Work Text:
Sam pov
He’s shaking all over, trembling, sitting hunched up on his bed against the hard wooden headboard, his head swinging back and forth in terror between the blackness of the closet door and the gun on the nightstand. There is something in his closet, he is sure of it, but when he told dad all he did was give him a gun and told him to take care of it like a man. He nine years old, terrified, but he doesn’t know if he is more afraid of the monster in his closet or the gun, more afraid of being hurt by something or accidentally hurting himself. Tears start rolling down his cheeks and he desperately wishes that he and Dean were sharing a room, that their dad hadn’t chosen this one time to listen to his pleas not to stay in another run-down motel and rented them an actual house for once. He wishes more than anything that he and Dean were crushed together into one too-small bed, fighting for covers and elbowing each other in the stomach and generally being pissed off… but safe. He always feels safe next to Dean, and right now he is terrified.
He sinks down on the bed and pulls the cover up and over his head and prays for morning to come quickly, for the safety of daylight. He knows he won’t be able to sleep, too scared to close his eyes, so he lies under the covers as still as his trembling body will allow, hypersensitive to any noise in the room, senses straining, completely on edge. He almost stops breathing when he hears the sound of a door opening, sweat beading at his temples when he hears footsteps making their way across the floor to the bed. The mattress dips and he can feel his pulse ratcheting, his entire body throbbing in time with is heartbeat. This is it, this is it, he is going to fucking die. Why did he leave the gun on the nightstand, oh god, why… He is near hyperventilating when he feels the soothing hand on his back, strong firm strokes over the blankets that instantly start to calm him. He would know those hands anywhere, those hands have cradled him and cared for him his whole life. His heart rate slows back to normal and once his pulse stops beating in his ears he can hear the familiar refrain of ‘Hey Jude’ and feels his muscles relaxing. He closes his eyes and lets the weight of his brothers hand on his back and his comforting voice sooth him to sleep and knows that he is safe.
When he wakes up the next day they don’t talk about it, but he notices that the gun is gone.
*
They never talk about it, the singing, it’s one of their unspoken rules. Sam knows that Dean would deny it and act like he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about if he were to bring it up, may even stop doing it, so he has never once mentioned it to his brother in the cold light of day. Dean needs his walls, needs his persona, to get through the life they have to live, and Sam has never been cruel enough to question the façade. Until now. Now he has broken the unwritten rule, he asked his brother to sing to him. He knows, though Dean doesn’t, not yet, that he is leaving tomorrow for Stanford. Leaving behind scratchy motel sheets, 5am training drills and the smell of smoke and sulphur. Leaving behind exorcisms, gun oil, salt rounds and holy water. Leaving behind the only home and family he has ever known, leaving behind Dean. Dean, the man who raised him, comforted him, cooked him dinner, read his school report cards, bandaged up every cut scrape and graze he has ever had, who sang to him any time he felt even a little bit low. Dean who acts like a total hardass, womanizer, player, but inside is the kindest, most caring, sensitive, beautiful human being that Sam has ever known. Leaving to start a new life for himself away from his fathers temper and his unending quest for vengeance. Leaving to be his own man.
They are lying in bed, side by side in one bed, the both of them. Both over six feet tall and far too old to be sharing but this is the way it has always been so he barley notices the closeness anymore. He is leaving tomorrow and all he wants is to hear his brother sing to him one last time. Dean has gone rigid beside him and he is about to apologise, to beg his brothers forgiveness for breaking the rules when Dean starts singing low and soft and so perfect that Sam can’t help the tears it brings to his eyes. This, this is what he is leaving tomorrow, and though he is excited to start his new life he can’t help but ache for what he is leaving behind. Dean seems to sense Sams distress with the same sixth sense he has always had when it comes to Sam and turns on his side. He props himself up on his elbow and uses his free hand to brush Sams hair back from his temples then rubs his thumb under Sams eyes to catch the tears. He pulls Sam bodily towards him and cradles him towards his chest, gently rocking him as if he were a small child again, all the while singing, the familiar cadence of ‘Hey Jude’ soothing Sam to sleep the same way it always has. Sam clings tightly to his brothers waist, not wanting to miss a moment of this, knowing he has to leave but suddenly finding it harder than ever to go.
*
It fucking hurts. Everything fucking hurts. He feels like his diaphragm has pushed his lungs out with the force of the dry wracking sobs he feels haven’t stopped since it really hit him that Jess is dead. When it first happened he must have been in shock, not really grieving, but now, now, it feels like he is dying. His head is splitting open, a mix of grief and dehydration from the tears. His muscles ache and spasm with the force of his sobbing and he feels hollowed out and flayed by his heartache. He can’t believe she is gone, feels like the fire burnt the heart out of him when she burnt to ash, like he lost everything including himself in the flames. He collapsed onto the floor what feels like hours ago, too exhausted and heartsick to move. He managed to hold it together until Dean left the room, to get gas, to get food, he doesn’t know, can’t think, his brain feels raw.
He isn’t even aware of when Dean gets back, just that one moment he is alone on the filthy motel room floor, drowning in his grief, and the next he is cradled up in strong, familiar arms. He feels a calloused hand ever so gently wipe the trails of tears and snot and sadness from his face and so, so carefully pull his head to rest against a warm, broad chest. The same strong hands rub his back and card through his hair and pet and soothe until he feels if not alive, then almost human again. He feels so fucking weary, down to his bones, and he has an ache inside that he can’t believe will ever get better, but as he feels the vibrations of his brothers voice against his ear as he tries his best to comfort him by singing the same song he has always sung to him, the same song their mother sang to him, he closes his eyes and lets it lull him off to sleep. His last thought as he listens to his brother singing softly, trying to ease his pain the way he always has for Sam’s entire life, is that he knows that he hasn’t lost everything and that he will make it through this just as long as he has Dean by his side.
*
Everything is soft… That is his first though when he wakes – everything is soft, from the over-washed, threadbare sheets below his body, to the yellowed sunlight filtering through the paper thin motel curtains and the warm smooth skin of his brother pressed up against his side. He feels liquid and pliant with it; languid, sleep mussed and soft himself. His body aches in all the right ways after a pleasant evening of laughter and lovemaking and he revels in the feeling. In their world of sharp blades and sharper tongues this softness is a blessing and he intends to revel in it.
Softest of all in this moment is Deans voice, still rough with sleep and whiskey, low and smooth and the soundtrack of Sam’s life. He sings the same song he has always sang, the familiar melody of ‘Hey Jude’ the perfect backdrop to this easy, lazy Tuesday morning. He is half sitting with Sam burrowed under his arm, one calloused hand resting on the sleep warm skin of Sam’s hip and the other gently bushing through his hair, glancing over his temple with the kind of reverence seldom shown outside of these gentle interludes in their otherwise harsh and hectic lives. This is the closest to content that Sam has ever felt and he feels full with it, brimming over with love. His brothers singing and the easy intimacy of this moment lulls Sam back to a peaceful sleep, Deans voice providing the background to his dreams. In this moment he is happy. He is content. He is loved.