The Pay-Off For Having Faith

13

He was in that place between consciousness and sleep when he heard a soft tap at his door. Sam opened his eyes and glanced over as the door opened slowly; he squinted against the light that shone in from the hallway. After a moment of adjusting, his eyes fell on his brother. Dean was standing just outside the doorway, holding onto its frame.

"What's wrong?" Sam sat up in his bed and reached over to flip on a small, bedside lamp. He blinked against the light again, watching as Dean stepped into his room. His brother hesitated for a moment before crossing the carpeted floor to stand next to his bed.

"Dean?"

"You're really here, aren't you?" the question was barely audible as Dean raised a shaking hand toward him, "Not dreaming you, am I, Sammy?"

"No," he shook his head, reached up to clasp his brother's hand and tug him down on the bed's edge, "You're not dreaming. I'm really here." He frowned as he saw the cuts on Dean's bottom lip, the blood that smeared it. He raised a hand and laid it against Dean's face – his brother leaned into his touch – and chided gently, "Told you to stop biting yourself."

"'m sorry," Dean's apology was a whisper, "Was scared that – He tells me I'm not really here, I'm in the hospital and this is a dream. That you're not really here."

"Who tells you?" Sam wiped at the blood on the other's mouth with the pad of his thumb, "Lucifer?"
He received a nod in response, and he shook his head, "He's lying to you. You're really here." He let his hand slip to the back of the other's neck and pulled him forward a bit, resting his forehead against Dean's, "You're really home."

"Get scared sometimes, Sammy," the older teen confessed in a whisper. Sam could feel him shaking, and he stroked his fingers through his hair, trying to calm him. His brother swallowed hard and continued, "Don't know what's real and what's not, sometimes. Don't even know if I'm real sometimes."

"You're real," Sam whispered back, "I'm real. I'm right here with you."

"Dreamed I kept losing y-you," there was a catch in Dean's voice, "And I did everything to get you back, everything. Went to hell. Fought demons and death to get you back. But still kept losing you." The man's fingers wrapped around his upper arms, holding tight, "It wasn't enough, anything I did. They kept taking you away from me. Can't l-lose you again, Sammy. I can't."

"You're not," Sam vowed, pressing his lips against Dean's forehead, "I'm right here, Dean. You're not gonna lose me again. I promise. I'm not going to let you be alone anymore."

His brother raised a hand to touch his cheek, fingers ghosting over his skin, before exhaling a sharp breath. Sam caught his hand in his own and raised it to his lips to press them against the back of it. He scooted over in the bed, making more room, and instructed gently,
"C'mon, you can sleep in here."

Dean hesitated for a moment before stretching out on the bed next to him. Sam adjusted the blankets to cover them both before lying down next to him. He laid on his side facing Dean and pressed close to the other, sliding an arm around his waist and resting his head on Dean's shoulder. The man next to him relaxed then, wrapping arms around him. After several minutes, Dean's shaking stopped; several minutes later, his breathing evened out. Sam raised his head to check on him and found that his brother was asleep.

When Sam next woke, it was to sunlight streaming in through his window and arms wrapped around him. He lay still, processing the arms holding him and the leg entwined with his own: Oh, right. Dean. He ran a hand over his face, trying to wake himself, and raised his head to glance at his clock: The red numbers read 8:33 a.m. His eyes shifted next to his brother's face: Dean was awake and watching him.