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Dean wakes up from a dead sleep, heart pounding, instantly on high alert. The knife that was under his pillow is now gripped in his hand.
A second later, Dean got out of bed and moved in the hallway, listening intently for whatever it was that woke him up. He doesn’t make a sound as his bare feet skim over the surface of the bunker’s floor.
He hears it as he nears Sam’s room; the sound of the bed creaking, Sam mumbling, his voice hoarse and sleep-drenched.
Dean steps into Sam’s room.
Sam’s tangled up in sheets and blankets. His body is tossing back and forth, his hair is damp and being flung around as well. His hands are holding on to the covers so tightly his fingers are white.
He mumbles one word over and over and over again. “No.”
Dean sets the knife down on the bedside table and touches Sam’s arm gently. “Hey, Sam.”
Sam startles awake immediately, sitting straight up. His eyes dart all over the room before landing on Dean. He’s covered in sweat and his breathing is heavy and shallow.
“What is it? Is it a hunt?” Sam asks. He tries to push the cover away, but it’s tangled both on top and underneath him. “I can be ready in just a minute.”
“It’s not a hunt. Besides, you're sidelined right now. No hunting, remember?” Dean gently reminds his brother. “You were having a nightmare. I came in to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” Sam says, automatically parroting the Winchester’s trademark response to any situation.
Sam looks anything but fine. He’s lost weight, he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and he’s barely eating. He’s still coughing up blood and still trying to hide it from Dean.
“Wanna talk about the nightmare?” Dean asks.
Dean can’t do the Trials for Sam, he can’t take away Sam’s pain–all he can do is be there for Sam in any way that Sam needs him to be.
“It’s just a nightmare, Dean,” Sam says, running his fingers through his damp hair. “I don’t even remember what it was about.”
Sam’s lying. Dean knows he’s lying. Sam knows Dean knows he’s lying.
Normally, Dean would just let the lie go, make some kind of joke about the situation, maybe coax Sam out of bed so he could fix the covers, make the bed more comfortable for Sam.
It’s the easy way out. It’s the route they always take.
But it’s not what Sam needs right now. This is Sam’s third nightmare this week. Yesterday, Dean had dropped a can of tomato sauce on the floor and Sam had startled so badly he almost fell out of the kitchen chair he’d been sitting in.
Sam’s been to Hell, literally, and now Hell is visiting Sam–not only in his dreams, but in his waking hours too. The Trials have weakened Sam’s defenses enough that not only is he not able to block out the memories of Hell the way he used to, but the memories are causing him actual pain and affecting his ability to recover from his last trial.
There was a time, not that long in the past, when Dean would have rather fought a dozen demons with a plastic fork as his only weapon rather than do what he is about to do now. But this is what Sam needs from him, whether or not Sam realizes it, and Dean’s going to give Sam what he needs. Because Sam deserves to sleep without nightmares. Because Dean needs Sam to be safe, and whole, and to be strong enough to face whatever the last trial is.
Sam’s managed to kick the covers off of himself. He sits up in bed.
“Go back to sleep, Dean. I’m going to check the laptop, see if Kevin has sent us a message,” Sam says. “I’m not sleepy anymore anyway.”
“Yeah, because those two hours of sleep you got have left you feeling refreshed and ready to face a new day,” Dean replies.
Sam gives him one of those looks that only Sam can give. Dean can’t help but smile in return. It’s so good to see that Sam is still Sam, despite the nightmares and the Trials and everything the kid has endured during the last several years.
Dean resists the urge—barely—to go to Sam and help him get out of bed, knowing from experience that Sam will only push him away. Instead, he just nods and leaves the room. He doesn’t head to his bedroom though; he heads to the kitchen instead. He puts water in the teapot and rummages through the cupboards looking for that herbal tea Sam likes so much.
By the time Dean brings two cups of tea into the library, Sam’s apparently moved on from the laptop and has his nose buried in a book.
Dean sets one of the cups of tea in front of Sam. It just makes a small sound, but Sam still flinches and then reaches for the cup immediately, obviously hoping Dean didn’t notice.
Dean sits down on the closest chair to Sam’s and takes a sip of his own tea. Even with all the sugar Dean’s dumped into the cup, the tea tastes just as disgusting as Dean thought it would taste. Dean sets the cup back down.
Sam’s holding on to the cup with both hands, but his hands are still trembling. It's just a fine tremor, probably wouldn’t be noticeable to most people. It’s unsettling to see Sam—normally so big and strong and capable—barely able to hold on to a cup of tea. It fortifies Dean’s resolve to talk about what neither of them has ever wanted to talk about.
“I have nightmares too,” Dean says. He keeps his tone neutral, matter of fact. He looks at the cup but can’t bring himself to take another sip of tea. He wishes he had brought a beer instead, but he needs a clear head for the conversation he’s about to have with Sam. “Sometimes I have them when I’m not asleep. I’m not even thinking about Hell. I’m just going on about my day, and then out of nowhere I’m back on the rack and Alastair is standing in front of me, with a whip or a knife or with his hands on fire and I can feel the heat, I can feel the knife sinking into me. I can feel the skin being peeled from my body.”
“Dean.” Sam’s voice is gentle, as are his hands as he puts them over Dean’s. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I do. I have to, Sammy.” Dean looks into the familiar hazel eyes of his brother. “And so do you.”
“I know why you are doing this, and there’s no reason for it. Putting yourself back there—that’s not going to help me and it’s just going to cause pain for you. Why don’t you find something on Netflix for us to watch? I’ll join you in just a bit.”
“I don’t need to Netflix and chill, Sam. I don’t need a distraction. I need to make peace with what happened, and the only way that I can do that is to talk about it. And we both know it’s the last thing I want to do, but I don’t think either one of us is ever going to be able to move forward unless we do. I’d like to be able to sleep at night without the specter of Alastair haunting my dreams. I’d like to go about my day without suddenly finding myself back in Hell.”
“I’m not going to talk about it just because you are,” Sam says. He sounds tired–no, weary. Like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Which he kinda is. “I know what talking about it is costing you, and I appreciate it, but—I’m going to carry this around for me as long as I live. Talking about it isn’t going to change that.”
“You know what the worst part is?” Dean asks. And suddenly, he needs to talk about it. He needs Sam to understand. “It’s that I broke. I broke. I got off that damn rack and I did things to souls that are unforgivable, and I did them willingly. Hell, there were times I even liked it. I lied earlier. I don’t have nightmares about Alastair torturing me. My nightmares are about me torturing others. I was creative, Sam. I was vicious. And it felt so damn good to be the one doling out the pain instead of the one receiving it. What does that make me, Sammy?”
“Human,” Sam replies. He looks at Dean with eyes as soft as his voice. “It makes you human, Dean. Anyone would have broken after what you were put through, long before you did.”
“Dad didn’t. You didn’t. I always knew I was the weakest of the three of us but—” Dean wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. He’s not sure how trying to coax Sam into talking had taken him here, with his soul bared open. “All the lives I saved, all the monsters I’ve killed–none of it makes up for what I did or for what I became in Hell.”
“You’re so much stronger than I’ll ever be,” Sam replies. His eyes are damp with unshed tears.
Dean feels anger, always dangerously close to the surface, begin to bubble over. “I don’t need you to patronize me, Sam. I didn’t tell you all this for you to feel sorry for me, or to put a fucking bandaid on my wounds, or to pat me on the head and tell me what a good guy I—"
“I broke. And I didn’t break just once. I broke over and over and over again. I broke every day for fucking years. You want to talk about weak? I begged him, Dean. I got down on my knees and I begged him to stop. He broke me—physically, mentally, and in other ways I can never—I can’t—"
Sam’s voice breaks. He’s shaking, and when he looks at Dean, Dean sees pain and anguish and tears.
Dean stands up and pulls Sam into his arms. Sam makes himself small, makes himself Dean's little brother again, and Dean holds on to him tightly. They stand there, just like that, for what seems like forever. Sam’s got his head on Dean’s shoulder, Dean’s got one hand wrapped in Sam’s hair, his other hand around Sam’s too-small waist. When the coughing starts, Dean holds Sam even tighter.
“You’re the strongest man I know,” Dean whispers, stroking Sam’s hair as he continues to hold on to him. The coughing is slowing, Sam’s breathing is still labored. “He didn’t break you, Sam. He never could. Because in the end, you beat him. You won, Sam. We both did. We’re still here, and we’re still fighting, and we are the ones who are going to take every son-of-a-bitch in hell down.”
Sam pulls away from him, his face is still wet with tears. “I don’t feel very strong right now. I certainly don’t feel like I won. I still feel broken.”
“Oh, I know for fucking sure I’m still broken, will probably always be. But you know what? Every day, we wake up. We stumble to our feet. And we fight. Broken or not, we fight. They didn’t win, Sam, because we’re still here. They didn’t win because we’re still out here saving lives. They didn’t win because we’re the ones left standing.”
“When did you get to be so wise?” Sam asks with a slight smile on his lips. He’s swaying on his feet. He looks like a feather could knock him over. Dean's heart aches with the longing to take Sam’s suffering away from him, to make Sam well again. But that’s not something Dean can do, only finishing the Trials can do that for Sam.
“I’m older, of course, I know things you don’t,” Dean replies. “Let’s take this to the kitchen, and I can explain in detail all the ways I’m so much wiser than you are.”
“You just want to try to get me to eat,” Sam says. But he walks with Dean anyway. He stops Dean at the doorway, a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey, um, thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Dean replies. “But anytime you want to talk about Hell or whatever else is going on in that big fat brain of yours, then I’m here, Sam. Maybe it won’t help, talking about it, but maybe it will.”
“I don’t think this one conversation is going to make the nightmares go away. I don’t think anything will, to be honest. But thank you, Dean. I mean it—thank you.”
Dean feels his cheeks flush under the sincerity of Sam’s words. Time to change the subject.
“You can thank me by eating something,” Dean says. “How do sandwiches sound?”
“I don’t think I can eat anything. I think I might want to try to get some more sleep instead.”
Dean’s torn. Sam needs to eat, but he didn’t get near enough sleep. Sam decides for him by turning in the hallway toward his bedroom. Dean follows Sam, watches as Sam smooths out his covers and slips into bed.
“My bedroom is too hot and I can’t sleep in there. Maybe I’ll stay in here for a bit while you sleep,” Dean says. He picks up a book from Sam’s bedside table. “I always wanted to read ‘The Metaphysical and Psychological Musings of a Twelfth Century Scholar’. It sounds fascinating. And oh, look, there are pictures.”
Sam has that stubborn look in his eyes, the one that says he knows what Dean is trying to do and he’s not going to let Dean do it, but then his expression softens. He slides over in bed. “Well, I’d hate to deprive you of such an excellent book.”
Dean turns off the lights and sits on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. He puts the book back in the same place he found it. Sam sighs, shifts in bed, restless still. Softly, Dean begins to quietly sing Take it Easy . Soft rock has always settled Sam down, made him sleepy. Of course, soft rock would make anyone sleepy. Dean knows like three soft rock songs, so Sam’s getting the benefit of his favorite of the three. Dean doesn’t know all the words, so he makes up the words he doesn’t know. It's not the words that matter anyway. It’s the way the song makes people feel—softly hopeful, the possibility of something better–something good–just around the corner.
Halfway through the song, Sam’s breathing evens out. Dean finishes the song anyway, and then closes his eyes, still sitting up. It’s been years since he’s really thought about his time in Hell, other than the few moments where he would suddenly find himself back there before forcing the memories back down again. Maybe it’s time to get it all out in the open. Maybe it’s time he worked on forgiving himself. Maybe someday he and Sam can have that peaceful, easy life that Dean had once thought would never be possible.
When Dean wakes up almost three hours later, still sitting up, Sam is still sleeping. Dean quietly slips out of bed and heads for the kitchen.
They both have made it to fight another day and in the end, that’s all that really matters.
Well, that, and figuring out a way to get Sam to eat something.