And Things Ain't Like What They Used to Be
Title: And Things Ain't Like What They Used to Be
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Sam and the Impala deal with Dean's fever and hell flashbacks.
Written for weesta 's prompt above the noise I hear your voice on silverbullets AND 'Road Trip' for my angst_bingo card. Yes, I have combined the schmoop with the angst, monstly because my brain can't not produce angst at this point and also, because I'm quite obviously insane.
Sometimes Sam thinks Dean's bond with the Impala is the only thing that managed to survive hell and Ruby and everything.
Sam does his best, he does, but Dean is good at stomping down on every single one of his issues until he’s about ready to crash and Sam just can't see it sometimes. But when Sam isn’t fast enough, good enough, strong enough to catch his brother, well then the Impala is there to pick up the slack.
Dean starts rubbing his temples and clenching his jaw in that way that Sam attributes to his brother’s immune system coming back just as fresh and untouched as everything else, but that Dean is adamant would go away if Sam just stopped being a whiney bitch about it.
They are on a road trip. One of those crazy ideas neither of them wants to admit to actually enjoying. Let’s-just-hit-the-road-and-see-where-it-takes-us-and-forget-about-angels-and-destiny-and-maybe-remember-being-brothers-again kinda thing. It’s girly and emo and something they can’t really allow themselves to do, but they are enjoying it. There’s music and M&M’s and quiet banter and it’s almost like they’re back to before Sam died in Cold Oak.
Thing is though, Sam did die and Dean did make a deal and forty years in hell don’t just get lost on a little trip through the Midwest.
Ever since Dean came back from hell, he’s been coming down with fevers. Bad, brutal fevers that leave him shivering and weak as kitten.
They hit hard and without warning. Like a thunderstorm in the middle of a Texas summer.
Sam knows how to read the signs, Dean knows how to tell Sam he’s talking out of his ass. It's a dance they've been dancing their entire lives - I'm fine. No you're not. Leave off, Sammy, I said I'm fine. - but they've only perfected it this past year, when stonewalling each other and lying and hiding basically became second nature.
First the fine lines around Dean's eyes deepen with the first waves of a headache. He starts working his jaw, turns off the music with a pained groan. Next come the annoyed glares in Sam’s general direction whenever he opens his mouth to fill the suddenly tense silence and soon after that his hands are clutching the steering wheel in a tight grip that makes his knuckles stand out like white bruises.
Sam tells him to get off at the next exit so they can get a room and he can go find some Tylenol from the nearest pharmacy (not like it helps all that much, but Sam needs to feel like he is doing something) and Dean shoots him another death glare. The one that says Yes, I went to hell and yes, they broke me in more ways than you can possibly imagine, now shut up about it and stop acting like I’m going shatter at any given moment. Bitch.
Sam knows how this fight goes and pushing Dean when he’s already this far gone is never a good idea. His moods come and go like waves, these days. Like fucking tsunamis and it’s not pretty getting caught up in them.
Sam gives up, intent on letting Dean work out for himself that he won't be up to driving much longer and that’s when the Impala shuts down. Attuned to Dean’s moods like an old, trusted friend. She gives one final stutter, so Dean can steer her onto the gravelly side of the road, then she just stops moving.
They’re taking care of Dean together, Sam and the Impala. If Dean can’t or won’t listen to Sam, then the old girl will just force him to. Because she loves him and doesn’t want him to hurt himself and probably also because she doesn’t like the idea of ending up wrapped around a tree.
“Sonofabitch.”
Dean’s arms spasm around the wheel, like he wants to smack his hands down on it but can’t quite get his tense fingers to unclench first.
He sits there for several long moments, breathing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing with each painful swallow. When he finally pries his hands away from the wheel, one finger at a time, Sam watches his brother’s uncoordinated, sluggish movements as he tries to get out of the car to check on the engine. He opens the door and somehow ends up with his feet still trapped under the dash and his upper body hanging out of the car, palms buried in the hard gravel of the road. He's blinking slowly, tries to figure out how the hell he ended up in this position, clearly comes up empty and turns big, confused eyes on Sam.
Sam gently reaches over and pulls his brother back inside the car. Like a thunderstorm. One minute the sun is shining and birds are chirping and the next the sky comes crashing down on them. Sam can feel the heat radiating off of Dean through several layers of clothing. His shirts cling to his back with sweat, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
Dean weakly swats at his hands, “Lemme go, Sam. I need to check out that engine.”
“No, you don’t,” Sam shakes his head. Dean’s words are already slurring together and Sam knows the final breakdown can’t be far off. He’d rather this happen inside the car, not under her hood. “You need to lie down and rest and we can check out whatever’s wrong with the car once you’re feeling better.”
“’m not…’m not letting you touch my baby.”
“Didn’t say I would,” Sam tries to placate. “But you’re not touching her either. Sleep. You’re burning up.”
Crisp orders tend to work best with Dean when he gets like this. Sam feels kinda bad for manipulating him like that, but it’s not like he has much of a choice.
“Fine, Dad,” Dean gripes. They never call each other Mom when they’re trying to make the point that the other is being overprotective and weird and doting. Though how their experience with John Winchester makes them connect Dad with doting, Sam has no idea. “I’ll sleep this bitch off. Now get the fuck out of my front seat, I wanna lie down.”
Sam can’t quite help sending a glare of his own right back. Knows the bravado and attitude are just there to push him away, but can’t help indulging Dean just a little.
He turns to open the door to make his way into the back seat, when something flashes across Dean’s face. For a second he looks at Sam and the brittle new walls melt right down under the fever.
Dean’s terrified of falling asleep.
It’s not like Sam doesn’t notice. He sees the nightmares and the drinking and the long wistful stares into the distance that scare the crap out of him.
Sam notices.
He knows he is supposed to do something about it, the way Dean used to when the dreams were Sam’s. Hold him and tell him nothing bad’s ever gonna get to him, like an eternity ago when the nightmares were boogie men and bullies and clowns.
Sam knows he should, but they aren’t two little kids anymore, clinging to each other, if only for no other reason than the fact that they didn’t have anybody else. There is too much between them now. Blood and angels and a convent in Maryland and all the other things they don’t talk about.
So Sam pretends he didn’t see and folds himself into the backseat and waits for Dean to drift off.
It starts with the hellhounds. It always does. Even when he’s not dreaming, they’re always looming just beyond the veil. Barking and howling and waiting to sink their teeth into him again and rip him apart just one more time. They’ve grown fond of him over the years. They miss him down there. Still hunting him down, waiting for him to drop his guard so they can drag him back home.
Dean doesn’t lie down. Not really. He props himself against the driver’s side window, arms wrapped around himself (he refused to take one of the emergency blankets Sam offered). Like if he just stays upright he will be able to fend off the bad dreams.
And the bad dreams will come, Sam knows they will. They always do and Dean never manages to stop them, no matter how many knives and bottles his stuffs under his pillow.
It’s hot in hell. Always. That's one of the rules. No matter what the demons throw at you, you can always count on that.
He isn’t hurting yet, not really, nothing beyond the hooks in his shoulders and hips and knees, binding him to the rack and really, those are more grounding than torture anyway.
Sam isn’t sure what comes first, the moaning or the shivering. Like the fever, the nightmares hit at will and without warning.
Usually they don’t get much farther than the shivering and moaning stage. Sam has been watching his brother’s sleeping habits and mostly he manages to startle awake right at this point, already making a mad dash for one of the bottles he keeps himself surrounded by.
But the fever makes it worse. It keeps Dean under, locks him inside his head and makes it impossible to get away from the memories. It reminds Sam of the time Dean dropped acid at Calebs place and Sam had to spend hours talking him down from his fucked up trip before the stuff started to wear off.
Only this is so much worse.
Sometimes it’s cold in hell. Rules don’t matter. Souls can shiver and get frostbite and they can freeze and shatter into a thousand tiny pieces when you drop them on the ground. Dean likes to watch them shatter. It’s pretty how they glisten in the cold heat, reflecting memories of shame and guilt and murder.
The shivering gets worse. So much worse and Sam can’t take it anymore. Dean’s going to wake up. Now.
He leans forwards and gently shoves Dean's shoulder. He isn’t prepared for the violent flinch, but manages to not break the contact anyway.
“Dean,” he says gently - not sick Dean would call him a girl for using that voice. “C’mon man, it’s okay. It’s just a dream. You can wake up.”
Suddenly Dean's hand shoots forward, clamps down on Sam’s fingers, smashing them together in a bruising grip that has Sam cry out in pain, before he returns the firm hold.
Sometimes Alastair comes wearing Sam’s face.
May 2nd, boy. Special occasion, don’t ya think?
And he nods because he has no idea why that date would be important, but he doesn't want Alastair to think he's an idiot.
It’s still worse when it’s his baby brother who’s slicing him up anyway. He never manages to hold back the desperate screams when it’s Sam.
“Sammy, no!”
Dean’s eyes snap open and Sam tries to pull back his hand, thinks he’s hurting his brother, but Dean doesn’t let go of him. Sam hears bone grinding against bone when the grip becomes impossibly tighter.
“Dean, it’s okay,” he tries to soothe, but Dean keeps staring at him with big green, unseeing eyes.
Tears are running down his face and Sam’s hand starts to pulse with pain in time with his brother's erratic gulps of air and Dean is gone in a never ending plea of pleaseSammydon’tI’msorrypleasenomoreIdon’twannapleaseno.
His brother is drowning. Drowning inside his own head, right before Sam’s eyes.
He remembers clowns and Dracula and scary spiders and Dean’s arms around him, holding him close, telling him nothing bad’s ever gonna happen to him.
He knows what to do.
Awkwardly, Sam pulls his frame over the Impala’s backrest. He’d walk around the car, but his hand isn’t leaving Dean’s shoulder. Not now, not ever.
It’s loud in hell. That rule never gets broken. It’s a never ending song of howling and screams and laughter, weaving their own harmonies.
It’s always loud in hell, except when it’s not. When it’s just the sound of your own pained breathing and you don’t know if the waiting is part of the torture or if you’re finally allowed to rest.
Today it’s loud, like always. Screams and cackling laughs and he needs to add his own voice to the symphony. He laughs. Laughs because most of the time laughing is better than screaming, even if you can’t quite tell if you’re on or off the rack.
Sam’s manages to squeeze his body between Dean and the steering wheel. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable position, his long legs still folded, hanging off the bench, wheel digging into his back and his brother’s heavy, shivering, hot body cutting off any and all circulation in his right arm.
“Ssshh, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen, Dean, I’m here, it’s over now…”
Sam loses track of what he’s saying. His hands keep working in small, soothing circles over Dean’s tense, quivering neck and back. The fever rolling off his skin in waves has the windows fogging up and the entire car is rocking with the big uncontrollable shivers and if anyone were to come by this deserted road they'd probably suspect something else entirely was going on.
He doesn’t know when he stopped. No more laughing, no more screaming, no more pain, aside from a far off throbbing. Even the freezing heat is gone.
Everything’s gonna be fine. He just knows it. He can hear it.
It doesn’t fit with the noise around it. Has to fight its way in. It’s off key and doesn’t follow the thousand year old rhythm of hacking and slicing, but it weaves itself around Dean - Dean, that’s his name - and drowns out all the other sounds until it’s all Dean’s ever heard.
It’s okay, Dean. Sammy’s watching over you.
Dean wakes slowly, sandwiched between leather and flannel in a way that should be weird and uncomfortable but somehow isn’t.
Dean’s back is pressed tightly against the backrest of the Impala, his face smushed deep into Sam’s monster of a shirt. A button is digging into his left cheekbone.
He tries to open his eyes but they burn and the skin on his face feels bloated and raw, so he keeps them closed and breathes in his brother’s warm scent.
Sammy, he thinks and wonders why he doesn’t call his brother Sammy anymore the way he used to.
It’s hard getting enough air like this. Sammy’s arms wrapped around him, keeping Dean's face and body locked against Sam’s gigantor chest. It should make him feel claustrophobic and weird but doesn’t really.
Sammy stirs and shifts, so Dean is more or less sprawled on top of him instead of getting crushed between him and the Impala.
“Wha’ happened last night?” Dean rasps. Thinks his voice sounds kinda weird and shot to hell and talking feels way more draining than it’s supposed to.
“Ssshhh,” Sam whispers into Dean’s hair. The spikey tops must be tickling his nose, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Ssshh, it’s okay, now. You can go back to sleep. I’ll be watching over you, okay?”
Dean doesn’t know why, really he doesn’t, last night is a big blur of confusion and ca’tquiteremember and don’twannaremember.
He knows he is supposed to ask for the bottle of Jack he keeps inside the glove compartment before he even thinks about going back to sleep, but somehow it’s okay.
He nestles his face deeper into his big little brother’s chest and smells cold sweat and motel soap and wet puppy and it feels like home.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Sam and the Impala deal with Dean's fever and hell flashbacks.
Written for weesta 's prompt above the noise I hear your voice on silverbullets AND 'Road Trip' for my angst_bingo card. Yes, I have combined the schmoop with the angst, monstly because my brain can't not produce angst at this point and also, because I'm quite obviously insane.
Sometimes Sam thinks Dean's bond with the Impala is the only thing that managed to survive hell and Ruby and everything.
Sam does his best, he does, but Dean is good at stomping down on every single one of his issues until he’s about ready to crash and Sam just can't see it sometimes. But when Sam isn’t fast enough, good enough, strong enough to catch his brother, well then the Impala is there to pick up the slack.
Dean starts rubbing his temples and clenching his jaw in that way that Sam attributes to his brother’s immune system coming back just as fresh and untouched as everything else, but that Dean is adamant would go away if Sam just stopped being a whiney bitch about it.
They are on a road trip. One of those crazy ideas neither of them wants to admit to actually enjoying. Let’s-just-hit-the-road-and-see-where-it-takes-us-and-forget-about-angels-and-destiny-and-maybe-remember-being-brothers-again kinda thing. It’s girly and emo and something they can’t really allow themselves to do, but they are enjoying it. There’s music and M&M’s and quiet banter and it’s almost like they’re back to before Sam died in Cold Oak.
Thing is though, Sam did die and Dean did make a deal and forty years in hell don’t just get lost on a little trip through the Midwest.
Ever since Dean came back from hell, he’s been coming down with fevers. Bad, brutal fevers that leave him shivering and weak as kitten.
They hit hard and without warning. Like a thunderstorm in the middle of a Texas summer.
Sam knows how to read the signs, Dean knows how to tell Sam he’s talking out of his ass. It's a dance they've been dancing their entire lives - I'm fine. No you're not. Leave off, Sammy, I said I'm fine. - but they've only perfected it this past year, when stonewalling each other and lying and hiding basically became second nature.
First the fine lines around Dean's eyes deepen with the first waves of a headache. He starts working his jaw, turns off the music with a pained groan. Next come the annoyed glares in Sam’s general direction whenever he opens his mouth to fill the suddenly tense silence and soon after that his hands are clutching the steering wheel in a tight grip that makes his knuckles stand out like white bruises.
Sam tells him to get off at the next exit so they can get a room and he can go find some Tylenol from the nearest pharmacy (not like it helps all that much, but Sam needs to feel like he is doing something) and Dean shoots him another death glare. The one that says Yes, I went to hell and yes, they broke me in more ways than you can possibly imagine, now shut up about it and stop acting like I’m going shatter at any given moment. Bitch.
Sam knows how this fight goes and pushing Dean when he’s already this far gone is never a good idea. His moods come and go like waves, these days. Like fucking tsunamis and it’s not pretty getting caught up in them.
Sam gives up, intent on letting Dean work out for himself that he won't be up to driving much longer and that’s when the Impala shuts down. Attuned to Dean’s moods like an old, trusted friend. She gives one final stutter, so Dean can steer her onto the gravelly side of the road, then she just stops moving.
They’re taking care of Dean together, Sam and the Impala. If Dean can’t or won’t listen to Sam, then the old girl will just force him to. Because she loves him and doesn’t want him to hurt himself and probably also because she doesn’t like the idea of ending up wrapped around a tree.
“Sonofabitch.”
Dean’s arms spasm around the wheel, like he wants to smack his hands down on it but can’t quite get his tense fingers to unclench first.
He sits there for several long moments, breathing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing with each painful swallow. When he finally pries his hands away from the wheel, one finger at a time, Sam watches his brother’s uncoordinated, sluggish movements as he tries to get out of the car to check on the engine. He opens the door and somehow ends up with his feet still trapped under the dash and his upper body hanging out of the car, palms buried in the hard gravel of the road. He's blinking slowly, tries to figure out how the hell he ended up in this position, clearly comes up empty and turns big, confused eyes on Sam.
Sam gently reaches over and pulls his brother back inside the car. Like a thunderstorm. One minute the sun is shining and birds are chirping and the next the sky comes crashing down on them. Sam can feel the heat radiating off of Dean through several layers of clothing. His shirts cling to his back with sweat, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
Dean weakly swats at his hands, “Lemme go, Sam. I need to check out that engine.”
“No, you don’t,” Sam shakes his head. Dean’s words are already slurring together and Sam knows the final breakdown can’t be far off. He’d rather this happen inside the car, not under her hood. “You need to lie down and rest and we can check out whatever’s wrong with the car once you’re feeling better.”
“’m not…’m not letting you touch my baby.”
“Didn’t say I would,” Sam tries to placate. “But you’re not touching her either. Sleep. You’re burning up.”
Crisp orders tend to work best with Dean when he gets like this. Sam feels kinda bad for manipulating him like that, but it’s not like he has much of a choice.
“Fine, Dad,” Dean gripes. They never call each other Mom when they’re trying to make the point that the other is being overprotective and weird and doting. Though how their experience with John Winchester makes them connect Dad with doting, Sam has no idea. “I’ll sleep this bitch off. Now get the fuck out of my front seat, I wanna lie down.”
Sam can’t quite help sending a glare of his own right back. Knows the bravado and attitude are just there to push him away, but can’t help indulging Dean just a little.
He turns to open the door to make his way into the back seat, when something flashes across Dean’s face. For a second he looks at Sam and the brittle new walls melt right down under the fever.
Dean’s terrified of falling asleep.
It’s not like Sam doesn’t notice. He sees the nightmares and the drinking and the long wistful stares into the distance that scare the crap out of him.
Sam notices.
He knows he is supposed to do something about it, the way Dean used to when the dreams were Sam’s. Hold him and tell him nothing bad’s ever gonna get to him, like an eternity ago when the nightmares were boogie men and bullies and clowns.
Sam knows he should, but they aren’t two little kids anymore, clinging to each other, if only for no other reason than the fact that they didn’t have anybody else. There is too much between them now. Blood and angels and a convent in Maryland and all the other things they don’t talk about.
So Sam pretends he didn’t see and folds himself into the backseat and waits for Dean to drift off.
It starts with the hellhounds. It always does. Even when he’s not dreaming, they’re always looming just beyond the veil. Barking and howling and waiting to sink their teeth into him again and rip him apart just one more time. They’ve grown fond of him over the years. They miss him down there. Still hunting him down, waiting for him to drop his guard so they can drag him back home.
Dean doesn’t lie down. Not really. He props himself against the driver’s side window, arms wrapped around himself (he refused to take one of the emergency blankets Sam offered). Like if he just stays upright he will be able to fend off the bad dreams.
And the bad dreams will come, Sam knows they will. They always do and Dean never manages to stop them, no matter how many knives and bottles his stuffs under his pillow.
It’s hot in hell. Always. That's one of the rules. No matter what the demons throw at you, you can always count on that.
He isn’t hurting yet, not really, nothing beyond the hooks in his shoulders and hips and knees, binding him to the rack and really, those are more grounding than torture anyway.
Sam isn’t sure what comes first, the moaning or the shivering. Like the fever, the nightmares hit at will and without warning.
Usually they don’t get much farther than the shivering and moaning stage. Sam has been watching his brother’s sleeping habits and mostly he manages to startle awake right at this point, already making a mad dash for one of the bottles he keeps himself surrounded by.
But the fever makes it worse. It keeps Dean under, locks him inside his head and makes it impossible to get away from the memories. It reminds Sam of the time Dean dropped acid at Calebs place and Sam had to spend hours talking him down from his fucked up trip before the stuff started to wear off.
Only this is so much worse.
Sometimes it’s cold in hell. Rules don’t matter. Souls can shiver and get frostbite and they can freeze and shatter into a thousand tiny pieces when you drop them on the ground. Dean likes to watch them shatter. It’s pretty how they glisten in the cold heat, reflecting memories of shame and guilt and murder.
The shivering gets worse. So much worse and Sam can’t take it anymore. Dean’s going to wake up. Now.
He leans forwards and gently shoves Dean's shoulder. He isn’t prepared for the violent flinch, but manages to not break the contact anyway.
“Dean,” he says gently - not sick Dean would call him a girl for using that voice. “C’mon man, it’s okay. It’s just a dream. You can wake up.”
Suddenly Dean's hand shoots forward, clamps down on Sam’s fingers, smashing them together in a bruising grip that has Sam cry out in pain, before he returns the firm hold.
Sometimes Alastair comes wearing Sam’s face.
May 2nd, boy. Special occasion, don’t ya think?
And he nods because he has no idea why that date would be important, but he doesn't want Alastair to think he's an idiot.
It’s still worse when it’s his baby brother who’s slicing him up anyway. He never manages to hold back the desperate screams when it’s Sam.
“Sammy, no!”
Dean’s eyes snap open and Sam tries to pull back his hand, thinks he’s hurting his brother, but Dean doesn’t let go of him. Sam hears bone grinding against bone when the grip becomes impossibly tighter.
“Dean, it’s okay,” he tries to soothe, but Dean keeps staring at him with big green, unseeing eyes.
Tears are running down his face and Sam’s hand starts to pulse with pain in time with his brother's erratic gulps of air and Dean is gone in a never ending plea of pleaseSammydon’tI’msorrypleasenomoreIdon’twannapleaseno.
His brother is drowning. Drowning inside his own head, right before Sam’s eyes.
He remembers clowns and Dracula and scary spiders and Dean’s arms around him, holding him close, telling him nothing bad’s ever gonna happen to him.
He knows what to do.
Awkwardly, Sam pulls his frame over the Impala’s backrest. He’d walk around the car, but his hand isn’t leaving Dean’s shoulder. Not now, not ever.
It’s loud in hell. That rule never gets broken. It’s a never ending song of howling and screams and laughter, weaving their own harmonies.
It’s always loud in hell, except when it’s not. When it’s just the sound of your own pained breathing and you don’t know if the waiting is part of the torture or if you’re finally allowed to rest.
Today it’s loud, like always. Screams and cackling laughs and he needs to add his own voice to the symphony. He laughs. Laughs because most of the time laughing is better than screaming, even if you can’t quite tell if you’re on or off the rack.
Sam’s manages to squeeze his body between Dean and the steering wheel. It’s an incredibly uncomfortable position, his long legs still folded, hanging off the bench, wheel digging into his back and his brother’s heavy, shivering, hot body cutting off any and all circulation in his right arm.
“Ssshh, it’s okay,” he murmurs. “Nothing bad’s gonna happen, Dean, I’m here, it’s over now…”
Sam loses track of what he’s saying. His hands keep working in small, soothing circles over Dean’s tense, quivering neck and back. The fever rolling off his skin in waves has the windows fogging up and the entire car is rocking with the big uncontrollable shivers and if anyone were to come by this deserted road they'd probably suspect something else entirely was going on.
He doesn’t know when he stopped. No more laughing, no more screaming, no more pain, aside from a far off throbbing. Even the freezing heat is gone.
Everything’s gonna be fine. He just knows it. He can hear it.
It doesn’t fit with the noise around it. Has to fight its way in. It’s off key and doesn’t follow the thousand year old rhythm of hacking and slicing, but it weaves itself around Dean - Dean, that’s his name - and drowns out all the other sounds until it’s all Dean’s ever heard.
It’s okay, Dean. Sammy’s watching over you.
Dean wakes slowly, sandwiched between leather and flannel in a way that should be weird and uncomfortable but somehow isn’t.
Dean’s back is pressed tightly against the backrest of the Impala, his face smushed deep into Sam’s monster of a shirt. A button is digging into his left cheekbone.
He tries to open his eyes but they burn and the skin on his face feels bloated and raw, so he keeps them closed and breathes in his brother’s warm scent.
Sammy, he thinks and wonders why he doesn’t call his brother Sammy anymore the way he used to.
It’s hard getting enough air like this. Sammy’s arms wrapped around him, keeping Dean's face and body locked against Sam’s gigantor chest. It should make him feel claustrophobic and weird but doesn’t really.
Sammy stirs and shifts, so Dean is more or less sprawled on top of him instead of getting crushed between him and the Impala.
“Wha’ happened last night?” Dean rasps. Thinks his voice sounds kinda weird and shot to hell and talking feels way more draining than it’s supposed to.
“Ssshhh,” Sam whispers into Dean’s hair. The spikey tops must be tickling his nose, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Ssshh, it’s okay, now. You can go back to sleep. I’ll be watching over you, okay?”
Dean doesn’t know why, really he doesn’t, last night is a big blur of confusion and ca’tquiteremember and don’twannaremember.
He knows he is supposed to ask for the bottle of Jack he keeps inside the glove compartment before he even thinks about going back to sleep, but somehow it’s okay.
He nestles his face deeper into his big little brother’s chest and smells cold sweat and motel soap and wet puppy and it feels like home.