How the Winchesters got their groove back: the commentfic meme you totally knew you wanted
BECAUSE SAM AND DEAN STILL LOVE EACH OTHER (OR ARE INTELLECTUALLY FOND OF EACH OTHER, SAM WINCHESTER I’M LOOKIN AT YOU) AND I STILL LOVE THEM.
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“I’m waking him up,” Dean declares, draining the last of the beer he hasn’t been enjoying. “Or trying to, anyway.”
Bobby looks up from his leather-bound book. “And then what?” he asks. “We can’t keep him awake forever.”
Another bloodcurdling scream echoes down the staircase from Bobby’s guest room. Dean shudders and pinches the skin between his eyes, as if trying to banish a migraine. “I need another drink.”
There’s a slight fluttering sound before Castiel walks into the kitchen from the front hall. He has a six-pack of Dean’s favourite in his hand, which he holds out like a peace offering. Dean takes it, but he looks wary.
“Does this mean you haven’t found anything?”
“No,” Castiel says, “I haven’t. I’m sorry, Dean.” He does look sorry, so Dean forgives him, cracking open a beer on the side of Bobby’s kitchen table. He holds it out to Castiel, who shakes his head but takes a seat at the table, across from Bobby.
There’s another scream from upstairs, followed by a crashing noise. Sam has probably knocked over the lamp, or pushed the glass of water they leave for him off the bedside table. Dean pushes his chair back.
“No,” Bobby says, “I’ll deal with it this time.”
***
Bobby manages to wake him up. Sam drinks an entire mug of soup before his eyelids start to droop again. Dean, who had been enjoying watching his brother’s face while he ate, braces himself for another eight hours of pain.
“Wait,” Bobby says, “Drink this.” He hands Sam a bottle of whiskey, half-full.
Sam takes it, and obediently pours himself a drink.
“No,” Bobby says. “Drink all of it. Maybe you won’t dream if you’re passed out drunk.”
An hour and a half later, over the sound of Sam’s sobs, Bobby admits defeat. “Well,” he says, “it was worth a shot.”
***
It’s Castiel’s turn next. He sits next to an anxious and sleepy Sam on Bobby’s narrow guest bed. Sam swallows, and it’s audible even to Dean, standing in the doorway. Dean loves watching emotions skitter across Sam’s face, though he knows he shouldn’t enjoy Sam’s discomfort. Still, it’s adorable that angels still make Sam nervous.
Cas purses his lips in concentration, then raises one arm and touches Sam lightly on the forehead with two fingers. Sam collapses backward, limp as a rag doll. Dean takes a step forward, alarmed, but relaxes once he can see the rise and fall of Sam’s chest.
“Well?” Dean asks, “do you think -"
He’s cut off by Sam’s whimper. Sam’s lips part, his breathing speeds up and his eyelashes flutter impossibly quickly. He grips the bedsheets in fists so tight his knuckles go white.
Castiel gets up from the bed, straightening his trenchcoat. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s not your fault,” Dean says, because it’s true and it’s the right thing to say, but all he wants to do is scream.
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“You should put me in the panic room,” Sam says, in one of his rare waking moments.
Dean, standing by this bedside, nearly drops the mug of tea he’s holding. “What?”
“At least you won’t be able to hear me down there,” Sam says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean says, though his shaking hands and the dark circles under his eyes give away just how little sleep he’s been getting.
“Dean,” Sam says, and his small is fond. “There’s no sense us both suffering.”
“I can’t,” Dean insists, “I just can’t have you so far away again. Not now that you’re back.”
“Okay,” Sam says, words already slurred with exhaustion. “You’re so stubborn.”
“That’s me,” Dan agrees, but Sam is already asleep, biting his lip so hard Dean worries it might bleed.
Dean knows he should go downstairs and see if Bobby has another book for him, or try to catch a few minutes of sleep himself. Instead, he puts down Sam’s untouched tea, and sits at the edge of the bed.
Sam gasps every few moments, and kicks his legs feebly, like he’s running from something -Hellhounds, maybe. Dean remembers Hell, and it’s not hard to imagine what might be haunting Sam’s dreams.
Dean’s tired. He lies down carefully next to Sam on the bed, resting his head on the single pillow, next to Sam’s. Sam cries out, right into Dean’s ear, and Dean briefly goes deaf.
Dean reaches across Sam’s shaking shoulders and strokes the back of Sam’s neck, under hair that has gotten far too long. Sam shivers and shuffles closer to Dean, burying his face in Dean’s throat. The room is perfectly silent and Dean discovers he’s been holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable scream.
The scream doesn’t come, and Dean exhales carefully, unwilling to move or make noise for fear of triggering something in Sam. But Dean can feel Sam’s heartbeat -slowing- and the rise and fall of his chest - steady.
“Dean,” Sam mumbles, hands resting limply on his brother’s chest. His voice is soft and familiar and warm.
“Sam,” Dean answers, though he knows his brother can’t hear him, and then he finally lets himself go to sleep.
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This is exactly the kind of angst I've been looking for. Lovely.
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“I can’t,” Dean insists, “I just can’t have you so far away again. Not now that you’re back.”
*sniffles* and loves it more.
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♥♥♥
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