Chapter Text
It started with the nightmares. In the middle of the night. In another shitty motel just like all the others. Dean would wake to the sound of Sam shifting and muttering. Then whimpering and gasping. He sounded scared. In pain. Each time, Dean would clamber out of his bed, cross the narrow divide between the queen beds to Sam’s, and catch him just as he jerked awake from whatever was torturing him. Sam would sit up, gasping and sweaty, trembling and afraid. And Dean would rub his back, just like he did when Sam was little.
“It’s okay, Sammy. You’re okay. You’re okay.” Just like he used to when the kid was five years old and worried about the monsters under his bed.
Sammy never wanted to talk about it afterward. It was always, “I’m fine, Dean,” in that annoying, stubborn way he had of brushing Dean’s concerns aside.
Dean may not have been the most emotionally intelligent being on the planet, but he was a veritable expert on one subject. And that subject was Sam. No matter how much the kid might protest, he was not fine. He’d just lost his girlfriend, Jess. He’d been thrown back into the life of hunting, searching for their inscrutable father who clearly did not want to be found. His one shot at a normal, apple-pie life had been ripped out from under him in a single night. Of course he wasn’t fine.
He wasn’t fine, and thanks to these damned nightmares, he wasn’t sleeping. Sam tried to play it off like it was nothing, but Dean saw the dark circles under his eyes. Noticed the surreptitious yawns when he thought Dean wasn’t looking.
It was Dean’s job to look out for Sam. Had been his job since he was four years old and his dad had placed Sammy in his arms and sent him out of a burning house while their mother went up in flames.
But it was getting kind of hard for Dean to do his damn job, because Sam was being difficult.
And also, Dean was getting a little tired of being woken up, in the middle of the night, to the sound of Sammy’s screams.
So after several weeks of this, when Dean rose to consciousness to the sound of Sam twisting in his sheets and muttering in distress, Dean decided to do something about it. He just wanted both of them to get some goddamned sleep.
Eyes barely open, Dean stumbled out of his bed and lifted the comforter to slide in beside Sam. His brother was flailing about in the sheets, growing more and more agitated as the nightmare progressed. Dean was having none of that. He grabbed his brother and pulled him close. Sam startled awake at the contact, and for a second, Dean thought his brother was going to fight him.
“Shhh. Easy,” Dean whispered, pulling Sam against his chest. “It’s just me, Sammy. Relax.”
The tension went out of Sam instantly. He was still breathing heavily, like someone out of breath from running for their life, but at least he wasn’t resisting anymore. Dean curled himself around the taller man, running his hands up and down Sammy’s arms — anything to get him to calm down.
“I got you, Sammy. I got you. It’s okay,” Dean murmured, as he curled close around his brother.
Sam never said a word, but gradually, his breathing slowed and his muscles unclenched. Dean lost track of how long he lay there whispering soft, meaningless comforts into Sam’s ear, his chin tucked against his little brother’s neck and his hands still moving slowly up and down Sam’s arms. Eventually, Sam turned in the circle of Dean’s arms and buried his face in his brother’s chest, his hands coming up to curl into the fabric of Dean’s t-shirt.
In the harsh light of day, Dean might have been tempted to tease him for acting like a scared little girl. But just now, all Dean wanted was to pull his brother as close as possible. He smoothed one hand down Sam’s broad back while the other combed through Sam’s thick, too-long hair, keeping his face pressed to Dean’s chest.
Several more minutes ticked by before Dean felt the soft, regular huff of his brother snoring against him. Dean let out a sigh of deep contentment and shifted further under the covers. He felt truly at ease for the first time in weeks, maybe for the first time since Sam had left for Stanford.
Now he could finally sleep.
Of course, waking up cuddled up with your brother was bound to be awkward. There was no getting around it.
Dean woke the next morning feeling warm and safe. And damp. There was a distinct patch of damp on his chest. And a weight that maybe shouldn’t have been there. The lemony scent of Sam’s shampoo was all up his nose. Dean risked cracking his eyes open to look down. It was still early. Dawn light barely peeked through the cheap, heavy curtains of the motel, illuminating the room in shades of gray. But Dean could still see quite clearly, because he was literally right under Dean’s nose, his little brother Sammy, passed out with his head pillowed on Dean’s chest. And was that drool? Yes. Drool. Sam had drooled all over him. A darker gray patch of t-shirt marked the spot, under Sam’s mouth, where his saliva had pooled.
“Ewww!” Dean groaned, shifting a little. Trying to get Sasquatch off him. “Dude. Wake up. That’s so gross.”
“Wha-?” Sam started awake, bleary-eyed and confused. “What’s the matter?” he mumbled.
Dean struggled not to crack a smile at Sam’s sleepy, befuddled expression. No other word for it but “adorable.”
“You’re drooling,” Dean said calmly. “On me.”
Sam looked down at the dark stain on Dean’s shirt. “Oh, shit.” He looked back up at Dean. “Um...”
Dean was already shimmying out from under him to get up. No need to let this get any weirder than it already was.
“Dibs on the first shower,” Dean threw over his shoulder, leaving his brother looking nervous and a little lost on the bed.
They were not going to make a big deal out of this.
In classic Winchester fashion, they didn’t talk about it. Sam looked like he wanted to. Dean caught him opening his mouth to broach the topic more than once over breakfast and then again as they got back on the road. Each time, Dean just gave him a look, and Sam closed his mouth, settling back into a frustrated silence.
There was no use talking about it. It wasn’t even that big a deal. When Sam was little, Dean used to comfort him the exact same way. Yes, the situation was slightly less normal with two grown men, but Sammy’s nightmares were an extenuating circumstance as far as Dean was concerned. Worth bending his “no cuddling” rule for. That didn’t mean they had to dissect the situation, which Dean was sure Sam was dying to do.
Eventually, the search for the next hunt took over, and the one night they happened to share a bed faded into the background.
That was, until a few nights later, when Dean was once again woken by distressed sounds coming from Sam’s bed. Dean let out a sigh. Here we go again.
At first, Dean was determined to ignore it. Let Sam sort it out for himself for once. But when the sounds escalated to painful whimpers, he couldn’t take it anymore. He physically could not stand hearing Sammy in pain and not do something about it. It just wasn’t how Dean was made.
And so, again, Dean found himself climbing out of his bed in the middle of the night, crossing the short distance to his brother’s bed, and sliding under the covers.
Even unconscious, Sam seemed to notice the moment Dean’s body was next to his. Eyes still closed, Sam rolled over to face him and promptly wrapped an arm around Dean’s waist, pulling him close like a little kid clutching their security blanket. Dean didn’t try to stop him. His own arms came around his brother, holding him tight. He pressed his cheek against the top of Sammy’s head. Something deep inside Dean settled, having Sam in his arms, as safe as he could possibly be.
Dean let his eyes slide closed. Sammy squirmed for a moment, nuzzling into Dean’s chest and tangling his legs with Dean’s under the comforter. In that moment, Dean didn’t care what this looked like. It felt too good having his brother in his arms like this. Close and safe and his.
Sleep claimed them both shortly after.