Title: Hotel Beds and Nightmares
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the pants I'm wearing
Summary: Sam makes a note of the way Dean sleeps
Archive: Please ask first
Feedback: as always, yes please but no nits or shreds thanks
Author's Notes: I need to stop staring at Dean in bed and thinking – both are dangerous to my health.
Sam looked at his brother lay on the tackily-covered motel bed. He was lay on his stomach with one arm under his head and one arm under the pillow, undoubtedly clutching whichever weapon he'd stashed under there. Usually a Bowie knife, but sometimes one of the handguns. But always a weapon of some sort.
When they'd been kids, it had been a slingshot, or a water-pistol, or one of dad's less dangerous weapons. Often times, once Sam had fallen asleep, Dean would either flick soggy toilet paper balls at him of squirt cold water in his ear – always making him yelp. If dad was there, it was often followed by a 'Dean, get your butt here!'
But that was then, and things were much different now. Though they still pranked each other whenever the opportunity arose, Sam was glad his brother had outgrown the water-pistol and slingshot. But either of those was preferable to the time Dean nearly took his ear off with the Bowie when Sam had woken him from what he was sure was a nightmare.
He glanced down at Dean again. The cheap sheets were wrapped around his lower half like some bizarre half-wrapped mummy, tangled around his legs like bandages. His gray t-shirt clung to the damp on his body and outlined the well-formed muscles beneath it. Hunting had shaped more than their lives. It had shaped their very existence. Their bodies were finely tuned engines that ran on junk food and coffee. Nutrition meant nothing in the face of a demon.
Even in deep sleep, Dean's body was tense…coiled…primed for a fight…ready to strike at a moments notice.
Sam often wondered what his brother dreamed about, if he dreamed at all. Did he dream about happier times when they were younger? Did they ihave/i happier times from when they were younger? Sam had once asked Dean what he dreamed of at night, and Dean's answer had been: 'dreamin's for girls, Sammy. I bet you dream, huh, hey Sammy?' But Sam knew Dean had nightmares. How could he not after the things they'd seen, killed…Nightmares were part and parcel of the job.
His nightmares plagued his thoughts even in the day. Like there was no escape from them. Haunting him. There were some things he could never get over. Like his mom's death…like Jessica's death…
The coffees in Sam's hand got warmer and warmer until…
No movement. Sam rolled his eyes.
"Dean," he called louder.
Dean rolled over and scrunched up his face, squinting at the small amount of light seeping in through the threadbare curtains…he was not a morning guy. Period.
Tightly coiled spring…ready to attack…yeah, right, Sam laughed.