I lay no claim to the Supernatural 'verse, the Skidarminky-Dink song, or the donut song. Worse luck, I still don't own Sam and Dean. I ask and I ask, but nobody seems to take me seriously down there in Vancouver.


Dean, a bad dream, and Sam's redition of the Lullaby From Hell. oneshot, pure pointless, silly fluff, non-wincest

Author's Note:

So yeah. I'm supposed to be working on multi-chapter fics, aren't I? Heh heh. Heh. Please don't shoot me. Updates are coming, I SWEAR.

This was sitting around on my hard-drive for months and months and I just kept hesitating to post it because, a) it was the first true SPN fic I ever wrote, and b) even after I tweaked it, I was like, "Bleh, this is so pointless." Well, pointless it may be, but I re-read it and decided, what the hell? The boys are headed for an angst-fest as the season two finale draws nearer, and I, for one, think they deserve some of their whacked version of brotherly love. And yeah, well, it may have no point or real plot, but whatever. And as for the songs? I sang them at girl scout camp when I was ten and for whatever reason they guest-starred in this fic. What are you looking at me like that for? I liked girl scout camp, okay::cough:: (Reviews, as always, are greatly appreciated. xD)


"Wanna see a picture, Sammy?" Dean smiles down at me, green eyes bright, freckles popping from all the extra time we've spent outdoors.

"Uh-huh," I agree, and scoot over on the bed so he can sit down. My big brother, who is seven years old and my best friend in the entire world, slides in next to me, a photograph clutched in his fist.

"I found this in Daddy's sock drawer," he says conspiratorially. "Promise you won't tell."

"I promise," I say obediently. "But Dean, what were you doing lookin' in—"

"Sammy, do you wanna see the picture or not?"

"Well…okay." I peer curiously at him. "Lemme see!" He reaches into his pocket and whips out a photo, and I examine it closely. There's Daddy and Dean—I know them—but there are two strangers: a little baby and a pretty woman with long blonde hair. "Who're they?" I demand, pointing at the woman and the baby. Dean looks aghast.

"Don't be stupid," he scoffs. "That's you and Mommy!"

"That's Mommy?" I ask, looking up at him wide-eyed for confirmation. "Wow!"

"Yeah, she's pretty isn't she?" Dean asks all-knowingly. He stares down at the picture, and something flickers across his face that I'm too young to recognize as childish grief. Just as quickly, it disappears. "I miss her, Sammy."

"Me too," I announce, patting Dean's shoulder comfortingly.

"No you don't. You don't even remember her."

"Sure I do," I say cheerfully. "She sings nice songs!"

Dean pauses, staring at me.


"I hear them all the time," I say. "When I'm sleepin'."

"What songs, Sammy?"

" 'Skidamarinky-dinky-dink, skidamarinky-do, I love you. I love you in the morning, and in the afternoon, I love you in the evening, and underneath the moon, oh—skidamarinky-dinky-dink, skidamarinky-do, I love you!'" I sing quietly as Dean gapes at me.

"You—you can't remember that! She sang me'n you that when you were just a little baby!"

"So?" I smile. "It takes away the bad dreams."

"Bad dreams?"

"Sure. I dream about fire and a lady on the ceiling…" I trail off as the color drains from Dean's face. "I know, scary, huh? But whenever I start feeling all creeped out I hear a pretty voice singing me the song or the one about the donut shop and then it's all better!" I rub my eyes, then happily clamber out of bed. "C'mon Dean, Daddy'll be mad if we don't hurry up and get downstairs. Pastor Jim's comin' to visit!"

That night, Daddy sits me down on the sofa and says quietly,

"Sammy, we need to talk about Mommy." He takes a deep breath, then looks at Dean, who is standing, pale-faced, across the room with his hands shoved in his pockets. "I'm going to tell you about how she died."


I wake up confused, sweaty, and panting.

"Sam, you ok?" Dean is propped against the headboard of the motel bed, the remote in his hand indicating he's been flipping through channels.

"Yeah," I manage, sitting up quickly and running a hand over my face.

"Bad dreams?"

"No…no, not exactly." I rub my temples distractedly, then turn back to him. "Hey…Dean…did Mom ever sing us songs?" He freezes visibly, the look of concern evaporating.

"Why—why would you say that?"

"It's just that the dream I was having…I think it was a memory or something. Did Dad tell me how Mom died when I was three?"

"Oh God," Dean says, throwing the remote down and letting his head loll back against the headboard. "Tell me, Sam, where the hell did you get that great long-term memory of yours? For Christ's sake, you were three!"

"So it was a memory." I yawn widely. "Weird, how I knew about the singing, the fire."

"Yeah. Weird." He eyes me warily. "So you really remember that, huh?"

"Yup. I forgot all about that, up 'til now…and after that, I don't think I had dreams about fire, and I don't think I heard the songs anymore…"

"What, 'skidamarinky-dinky-dink'?"

"And the donut one." I raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you remember the words to that?"

"Yes," he says shortly, turning back to the TV.

"Aw, come on, man!" I say indignantly. "I only know the skidamarinky one!"

"I don't know if you've noticed, Sammy, but this isn't a chick flick. Now go back to sleep, I was enjoying this crappy eighties movie," he informs me in a bored sort of voice. I pause, then grin evilly.

"Hey, Dean." He glances over at me, then just as quickly looks away, groaning.

"Come on, dude, not the puppy-dog eyes! You're not eight anymore; that won't work!"

"Oh yeah?" I clamber off the bed and bounce over onto his. "Please?"


"Please, Dean?" I plead, refusing to move out of his line of vision as I plaster the most innocent, I'm-Your-Little-Brother-and-You're-Supposed-To-Protect-Me look I can muster across my face.

"Oh, jeez, Sam!" He squinches his eyes shut. "Why the hell do you care, anyway? It's a lullaby!"

"Yeah," I say quietly, "but Mom sang it." He pauses, jaw clenching irritably, and I know I've got him.

"Well…for the love of—fine." Dean shoves me out of the way. "So, she used to sing this right before bed when she read us our story in your room…"

"She read us a story every night?" I ask, curious.

"Of course she did. I was obsessed with some lame-ass little kid's book called The Mitten, and she read that pretty much every night," he tells me. "Now do you wanna hear this thing or what?"

"Oops, my bad. Carry on."

"The things I put up with," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. "All right, so it goes like this, then—Well I ran around the corner and I ran around the block and I ran right into a donut shop, and I picked up a donut and I wiped off the grease and I handed the lady there a five cent piece! Well she looked at the nickel and she looked at me and she said, 'This money is no good you see! There's a hole in the middle and it goes right through!' and I said, 'There's a hole in my donut, too! Thanks for the donut—too-de-loo!'"

"Why," I say after a moment's silence, "would you run around the corner and the block for some five cent donut?" I pause again to think. "And why would there be a hole in the nickel?"

"One of the great mysteries of life, Sam," Dean says sarcastically. "Why don't you mull it over while you're asleep?"

"It's a nice song," I say, ignoring him. "I like it. I bet it was your favorite."

"So what if it was?" he asks gruffly. "I was four. My tastes have improved."

"Aw, I think that's so cute," I say, grinning evilly again at him. "Little Dean and his favorite lullaby—"

"Says the guy who resorts to the puppy-dog eyes at age twenty-three…"

"At least I didn't fall for the puppy-dog eyes at age twenty-seven."

A long pause.

"Ok, so we're both losers," Dean says finally, cracking a grin. "And this whole stupid conversation reeks of girly-ness. I'm going to bed."


It's been hours and I can't fall back sleep. Dean seems to be having no trouble in that department, though he's been tossing and turning relentlessly. I'm about to give the whole sleeping thing another try when Dean whimpers.


I've heard a lot of things come out of Dean's mouth—curses, insults, grunts, dumb jokes, pick-up lines, stupid nicknames for me, and more—but never, not even when he was in pain, have I heard him whimper.

Understandably concerned, I slip over towards his bed and kneel next to it.

"Dean?" I whisper. "You okay?"

His response is to shift uncomfortably, and grumble something under his breath as sweat beads on his brow, jaw tightening, one hand clenched around the knife under his pillow. Dean has dreams like this sometimes—nightmares he never talks about, nightmares I usually ignore because he would probably be more angry than grateful if I woke him up or tried to make things better.

Fixing things is Dean's job. He doesn't really like it when I try to butt in.

Still though, I've never heard a whimper before, and really, I don't like seeing him like this.

"Dean?" I try again hesitantly. "Hey, Dean, you're just dreaming." I shake his shoulders a little, but it's no use; once Dean relaxes enough to really sleep, nothing can wake him except a gunshot (I know this from experience) or an evil spirit. He tosses more fitfully than ever now, shoulders tightened, arms flailing so wildly I have to duck.

"Sorry—no—didn't mean…" he mutters under his breath, panting a little.

"Hey, Dean, you're okay," I assure him, patting his shoulder comfortingly, but he only starts to toss around more and continue to mutter worriedly. So then, I do the only thing I can think of.

Kind of geeky even by my standards, but oh well.

"I ran around the corner, I ran around the block—uh…Skidamarinky-dinky-dink, skidamarinky-do...there's a hole in the nickel and there's a hole in the donut too...and skidarmarinky-dinky-dink, in the afternoon, too-de-loo." I'm a bit out of it myself, still not fully conscious, and the words to the songs are sort of escaping me right now (I know if Dean was conscious he would totally be punching me in the face) but for what it's worth he stops shaking and sweating and seems to calm down. "You'll be okay," I tell him one last time. "Sleep better, man."

Then I go back to trying to catch a few winks myself and failing miserably at it.


"You sleep okay, Sammy?"

"Sure did," I tell Dean, yawning widely.

"You know," he says, "it's weird. I was having a pretty bad dream last night, but then that I heard some sort of lullaby from hell and miraculously the dream stopped."

"Wow," I say, rubbing my forehead. "That's really special, there, Dean."

"What? It's happened to you too!"

"Yeah, but I was three."

"Oh, shut up, Haley Joel."

"Okay, you've got to stop it with that stupid Sixth Sense reference! I don't see invisible dead people strolling around the streets, and it was only funny the first hundred times!"

"Ah, I seem to have touched a nerve, college boy," Dean says gleefully.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," I snap back.

"Would you just leave me alone?"

"Well, all right, I guess I'll just go get some coffee then," Dean says dramatically in mock-offense.

"You do that."

He pauses on his way out the door, then turns.

"Hey, Sam, about that messed-up song during my nightmare." He eyes me knowingly. "Thanks." I eye him back.

"You're welcome."

A pause.

"And Sam?" he asks.


"Never. Again."