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XX.
Sam is staring at the ceiling. Not that he can really see it – the darkness is only relieved by a vague blur of light near the window from the lights in the parking lot. And that blur is mostly blue. Why do they always end up in crapholes like this?
He groans silently and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He can hear Dean’s slow, steady breathing and wishes, for the thousandth time, for his brother’s lack of concern, his ability to switch his brain off.
And that’s not a fair thought: he knows how much Dean chews himself out over each hunt gone bad, each civilian caught in the crossfire, each bystander they were too late to save. But Dean’s never been as good at worrying about himself. If twenty-some-odd years of life with Dean have taught Sam anything, it’s that his brother never stops to count the cost first. If there’s something wrong, he hurls himself into it, head-fucking-first.
Sam tries to will himself to sleep.
Counting sheep has long since gone out the window – ever since he was fifteen and saw his first zombie, the sheep have a nasty tendency to go Night of the Living Dead on him and try to bite. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like the zombie was a sheep – it was the football coach of the high school he was trying his best to attend like your normal fifteen-year-old. Dean shooting the coach in the head short-circuited that attempt at normality.
Yeah, and if he hadn’t, the guy’d’ve been chewing on my leg and I’d be a goner, too. Shut the fuck up, Sam, he counsels himself in irritation, pressing his hands over his eyes to try and force them to stay closed.
But how come the shit keeps showering down on the Winchester family, anyway? How is that fair? Haven’t they gone through enough – hell, surely having Mom burned to death by a fucking demon alone was more than enough for any one family!
And if Sam ever, ever finds himself in the same room with another of Alastair’s little cadre, then Cas is going to have to move damned fast to beat him to the punch.
The minutes tick by like they know they’re making him wait for the morning and he eventually just fixes his eyes on the dull red glow of the cheap alarm clock and waits. As if to add a further dose of irritation, the clock is old and on the verge of dying and it gives out a faint but consistent high-pitched whine that drills into his ears like a mosquito.
Sometime around one in the morning he slips into an uncomfortable doze, but jerks awake again, sure there’s something in the room with them. He tenses, slides a hand under the pillow for his gun – then stops.
The sound is from the other bed, a half-stifled mutter, a sharp exhalation. Then another murmur, something louder that is almost words Sam can understand.
Dean has never talked in his sleep.
Sam rubs at his eyes and blinks into the dimness. The light outside must be getting brighter, towards dawn, because he can see Dean as a dim bulk in his bed, curled on his side towards Sam, one hand tucked under his pillow.
Dean jerks, a full-body spasm like someone shot a burst of current through him, and whimpers, his free hand moving as if to protect his head.
Jesus... Sam moves to get up, the sheet tangling around his legs.
‘It is all right, Sam.’ Castiel’s voice is soft, a bare murmur of sound, and he steps out of the shadow at the far side of the room.
Sam stares at him for a minute, one hand still fumbling with the edge of the scratchy blanket. ‘What...how...what?’
‘It is all right. Go back to sleep.’ Castiel kneels on the edge of Dean’s bed then, with a slightly awkward motion, sits crosslegged behind Dean, his hands on Dean’s arm.
‘But...’
‘He will be all right. You need sleep. I cannot be here all the time.’ Castiel looks down at Dean, one hand caressing the younger man’s bare arm. ‘You will need to help him.’
‘I...’ Sam sinks back onto his pillow, his sleep-fogged brain not really catching up with current events. He shakes his head. ‘He won’t let me. He never does.’
Castiel looks up at him. ‘Help him anyway.’
Sam blinks at him, not quite sure Castiel absolutely understands the abyssal depths of Dean’s stubbornness, then nods. What else can he do?
Castiel almost smiles. ‘Go to sleep, Sam. I will wake you in the morning.’
As Sam rolls onto his other side, he realises the annoying fog of light from the window is gone, the high-pitched whine from the alarm clock has cut out, and the room feels quiet and peaceful.
Behind him on the other bed he hears a rustle of cloth and the soft murmur of Castiel’s voice, too low for him to understand the words. He thinks for a moment that he hears Dean answer, but slowly, thickly, as if he is still more than half-asleep.
Sam shoulders himself down under the blankets which feel soft and comfortable, soothing against his tired skin. He thinks they might even smell better. He has just long enough before falling back to sleep to wonder what Castiel has done to change the night.