feliciakw: (Gun & claw)
[personal profile] feliciakw
Title: The Song Remains the Same
Word Count: Part 1 - 1,752; Part 2 - 1,717, for a total of 3,469
Warnings & Author's Notes: Post-NRftW. On September 18, this will, I have no doubt, be Jossed into AU oblivion.
Disclaimer: Obviously, they're not mine. Kripke & Co. have not seen fit to gift them to me, but I'm still available for any hug therapy that might be necessary.

Summary: Sam's heart aches in his chest to hear Dean sounding so broken, begging for help he doesn't believe will come.

Many, many thanks to [livejournal.com profile] izhilzha, my Beta of WIN \0/, who in spite of her own RL responsibilities, will read and re-read my stuff until I'm sure she's buggy in the head. Also, [livejournal.com profile] kalquessa, the Beta of Squee, who, if I listen to her too often, will have me posting just about anything I send her way.

The Song Remains the Same, Part 1



The Song Remains the Same, Part 2

The nights without a hunt are the hardest.

He no longer lies still in the bed when he awakens to Dean’s screams, quietly letting the tears slide down his face as the sounds of terror, pain, and loneliness fade in the waking world.

Now he startles awake, throws off his blankets, and dashes to the bathroom for a cool cloth, snatching up a bottle of water as he re-enters the main room. He feels no guilt at his relief that the screams stay with him on his hurried trek around the room, and he says in a calm, comforting, stern voice, “Dean. I’m here, Dean. I can hear you. You’re not alone.”

He crosses the room and snaps on a light, dim enough to be comforting, but bright enough to allow him to see. He places the cloth and water within easy reach. Dean lies on his back on the bed, muscles rigid, eyes and fists clenched tight. His arms lie stiffly away from his sides, his legs parted. Sam recognizes the position for what it imitates, and he knows what his brother is reliving.

“I’m here, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

The screams give way to strangled sobs and low, plaintive moans as Dean turns his head, the only part of his body he thinks he can move. Sam pulls the bedclothes away, disentangling Dean from the unnecessary constriction.

“You can move, Dean. You can move.”

Sam gently wipes the sweat and tears from Dean’s face with the cool cloth, and green eyes fly open at the touch. Sam places a hand on Dean’s chest as Dean’s breath hitches and he stares at Sam, through Sam, as if he can’t see him for the waking nightmare that traps him.

“No! No. Somebody help me.” Dean’s voice can no longer sustain the screams; he’s too hoarse, and he sounds like his throat has been torn raw, like his vocal chords might very well be bleeding. Sam’s heart aches in his chest to hear Dean sounding so broken, begging for help he doesn’t believe will come.

Sam nods, even though he doubts Dean sees it. “I will, Dean. I’ll help you. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

He starts with Dean’s legs, gently rubbing away the phantom sensation of shackles around his ankles. “See? Nothing there. You feel that? You can move.” He massages tight muscles in Dean’s calves and thighs, careful not to make Dean feel too vulnerable. He bends each of Dean’s legs in turn, as if he is exercising a coma patient. Bit by bit, Dean’s legs relax. Sam continues his mantra, and Dean’s pleas quiet from a constant sob to a barely controlled, panicked panting.

He rubs soothing circles on Dean’s side and massages his shoulder where he remembers seeing the large, cruel hooks that held Dean immobile. “Feel that, Dean? Nothing there. No hooks, no chains. You’re okay. Feel that? You’re not alone.”

By the time Sam starts on Dean’s arms, Dean’s eyes have slid closed, and his breathing, though still rapid, is steadier, less harsh. His heartbreaking entreaties have subsided to an intermittent rasping whisper of “Please” or “Help me” or “Sam.” As with Dean’s ankles, Sam rubs Dean’s wrists to erase the imaginary shackles still clamped in place. He wipes down each arm in turn with the damp cloth, then one arm at a time he massages tired muscles and flexes Dean’s elbows, continually reminding Dean, “I’m here. You’re not alone. You can move. See? You can move.”

Eventually, Dean’s breathing eases, the pleading stops altogether, and Dean rests. Sam keeps hold of Dean’s hand, palm to palm, thumbs entwined, as if they’re getting ready to arm wrestle.

When Dean finally blinks his eyes open, they’re clear and coherent.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice is rough like sandpaper, but Sam can’t miss the note of hopeful hesitancy there.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Of course you’re here. Where else would you be?” Dean’s exhausted attempt at bravado falls far short of the real thing.

Sam offers a small smile and hopes that Dean will settle for the night now.

“Dude, are you holding my hand?” Dean lifts their clasped hands.

“No,” Sam says, and Dean cocks an eyebrow. It’s been a running joke with them ever since the first night, when Sam’s hand had gone cramped and numb from Dean’s clutching it so tightly all night. When Dean had awoken in the morning, he remembered nothing of his nightmare and had feigned indignation at the suggestion that he’d needed Sam to hold his hand. But his eyes told a different story; there had been no mistaking the gratitude there. “You want some water?”

Dean nods lethargically. Sam releases his grip, and Dean tries to sit up, but he doesn’t make it very far. He’s exhausted, worn out, and Sam knows as well as anyone that the stress placed on the body during such a vivid dream is as real as any stress endured in the waking world.

Sam uncaps the water bottle and lifts Dean’s head from the pillow with one hand as he tips the bottle, pouring the refreshing liquid into his brother’s mouth with the other. Dean swallows eagerly, and when he’s had his fill, tiredly pushes it away. “Okay, enough. Thanks.”

Sam lays Dean’s head back on the pillow and re-caps the bottle. He feels like a son of a bitch for what he’s about to do, and he can’t look Dean in the eye. But he has to know what else happened to Dean while he was in Hell—it might help them figure out where to go from here. And if taking advantage of Dean’s exhaustion makes getting that information easier, well . . . he’s a sorry son of a bitch. “Do you remember anything?”

“About what?” Dean asks, and Sam recognizes the stubbornly blank, neutral expression that falls into place. It doesn’t fool him for a minute.

Now Sam does look Dean in the eye, and he tries to convey as much non-threatening concern as he possibly can. He doesn’t want to push, but he needs to know. “About your nightmare.”

Something—pain? fear?—flashes in Dean’s eyes, but he just sighs and shifts his gaze to the ceiling. “No.” End of discussion.

Sam huffs in frustration. “Dean, maybe if you’d talk about it—”

“I said I don’t remember.” Anger dances around the edges of the words, not the anger of being caught in a lie, but anger at being pushed when he’s not ready. Maybe he’ll never be ready. Dean takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Sam sighs. “Okay,” he says softly.

“Okay.” Dean exhales the word as he allows himself to drift back to sleep.

“Hey, don’t go to sleep yet. We need to move you.”

Dean drags his eyes open, confused. “What?”

“Don’t go to sleep on your back.”

“Why not?”

Sam presses his lips together in exasperation. Leave it to an exhausted, post-traumatic-flashback Dean to start giving him lip.

“Because you’ll sleep better on your side.”

“I will?”

“Trust me on this.” One thing Sam has discovered over the course of several of these rough nights: if Dean sleeps in a position that allows him to mimic the pose forced on him in Hell, he is more likely to experience flashbacks. Sleeping on his side allows him the most opportunity for a relatively peaceful rest. All things considered.

Dean shrugs. “Okay.” He turns stiffly, but Sam recognizes Dean’s preferred sleep position as he starts to settle on his stomach.

“No, Dean. Your side. Jerk.” Because Dean’s sleeping on his stomach is only a mirror of sleeping on his back. And though the pillow helps muffle the screams, it also hinders the intake of air necessary for those screams.

“Bitch,” Dean mutters as he shifts again, this time settling on his side so that he is facing Sam. He tucks one hand up under the pillow, eyes blinking open when he notices the absence of his bowie knife. He eyes Sam, and Sam meets his gaze steadily. They’ve agreed that until they get these night terrors under control, neither man wants to be put in a position where he might unintentionally hurt the other.

After a moment, Dean closes his eyes and releases a weary sigh. One arm is tucked under the pillow and the other lies in front of him on the mattress. His legs are bent at the knees, one resting higher than the other. Sam is content that this position is different enough and feels unhindered enough to allow for some much needed sleep.

“You want the blankets back?” Sam asks.

Without opening his eyes, Dean shakes his head, then seems to reconsider. “Just the sheet.”

Sam separates the sheet from the other blankets and lays it across Dean up to his waist. Then he takes a seat on the bed opposite to watch his brother. “You good?”

Another deep sigh. “’M good.”

“Can I turn off the light?”

Dean nods.

Sam crosses the room to click off the light, and the room falls into darkness. He maneuvers back through the shadows, but before he has a chance to climb into bed, he hears the hesitant, fearful voice.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam says casually, but Dean doesn’t reply. “I’m here, Dean. You’re not alone.”

Though he’s taken the bed closest to the door and closest to the lamp he just turned off, Sam gets into bed on the side closest to Dean’s. On his way past his brother, Sam grasps Dean’s shoulder to remind him of his presence. He’s not surprised when he sees the shadow of Dean’s hand reach up toward him in the dark. He takes it again in the palm-to-palm clasp and squeezes it reassuringly. He’d hold Dean’s hand all night if that’s what it took, but he knows Dean won’t stand for it. Not anymore. Too chick-flicky.

Dean releases his grip. “Get some sleep, Sam.”

“Dude, you’re the one who woke me.” He keeps his tone light and teasing. The crisis is past; they won’t talk of it again.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sam climbs into bed.

“Hey, Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Sam knows the word carries so much more than should be possible in a single breath. “Sure, man. I hear ya.”

~finis~

Author's Notes: This is merely an indulgence to my betas (because I live to serve my betas) that got out of control and decided it needed to be developed and posted. I wrote Part 2 first, to indulge the betas' apparent need for some comfort after Dark Side of the Moon. Then suddenly Dean wanted to tell me what was going on in his brain, and I wrote Part 1 to indulge myself, since I've never posted anything written in Dean POV before.
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