vlbuehle

Title: Solid Ground

Author:

vlbuehle

Fandom: SPN

Rating: Gen

Word Count: ~1,600

Disclaimer: Nope. I can't come close to Kripke's genius, even if I have wanted to throttle him a time or six during this season.

Summary: Coda to "Fallen Idols." Bad guy's dead, they've got a bit of breathing space, and Sam looks like shit, even if the world is crumbling around them. Bigbrother!Dean.

A/N:

authoressnebula pointed out that Sam looked damn tired during "Fallen Idols" and provided graphics to prove the point. I couldn't resist.

Dean Winchester isn’t the bona fide genius his little brother is. He didn’t get a full ride to one of the best colleges in the country, and he doesn’t have the sheer knack for piecing together the weird and bizarre like Sammy does.

What he does have is a goddamn PhD when it comes to Care and Management of one Samuel Winchester, and right now, everything he knows is telling him there’s something seriously off.

Okay, so they’re still adjusting to each other again and yeah, that’s both easier and harder than he thought it would be. And they’re still picking through the minefield left by his Deal, Sam drinking demon blood, angels, and all the rest of this fucking mess. But Sam’s still his little brother, still the one person he knows better than anyone else. He’s never gonna not notice when something’s wrong, and now that they’re inching their way back to normal, he’s itching to fix this in a way he hasn’t been for the past year, too wrapped up in his own anguish to go anywhere near Sam’s.

He needed to clear the air like they did, needed Sammy to call him on his bullshit the way he’s been calling Sam on his. Needed, God help him, Sam to point out that he’s been stifling Sam and punishing them both by doing it. And as usual, Sammy’s both right and wrong: on the hunt, yeah, Sam’s earned the right to be treated as an equal and then some, and that’s a lesson Dean should’ve remembered instead of spending the last year channeling Dad and buying into the angelic bullshit of himself as Great General and Conquering Hero and Sammy as foot soldier. Because when they were just them, just Sam’n’Dean, they were damn good at what they did, working as the finest team Dean has ever seen in a lifetime of hunting. But that’s on the hunt. Off a hunt, Sam is still Sammy, his baby brother, and he’s just going to have to cope with a big brother who acts like one.

Still, Sammy does have a tendency to turn mulish when he’s in a mood for it, and pushing will just make him clam up, maybe goad his shaky temper, neither of which Dean feels like dealing with right now. Better to keep his mouth shut, nurse his beer, and watch his brother.

He doesn’t like what he sees. Okay, yeah, the lingering tension between them didn’t exactly help matters, but the last case? That was right up Sammy’s alley. Freaky cool case, weird ghosts, watching Dean get taken down by Paris Hilton—he should be gloating mercilessly over that one right about now and he’s not. That’s never a good sign.

Neither are the lines gathering between Sammy’s brows, or the way his mouth is pinched a little, eyes squinting against the light. Warning signs of the migraines that struck long before the visions appeared and have lingered since, and signs he’s become depressingly familiar with over the past couple of years. Still—he takes a closer look and frowns a little. Sammy looks like hell. He’s pale, and the bags under his eyes tell Dean he hasn’t been sleeping. He hasn’t seen Sammy looking quite this bad since that first year, those first couple of months when the nightmares of Jess were so bad Sam wouldn’t sleep just to avoid them…oh. Oh, hell.

Some big brother he is, he thinks on a burst of self-disgust, because he should’ve caught this days ago, dammit. Should’ve seen the warning signs as soon as Sam pulled up in that pile of junk he’d stolen. Sammy’s not sleeping again. No wonder he was just a hair off this whole case, even if he did pull it together better than Dean at the end. Kid’s long past empty from the looks of him.

Lucky for Sam, he knows how to handle the kid at this point. Whatever’s going through Sam’s head, it’s probably impossible to break through by now. Sam’s too caught up in it to listen to sense, which leaves sneakiness. Dean can do sneaky.

Okay, first things first. Sam doesn’t look like he’s been too picky about eating since Dean let him go, so food is first on the list. Fill his belly, let some decent chow work its magic. It doesn’t take long to prod Sam up, and he herds his little brother to the diner they’ve been using, one with actual honest-to-God homemade apple pie. He orders—Sam would probably go for rabbit food or something else ridiculous—and when the meatloaf special arrives, he wolfs down his own share and bullies and nags Sam into eating a good amount. They lucked out on the motel too; it’s not the best he’s been in, but it’s clean and the beds are nearly lump-free, which by their standards is damn good. Sam’s eyes have been drifting shut the entire way home, his head slipping down and jerking up as he fights a losing battle against sleep, so Dean’s plan is working beautifully as he leads the way into their room. He’s done this before, during those wretched months when Sam was exhausted and cranky and torturing himself more than Dean could bear to watch. With luck, Sammy’ll flop down on the bed and it’ll be lights out until the nightmares come roaring in.

Luck deserts him, because Sam wavers briefly before turning away from the bed and towards the table where their laptops sit. Dean sighs. Okay, so he gave subtle a go; time for something else.

“Uh uh, Sammy,” he scolds, sliding himself between the computers and his lanky giant. “Bedtime.”

Sam scowls at him, a look he’s been trying and failing at since he was a cranky toddler. “No.” Sounds like the toddler too, come to think of it.

“Yes,” Dean says with a patience only Sammy gets to see. “You’re exhausted, kiddo. When was the last time you slept, anyway?”

Sam actually has to think about it, which just makes Dean cringe and then kick himself for not picking this up as soon as the kid slid back into his side of the Impala. “Uh…”

“Never mind. Bed. Now, Sam.”

Sam grumbles, but he lets Dean shove him onto the bed, lets his sneakers be tugged firmly off and set aside. He doesn’t really resist until Dean tries to shove him down, and then he’s suddenly locked into place. Dean’s eyes narrow; brute force isn’t going to work, and it’ll only get the adrenaline pumping, which is about the last thing either of them needs right now. Time to switch tactics again.

“Hey. C’mon, dude, talk to me. What’s going on up here?” He taps lightly against Sam’s forehead. Sam’s eyes cross briefly as he tries to follow the motion, and then he gives a truly epic bitchface.

“’M not a kid, Dean.”

“I got that one, Sammy. But you’re still my kid brother. Spill.”

Sam huffs, but his eyes skate away and Dean’s heart sinks at the small tell.

“Sam?”

He’s not sure if it’s the fear or the concern, but Sam looks back, eyes dark with misery and struggling to pull up a faint smile that just hurts to see.

“Don’t wanna sleep, dude.”

“Yeah, I got that. Why not?”

Sam shuts his eyes, and the words spill out: Lucifer, Jess, the pretty, pretty web the Devil wove to coax Sam into saying that one crucial yes. Fuck. Dean wouldn’t want to sleep if he had the Devil purring sweet, twisted truths into his dreams either. No wonder Sammy’s doing everything in his power to stay awake, but it can’t last forever. And maybe half the trouble was waking up to a cold, empty room, alone in a way Sam hasn’t been, ever, except for those four months that must’ve been hell on the kid.

Yeah. He’s been a goddamn idiot. But it’s over now, and if he’s not letting dick angels fuck him around, he’s damn well not letting the Devil fuck with his baby brother either.

“Sam, you gotta sleep,” he says quietly, and the misery deepens because they both know he’s right. It’s a minor miracle he wasn’t a liability on this hunt, and it won’t last on the next one unless he gets some actual rest. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m not going anywhere, and if Lucifer comes calling? Tell him to fuck himself, just like Michael and all the rest.”

Sam grins briefly, a flash of humor that lights his face in a way Dean hasn’t seen since—well, since the day he came back from Hell. Introspection sucks, and he shakes it away. Sammy comes first, now and always.

“Yeah, okay. Worth a shot, I guess.”

“Damn right,” Dean agrees, and this time Sam curls up under the sheets, eyes drifting shut. It lasts about fifteen minutes and then he jolts awake, wide-eyed and gasping, gaze slicing to the bed Dean isn’t using yet, and the despair that fills his face brings Dean straight out of his chair, chick-flick moment or not. Fuck this. When the nightmares were at their absolute worst, there was one thing that could calm Sam, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think twice as he nudges Sammy over, then slides into the bed beside him. Sam’s tired enough that the light isn’t gonna bug him, so Dean leaves it on and settles himself comfortably with Sam’s smaller Mac; Sam can live with Dean using his precious baby for once, and the smaller size is way more convenient given the cramped quarters Dean’s working in here. And it works. Sam relaxes by inches, trembling quieting as his breathing slowly levels out and then deepens into sleep again.

When he jolts awake again, it’s to the quiet noise of keys and a hand carding through shaggy hair.

“Right here, Sammy.”

Sam sleeps.

FINIS