Nights at a motel were rarely quiet, in Sam's expert experience, but this particular night was especially loud.
For the last five minutes, the rustling of sheets had broken through the normal silence. This motel was deep in the countryside, far from the bustle of a normal town. The only sounds to be heard outside the room were the calm chirp of crickets in the distance, and the occasional bird passing by the window.
None of that had been what woke Sam, however. He was far more concerned with what seemed to be Dean struggling in his own bed, above and to the side of Sam's own place under the nightstand. Losing a fight with the covers, from what Sam could hear. Normally, the most he heard from Dean's side of the room was the occasional snore or a bit of tossing and turning right after laying down. Never at 3am in the morning.
Concerned, Sam dragged himself out of his bed and grabbed his satchel. His supplies were ready to go at any time, always left in an easy-to-reach spot nearby. Dean wasn't the only person who aimed to be prepared for anything, and Sam prided himself on not being caught off-guard now that he'd joined up with his brother to become a hunter.
In the time it took Sam to scale up the side of the motel bed, the sounds from above had quieted down, the sheets settling from the movement above. Sam continued on his quest, determined to check up on Dean and make sure his older brother was actually okay.
One thing that ran in the family was that all the Winchesters tended to be on the side of slightly overprotective.
Going straight up the bedcover was a more difficult trip than using the bottom of the comforter that was bunched up at the end of the bed, but it was also much faster. The tension Sam felt drove him onwards, and he saw no reason to take the scenic route when it might mean he get to the top of the bed too late to help Dean. He wasn't sure what he could possibly do to help, since his older brother was basically the size of a giant from fairy tales compared to him, but Sam knew he never wanted to let Dean down, either.
Hauling himself over the last few inches, Sam rolled onto the linen sheets. Cheap and coarse, he was glad he didn't have to sleep on either of the queen sized beds in the frumpy motel room. Compared to some of Dean's stories, this room was actually an upgrade from what Dean had previously gone through. There had been one time where the hunter checked into a motel room that hadn't been cleaned well, and the last transient that stayed had an entire pack of cats. With none of the sheets properly washed, Dean had been triggered into a constant allergy attack until he was able to get the room changed and dunk himself into a long shower. The descriptions of Dean's condition afterwards continued to make Sam grimace to this day. He didn't have the same allergy, which sounded like a misery to deal with.
Another thought that he rarely touched on, he wasn't entirely certain that allergens would affect him normally at this height. It was food for thought, with no way to prove it in either direction without having an allergy to test, and a willingness to try without an epi pen nearby.
Once up on the bed, Sam stood in place, making sure his footing was secure. There was no point in risking going head over heels because he tripped over a rogue thread. Once he was steady, Sam looked over at where Dean slept.
The older hunter had the covers up as far as they could go, just barely sliding from his shoulders and unable to reach all the way. Only one arm was visible, wrapped around a pillow. Dean's face looked peaceful. The usual furrowed brow was relaxed, probably the only time that Sam had ever seen him look so calm. Most days Dean had the air of someone tightly wound up, ready to jump into action at the drop of a pin.
Sam smiled softly at that. His older brother was a natural at his job, but even Dean needed a good rest. Days were long and nights were busy for a hunter, leaving little time for shut eye. Sam was only just adjusting to it, but Dean had a lot more practice.
Dean had his face half-buried into the pillow he was holding. The only sign of the nightmare from earlier was the death-grip Dean's hand had on the pillow, clutching it close. His knuckles were turning white from the strength he clung to it with. The pillows here had never been particularly fluffy, but this one was definitely going to be flatter in the morning from the looks of it.
Taking a few steps forward, Sam put a hand on Dean's knuckle. Not enough to wake him, but Sam felt the need to comfort him. It struck him how strange Dean's skin felt to him this time. While usually Dean's hands felt rough and coarse in comparison to Sam's own, this time the way Dean was clenching his fingers left the skin stretched out as far as it could go as a result. It was an oddly smooth surface, and very warm next to Sam's cold hands.
"You don't have to go it alone anymore," Sam said softly. He didn't want to wake Dean up if he was getting actual sleep, but felt the need to vocalize what was on his mind. "I'm here for you."
Several long minutes passed as Sam watched over Dean. Pressed against the pillow as it was, Dean's face relaxed by hairs while he waited. Once he was sure Dean was relaxed and calm, Sam stepped back with one last pat on the skin stretched over that knuckle. He made his way to the side of the bed, again slipping over the edge to climb down. It had been a short trip, but Sam was glad he'd come.
Any time Dean needed him, he'd be ready.
When Dean was certain that Sam was gone, he opened his eyes, slowly adjusting to the dim night.
The nightmare had woken him up with a gasp. Every night was the same, but it didn't usually drag him awake, and he'd been sure he was hiding them from Sam. Until now, apparently, as Sam had climbed onto the bed not long after he woke up, which must mean Sam had heard it long before Dean actually woke up.
Dean didn't want to dump his issues on Sam at all, but especially not now, while they were still adjusting to each other in small steps at a time. He already felt like he absolutely loomed over his brother no matter how he tried, and it was impossible to make that any better.
Any time he considered talking to Sam about it, or opening up about his insecurities, he was buried under a landslide of guilt. What right did he have to lay that all on Sam? Sam had enough problems of his own to deal with. He'd been abandoned by his family for years before they even knew about it, and they still hadn't been able to contact John Winchester to let him know they hadn't lost Sam forever.
The dreams were worse those days, fueled by Dean's fears of letting Sam down. Sometimes he'd be himself, seeing a constant litany of stuff that could go wrong. It would just take a second for Sam to be ripped from him again, and this time, he could be the one who caused it. Like a movie on repeat, each night Dean fell asleep to a constant stream of worst-case scenarios. Not spotting Sam in time when he was walking. Not spotting Sam on a seat. Leaving the door unlocked for just a few minutes, and coming back to an empty motel room and no way to track down the four inch tall man.
They only got worse the longer he was up each night, and leaked into his dreams on a regular basis. Sam, trapped in the walls out of Dean's reach on a glue trap he couldn't escape. A mousetrap Sam hadn't spotted. Poison left out by pest control that was impossible to see. Attacked by an animal, a raccoon or cat, or a rat in the walls. Animals that were too big to be able to properly fight back against at that height.
Sam, holding a broken arm. Sam, limping away. Sam, motionless on the floor.
A cry of pain that haunted Dean's sleep.
Those images plagued Dean. They were relentless, neverending. He could mostly fight them back during the day, but once the lights were off and the time grew late, they would rise back up and demand his sole attention in the dark.
The second set of images, if anything, were even worse.
These ones didn't strike until he was deep asleep, where the intrusive thoughts from earlier morphed into something more sinister. The perspectives would flip, and Dean would be in Sam's place, living through the worst of his imaginings.
Dark, looming forms. Shadows that stretched far over his head, threatening distances as tall as a football stadium. Counters so tall that Dean couldn't see what was on top of them.
Then, they got worse. A glass tipped off the counter, crushing him before he could react. Another one, only landing bare inches to the side and sending all the huge cubes of ice and water around him, quickly growing too deep to stand in. A landslide of clothes, tipping from a washer that just appeared in the way. Such small, normal actions that became deadly on this scale. Smaller than a hotdog. Lighter than a regular loaf of bread.
Dean twitched in his sleep when a fast-moving shadow lunged in his direction, growing blacker as it grew closer.
That was what hit him right before waking that night, dragging him out of sleep when a boot bigger than the Impala landed on him.
Continuing to listen, Dean continued to hear small shifts of fabric as Sam reached the end of the covers, his ears attuned to that direction in time to hear the small tap when Sam landed on the floor. Just the knowledge that Sam was there and okay was enough to loosen up the grip he had on the pillow and let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
A ghost sensation on his knuckle remained from where Sam had tried to comfort Dean. He brushed a thumb over it, hanging on to the memory. He could still feel Sam's hand there, and hear the quiet voice speak.
I'm here for you.
Not much could calm Dean down so well as those words would, said by Sam. The sentiment was more appreciated than Sam could imagine, and helped settle a tension that had grown in Dean's chest, congealing into a hard lump of pain that almost felt real. Like a foot, sitting on the center of his chest and holding him down with a weight heavier than anything in his imaginings.
Dean needed to find a way to get these fears under control. He needed to get to the point where they didn't stop him from getting a good night's rest on the rare days when he could actually take some time to sleep.
Only then could he do right by Sam, making up for the failure over ten years back of losing him.
Thanks, Sammy.
Dean was able to drift off, and this time his dreams were calm and restful, with the ghost impression of a hand on his shoulder from childhood. Sam watching over him as much as he watched over Sam.