The Pay-Off For Having Faith

17

He completed the pattern of warding sigils on the window sill and stepped back to inspect his work. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment in contemplation, before leaning in to add another sigil. When that was finished, Dean nodded to himself in satisfaction.

It was 2:30 in the morning, and he couldn't sleep. Again. He had tried – Sam liked it when he slept, so he had tried – but the dreams had shaken him out of it shortly after falling into slumber.

Nightmares, really. Dark places, lined with red and pain and fear. Reaching and reaching but never quite grasping the edge of whatever doorway would take him to freedom. Things with black eyes and sharp teeth and too much blood every place. Searing agony and lost thoughts and loss, so much loss, until suddenly it was all drowned in white and quiet. And then thoughts of Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam. Finding Sam.

Dean had jerked out of sleep with a start, his brother's name on his lips and his body shaking. Something in his head screamed that sleep was a luxury he could barely afford, even as something else told him that was irrational.

He brushed his fingers over the wards he had just finished before turning and moving toward the bed. His eyes shifted toward the closet and the tall blond standing there, watching him, arms crossed over his chest and smirk on his face.

They'll find a way in eventually, you know. Your Doctor Murphy did.
"Only because he avoided the devil's trap and took my markers before I could draw more," Dean muttered, moving to the desk to look at the picture Sam had given him earlier that evening, a copy of the one he had in his own room: the two of them together when they were young, Sam still a baby. A smile touched his lips as he brushed his fingertips over the image of baby Sam. Even if he hadn't been able to see him for a span of almost his entire life, his brother had been his constant, his hope in cages of white walls and hallucinations and voices only he could hear.

What are you going to do when you wake up and find yourself in your hospital room, hmm?

"Don't know," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his arms; he barely felt the slight, stinging pain as he dug in nails into his skin and ran them down the lengths of his arms, leaving long, red scratches. "It's not a dream. It's not. I'm not there anymore."

He moved to the bed and sat down on it; he bit at his bottom lip, lost in his thoughts, before remembering that he wasn't supposed to do that anymore. He stopped and raised a hand to his mouth instead to chew on a thumbnail. Dean frowned as he realized his hands were shaking and he dropped them to his lap, clasping them between his knees.

"It's not a dream. I'm really here."

In his own bedroom, Sam woke suddenly, breathing rapid and thoughts panicked. He sat up in his bed, looked around the room: after a moment, he realized his surroundings and exhaled in relief. His dreams had been full of things in the dark, things which had grabbed his brother and dragged him into the shadows where Sam couldn't reach him.

He rubbed a hand over his face before climbing out of bed. He padded across the floor, bare feet making little noise on the carpet, and left his room.

Dean was lying in his bed, arms behind his head and eyes on the ceiling, when Sam entered. He glanced in his brother's direction, watched as he crossed to stand next to the bed.

"Shove over," Sam muttered, pushing at his shoulder. Dean obliged and scooted closer to the wall, and Sam crawled into the bed and stretched out beside him. The younger teen shifted closer, pressing against his side, an arm sliding over his waist and head on his chest.