"Dean...hey, Dean," A gentle shake. More erratic breathing. A grimace. It was mingling. Bleeding into each other. The dream life and the real life. In his dreams, someone was grabbing his arm, or slicing into his arm. Or breaking it.
"No...Sam watch your...Sam?" Sam hesitated for a beat, watching Dean roll onto his back and force an arm out into the darkness. His palm upturned, beckoning, gentle coaxing. "Sam, come on now..." Pleading again.
Sam swallowed dryly. God, he'd give anything to be a fly on the wall of this dream to see what was going on. It seemed like an age since Dean had spoken to him like that. 'Cos it had all changed when he'd come back. Everything was different. Nothing between them was like it used to be. Like it once had been. Dean's mood had been blacker than the night these past few days. Probably stress. At least he was communicating now. In his dreams. Dreams of his brother.
How many had Sam had when Dean was downstairs? Plenty. And none of them particularly pleasant, he recalled. Whatever this one was, it wasn't a comedy either. He leant forward and pressed a hand onto Dean's chest. Felt the moisture through his T Shirt.
"Dean!" he snapped, determined now. This had to end. End now.
And at last, he was awake. Dean dropped his hand down, and turned to look at his brother. Sam drew back his hand from his chest.
"What?" he croaked.
"Nightmare," Sam returned quietly.
"Oh." Dean answered. He rubbed at his hair and inhaled a cleansing breath.
"What was it?" Sam asked, not actually expecting an answer.
Dean thought for a beat. Revisiting the nightmare. He shook his head. "Nothing. Go back to sleep," he whispered.
Sam swung his legs around and settled back into a comfortable position. He heard the sheets being pulled as Dean moved into his own favourite, sleep inducing shape.
No change there then, Sam told himself. Well, they'd both maybe snag another two hours out of the night, and then perhaps, maybe, Dean would wake up in a lighter mood. Not be avoiding all conversation and contact. Be more like Dean. Whatever it was, he'd snap out of it. He always had in the past, hadn't he? Soon, the rhythmic sound of his brother's breathing signalled a thread of normalcy again.
Sam sighed, and closed his eyes.