Sam’s not sleeping again. It’s the fourth night in a row. Dean is ready to try drastic measures. He’s going to put sleeping medicine in Sam’s beer tonight. Two pills of crushed Sominex thrown into a bottle of Miller and his brother will be out like a light, hopefully eight hours of unconsciousness.
Hopefully eight hours in the bed beside him. He’s not going to say it out loud, but he misses curling into the blankets beside Sam. He misses the warmth of his brother, misses the comforting presence of the Sasquatch arms wrapped around his hips; the hot breath on his shoulders while he sleeps.
He wants his Sammy back. Again.
He smiles to himself when Sammy provides him the perfect opportunity. He hadn’t noticed Dean buying the Sominex at the gas station earlier. And when he jumps into the shower, Dean waits. He pulls a beer out of the cooler they’d brought into the motel room with them and throws it back, drinking deep. The cool rush of alcohol across his tongue is deeply appreciated.
He waits until Sammy is safely locked in the bathroom with the shower running before he pulls two pills out and lays them on a napkin on the counter. It’s quick work to crush the pills beneath a sheet of paper and the hilt of his machete. The pills crumble beneath hilt like they were made to do so and he opens the beer just as the water in the shower cuts off. He shuffles the pill dust into the beer and swirls them, shakes the two together and leaves it to settle before he gives it to Sam. He cracks his own beer open and takes a deep sip of it. If it works, Sammy will sleep tonight.
Unfortunately, Sammy seems determined to put the brakes on and is resolved to not sleep. He looks exhausted. He looks like he hasn’t slept in ages, and Dean knows that he hasn’t. It sucks, and Dean wants to take care of his little brother. But he can’t do anything if Sammy’s body won’t cooperate with him.
The Sominex-spiked beer doesn’t work. And Dean spends the night in bed, with Sammy curled against his side, his shaggy head buried in Dean’s lap. The long hours of the night are spent with his hand carding through Sammy’s soft hair.
Dean’s next effort is sex. Because sex has always worn his brother out. Before he left for Stanford, after he came back in those first few desperate months when he struggled with sleeping, a good round of sex was all it took to have Sammy out like a light for at least a good four hours. Especially if his brother was the one being fucked.
Dean smirks to himself as he works his dick slowly. Careful movements that get him just this side of too hard but not close enough to have him coming apart at a grazing touch from Sammy. He towels himself off just enough that Sammy won’t bitch at him for leaving puddles of water around and strides out into the main hotel room in his gloriously nude form.
Sammy looks up at him from the computer briefly before he hunches lower and moves his hands quickly. And before Dean can think of anything about how rude Sam is for not noticing how fucking hot Dean is, large hands have pulled him against the firm body of his little brother.
Lips crash into his and they’re moving together faster than Dean had thought. He manages to strip Sammy down quickly and then he’s on his knees, fingers lubed generously as he sucks Sammy down to the root. He groans and his body arches and almost before he’s even got him worked open enough for two fingers, Sammy’s got fingers buried in the short strands of his hair and is shooting down his throat.
“Fuck, Dean,” Sammy groans as he rides the slow descent from a quick orgasm.
“Th’fuck?” Dean grouses, his voice doesn’t even have the hint of raspy that a good cock-sucking usually gives him.
“You’re too good,” Sammy shrugs sheepishly. But he does pull Dean up to his feet and while their tongues fuck into each other’s mouths, Sammy pulls his brother off quick and dirty, just the way they like it.
Sammy still doesn’t sleep that night. He lays in bed, sleepy and sated and curled into Dean like he usually does and is just awake. Dean cards his fingers through Sammy’s shaggy hair before he’s pulled under unwillingly for a couple hours of sleep.
Dean’s desperate. They’re on vacation. Sam can’t hunt, he can barely focus enough on the computer screen to put clues together, even when they’re glaringly obvious and highlighted in neon. Dean ends all commitments they had, transfers the hunt in Alabama to another pair of hunters and takes Sammy to the middle of the heartland.
Wyoming. It’s big and it’s empty and the little cabin they’re renting in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere is perfect. They’re absolutely alone. So when Dean fucks his brother into incoherency on the hood of his baby, nobody notices. When Sam returns the favor later in the grass in front of the cabin after hours of sparring, nobody’s the wiser.
But Sam still doesn’t sleep. He’s managed to snag a few hours in the backseat of the Impala, but it’s been six weeks and Sammy’s not getting more than maybe five hours a week. Far, far less than what he needs to exist helpfully. He’s at the end of his rope. He has one more trick, it’s an old one, but one Dean can only hope like hell works.
Sammy hasn’t needed this in a long time, not since before he left for Stanford.
After Sammy finally gets out of the shower (having been distracted for a good long time by Dean’s amazing oral talents), Dean forced him into the bed, naked and unashamed. He crawls into bed beside his brother and wraps his arms around Sam. They find that comfortable position that always feels just this side of perfect and Dean cards his fingers into Sammy’s hair again.
When Sammy’s as relaxed as he’s going to get until sleep claims him, Dean starts up the soft tenebrous chorus of a song that he used to sing to Sammy when he wouldn’t sleep in hotel rooms. ”I’ll be there for you. These five words I swear to you, when you breathe, I want to be the air for you: I’ll be there for you. Sammy, I’d live and die for you. Steal the sun from the sky for you. Words can say what love can do: I’ll be there for you.” He repeats it, over and over.
When Sammy was just turning six, it had been his favorite song ever. Dean had learned it word for word so that when Sammy was scared, he’d be able to give him a lullaby. He’d thought when he was a worldly ten, that he’d never be able to share Hey Jude with Sammy, not like mom had. And he’d found something else that had worked just as well, if not better.
Dean doesn’t stop singing until he feels the shuddering of Sammy’s shoulders before he drops off finally. And while he lays awake the long hours of the night, counting off each hour Sammy gets, he thinks it’s worth it.
Tomorrow night, Dean’s going to fuck Sammy’s brains out, hold him, and sing him off to sleep.
Bon Jovi’s “I’ll Be There For You” released in 1988, hit popularity in 1989. And Hell, Bon Jovi rocks, on occasion.
This was very sweet. Fuck, Dean is a great brother. And yes, Bon Jovi has his moments. :) This song is perfect for them anyway. I can hear Dean singing this with absolute honesty, like he 1000% believes he could steal the sun for his brother if Sammy needed it. Great work!
Thank you for reading! i wanted Sam to suffer, but i wanted him to be comforted with awesome big brother!Dean. i'm so glad that it worked out! And Dean would totally steal the sun if he could get away with it.
Sam’s not sleeping again. It’s the fourth night in a row. Dean is ready to try drastic measures. He’s going to put sleeping medicine in Sam’s beer tonight. Two pills of crushed Sominex thrown into a bottle of Miller and his brother will be out like a light, hopefully eight hours of unconsciousness.
Hopefully eight hours in the bed beside him. He’s not going to say it out loud, but he misses curling into the blankets beside Sam. He misses the warmth of his brother, misses the comforting presence of the Sasquatch arms wrapped around his hips; the hot breath on his shoulders while he sleeps.
He wants his Sammy back. Again.
He smiles to himself when Sammy provides him the perfect opportunity. He hadn’t noticed Dean buying the Sominex at the gas station earlier. And when he jumps into the shower, Dean waits. He pulls a beer out of the cooler they’d brought into the motel room with them and throws it back, drinking deep. The cool rush of alcohol across his tongue is deeply appreciated.
He waits until Sammy is safely locked in the bathroom with the shower running before he pulls two pills out and lays them on a napkin on the counter. It’s quick work to crush the pills beneath a sheet of paper and the hilt of his machete. The pills crumble beneath hilt like they were made to do so and he opens the beer just as the water in the shower cuts off. He shuffles the pill dust into the beer and swirls them, shakes the two together and leaves it to settle before he gives it to Sam. He cracks his own beer open and takes a deep sip of it. If it works, Sammy will sleep tonight.
Unfortunately, Sammy seems determined to put the brakes on and is resolved to not sleep. He looks exhausted. He looks like he hasn’t slept in ages, and Dean knows that he hasn’t. It sucks, and Dean wants to take care of his little brother. But he can’t do anything if Sammy’s body won’t cooperate with him.
The Sominex-spiked beer doesn’t work. And Dean spends the night in bed, with Sammy curled against his side, his shaggy head buried in Dean’s lap. The long hours of the night are spent with his hand carding through Sammy’s soft hair.
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Dean’s next effort is sex. Because sex has always worn his brother out. Before he left for Stanford, after he came back in those first few desperate months when he struggled with sleeping, a good round of sex was all it took to have Sammy out like a light for at least a good four hours. Especially if his brother was the one being fucked.
Dean smirks to himself as he works his dick slowly. Careful movements that get him just this side of too hard but not close enough to have him coming apart at a grazing touch from Sammy. He towels himself off just enough that Sammy won’t bitch at him for leaving puddles of water around and strides out into the main hotel room in his gloriously nude form.
Sammy looks up at him from the computer briefly before he hunches lower and moves his hands quickly. And before Dean can think of anything about how rude Sam is for not noticing how fucking hot Dean is, large hands have pulled him against the firm body of his little brother.
Lips crash into his and they’re moving together faster than Dean had thought. He manages to strip Sammy down quickly and then he’s on his knees, fingers lubed generously as he sucks Sammy down to the root. He groans and his body arches and almost before he’s even got him worked open enough for two fingers, Sammy’s got fingers buried in the short strands of his hair and is shooting down his throat.
“Fuck, Dean,” Sammy groans as he rides the slow descent from a quick orgasm.
“Th’fuck?” Dean grouses, his voice doesn’t even have the hint of raspy that a good cock-sucking usually gives him.
“You’re too good,” Sammy shrugs sheepishly. But he does pull Dean up to his feet and while their tongues fuck into each other’s mouths, Sammy pulls his brother off quick and dirty, just the way they like it.
Sammy still doesn’t sleep that night. He lays in bed, sleepy and sated and curled into Dean like he usually does and is just awake. Dean cards his fingers through Sammy’s shaggy hair before he’s pulled under unwillingly for a couple hours of sleep.
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Dean’s desperate. They’re on vacation. Sam can’t hunt, he can barely focus enough on the computer screen to put clues together, even when they’re glaringly obvious and highlighted in neon. Dean ends all commitments they had, transfers the hunt in Alabama to another pair of hunters and takes Sammy to the middle of the heartland.
Wyoming. It’s big and it’s empty and the little cabin they’re renting in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere is perfect. They’re absolutely alone. So when Dean fucks his brother into incoherency on the hood of his baby, nobody notices. When Sam returns the favor later in the grass in front of the cabin after hours of sparring, nobody’s the wiser.
But Sam still doesn’t sleep. He’s managed to snag a few hours in the backseat of the Impala, but it’s been six weeks and Sammy’s not getting more than maybe five hours a week. Far, far less than what he needs to exist helpfully. He’s at the end of his rope. He has one more trick, it’s an old one, but one Dean can only hope like hell works.
Sammy hasn’t needed this in a long time, not since before he left for Stanford.
After Sammy finally gets out of the shower (having been distracted for a good long time by Dean’s amazing oral talents), Dean forced him into the bed, naked and unashamed. He crawls into bed beside his brother and wraps his arms around Sam. They find that comfortable position that always feels just this side of perfect and Dean cards his fingers into Sammy’s hair again.
When Sammy’s as relaxed as he’s going to get until sleep claims him, Dean starts up the soft tenebrous chorus of a song that he used to sing to Sammy when he wouldn’t sleep in hotel rooms. ”I’ll be there for you. These five words I swear to you, when you breathe, I want to be the air for you: I’ll be there for you. Sammy, I’d live and die for you. Steal the sun from the sky for you. Words can say what love can do: I’ll be there for you.” He repeats it, over and over.
When Sammy was just turning six, it had been his favorite song ever. Dean had learned it word for word so that when Sammy was scared, he’d be able to give him a lullaby. He’d thought when he was a worldly ten, that he’d never be able to share Hey Jude with Sammy, not like mom had. And he’d found something else that had worked just as well, if not better.
Dean doesn’t stop singing until he feels the shuddering of Sammy’s shoulders before he drops off finally. And while he lays awake the long hours of the night, counting off each hour Sammy gets, he thinks it’s worth it.
Tomorrow night, Dean’s going to fuck Sammy’s brains out, hold him, and sing him off to sleep.
Bon Jovi’s “I’ll Be There For You” released in 1988, hit popularity in 1989. And Hell, Bon Jovi rocks, on occasion.
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Thank you!
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