Dean is about 9 and Sam is around 5.
I own nothing. I'm sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes.
The door creaks.
Little feet hitting the wooden floor... quickly, urgently... tap-tap-tap-tap.
A little hand on his blanket covered shoulder. Not squeezing, just resting there. Softly.
If he could just... go deeper into the dreams; take what they are offering to him right now and just… leave reality to deal with itself for just one more minute.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
Dreams fading into the dark room. All is lost.
Turning around. Slowly, sleepily. Bed groaning underneath his weight.
Rubbing his eyes with his right hand; bleeding the sleep out of them.
Sam in his pajama, bare feet, hair all over the place - some of it plastered to his forehead, his temples - huge eyes, bleary eyes, soft eyes,teary eyes. His thumb in his mouth.
"Daddy smells..." searching for the word, "bad again 'n my room's cold 'n my blanky's itchy 'n my feet're then cold. Can I has..." not the right word, "have some water?"
Sam's talking too fast for his brain to understand it all. Too fast... too scared.
"Do ya wanna sleep here?" He whispers. Can't find his voice right now.
Sam's eyes... just... brighten in the moonlight. They hit Dean square on his chest; like something fell on him and took the breath right out of him.
Sam's his little brother... always has been. Always will be. No matter how cold Sam's feet are when he accidentally brushes them against his, no matter if Sam smells like sweat - fear, no matter if Sam's PJ is wet - everywhere, no matter if Sam's hands bunch up the blanket, squeezing it at his chin. No matter.
"Don't hog the blanket."
Sam kicks, arms flying everywhere, turns left and right, on his stomach, on his back and finally settles on his right side; not touching Dean, not touching anything, but the blanket and the sheets.
It's a lie, but no matter... he'll give the blanket to Sam anyway soon, because Sam is a human furnace and he doesn't wanna burn alive.
He can't... a dust flake gets stuck in his throat. He can't...
He can't... speak.
He swallows the dust flake down. Turns around to look at his brother. Shiny eyes meet his.
Sam's his to protect. To keep safe. Alive.
"You good now?"
Sam settles down. Breathes out. Relaxes into the bed. Calms down slowly.
Wind rattles some tree branches outside.
Intake of breath, nerves in his stomach coming alive. He's nervous, scared, petrified... panic starting in his head and spreading to his stomach.
It hurts... squeezes his insides. He thinks he's gonna puke.
Sam breathes behind him; soft noise... the night is young outside the window. Windy.
But Sam's safe.
Sam extends his leg, hits him directly into his calf.
He doesn't care. Sam's safe.
Dad'll sober up.
In the morning.
If he won't be gone by then.
He grips the gun under the pillow with surer hands.