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After what feels like an eternity of restless tossing and turning, Sam gives up. He won't be able to fall asleep; not tonight, not like this. Not after everything.
Kicking the covers aside, he gets up and lets his bare feet carry him outside his room and to Dean's door. He stops there for a moment, reconsidering, hand on the doorknob.
Staying in crappy motels had some upsides, and sharing a room was certainly one of them. It gave Sam (and Dean, because this goes both ways) a chance to check on his brother without being too overt about it; taking a peek through the darkness to see Dean's sleeping form on the bed next to his, being able to hear him breathe, to know he's there and alive and okay—or as okay as it gets for them anyway. There have been countless times when Sam needed that, and he needs it now.
He knocks, then waits. Surely Dean can't be asleep yet?
"Yeah," comes through the door finally, and Sam quickly turns the handle, stepping inside. Light from the hallway floods in around him, illuminating the dark room.
Dean's in bed, huddled under a blanket, looking tired, miserable and a little suspicious. "What's up, Sammy?"
Shrugging, Sam gives him a sheepish half-smile. "Couldn't sleep." He heaves a sigh, looks at Dean pleadingly. Usually, that's more than enough, but Dean just sits there and says nothing, forcing Sam to add, "You mind if I stay here tonight?"
He's using the full extent of his younger brother powers, and they always do the trick, but Dean doesn’t budge, although he's starting to fidget under Sam's imploring gaze.
"Please," Sam says, and Dean deflates, hanging his head.
"Alright, get in here." He pats the mattress next to him. "And shut the door, will you? I wanna sleep."
Sam does, crossing the room in the dark by memory, finding the bed and slipping under the covers next to Dean, only to find out that in the meantime, Dean's moved to the other side of the bed, facing away from Sam.
Sam lies still and stares at Dean's back, his shoulders, and wonders if they really seem tense or if he's just seeing things. If Dean even lets himself truly relax these days.
"I'm here, Sam," Dean says. "I'm not gonna run off in the middle of the night, alright?"
"Okay."
"So quit thinking so loud and go to sleep."
Sam tries, he really tries, but even with Dean right next to him, he can't stop thinking about it—that horrible box, now stored in the garage, an ugly sword of Damocles hanging over them both. And Dean, asking Sam to promise the impossible, to do the unthinkable. The one thing he can't, won't do.
He shifts, like he's just trying to find a more comfortable position, but what it does is get him closer to Dean. They're finally touching, Sam's foot brushing against Dean's calf, hand bumping into Dean's arm. Dean stills, and Sam takes it as a sign that he is waiting for Sam to make the first move; he rarely initiates things between them, usually leaving it up to Sam to cross the line from brothers to more.
Sam slowly starts to drag his hand down, over Dean's bicep, elbow, forearm. Fingers wrapping around his wrist—and finding hard metal there.
Dean lets out a shaky breath. "Just... let it be."
Like that's gonna happen. “Seriously?”
Silence.
Sitting up, Sam fumbles for the light on Dean's bedside table, switching it on so he can take a better look. "Handcuffs?"
Dean sits up, back against the headboard. "They're not handcuffs, they're wristbands… with a few improvements."
"Oh, okay. And when did you decide to join a nineties boy band?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "When I realized you'd throw a bitch fit if I wore the cuffs!"
"Of course I'd throw a fit," and Sam doesn't even care about the wording, "You can't do this to yourself!"
"Yeah, Sam, I can. Actually, I should. I can't just walk around completely unchecked, Michael could break free any second."
"He won't."
"You willing to bet the world on that? 'Cause I ain't. And you shouldn't either, I taught you better than that."
"Dean—"
"Sam, please." Dean's voice drops to that quiet, urgent tone. He's looking at his hands, fingers running across the sigils etched in the surface of those damn iron things. "I promised we'd try things your way, okay? But you gotta give me this, at least. It's killing me, knowing that if I slip up, let my guard down for even a second, it's game over and Michael's free to destroy the world. I need this. It's my safety net."
"Safety nets are for keeping people safe."
"Exactly!" Dean holds up one wrist. "That's what these are for. I followed Bobby's recipe, used the right material and sigils. They should power Michael down just like the cuffs. Give you guys a chance to wrestle him inside the box and lose the key."
Sam wants to scream, or maybe cry, and definitely argue. But he can't, not with Dean staring at him like that, all wide-eyed and sad and looking almost small in his sleeping shirt, the collar buttoned up—
"Hey!" Dean is too late to smack Sam's hand away, and Sam pushes the collar of his shirt to the side.
"Dean? What's that?"
"Safety net number two."
"Meaning?" Sam leans closer to take a better look at the small jar around Dean's neck.
"Holy oil," Dean explains. "I called Rowena, she gave me a few pointers. The jar's enchanted, it'll break and spark a fire if I lose control. In theory, at least."
Sam feels sick at the idea of Dean setting himself on fire. "I thought you promised you'd lay off the suicidal, self-destructive stuff."
"And I told you, it's not self-destructive, it's... world-protective."
"That's not a word."
"It is now."
"You're part of the world too, you know."
"Yeah. But expendable."
Sam shakes his head, in denial of Dean's flippant rebuttal of his own importance, and in frustration. "You're not expendable to me."
Dean's expression softens, but he quickly hides it by turning away, staring into the corner. "Sam..."
"I mean it."
"I know, Sammy. I know." Dean's hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing. Staying there. "Hey, you said it yourself. We'll find another way. Until then, I just need my—"
"Safety net, I know." Sam blinks back tears. "Okay."
"So, we good?"
"Uh-huh."
"Good. Now can you turn the light off? I really need to get some rest." Dean hesitates, then adds, “He's yelling and banging nonstop, it's kinda wearing me out."
Sam swallows, nodding. It's not the same thing as when he had those Lucifer hallucinations, but it's probably close enough that he can relate. The trouble is that if the Lucifer in Sam’s head had gotten the upper hand, the worst-case scenario would have been him losing it completely and eventually dying. If Dean loses control, he'll have to live—possibly forever—with the memory of watching, helpless, as his body is used to destroy the world.
That would be a fate truly worse than death for his brother; Sam can't let that happen to Dean. But he can't let him lock himself away in that box, either.
"We'll find a way," he says.
Dean gives him a tired, yet somehow still reassuring smile. "I'm counting on it." He ruffles Sam's hair, then drops back down on his pillow. "Now, the light?"
"Yeah, sure. Sorry."
The room cast in darkness again, Sam snuggles up to Dean, bodies pressed together, and puts one arm around Dean's waist. Dean doesn't say anything, but he wiggles a little, scooting even closer.
Sam listens to his breathing, regular, slow; the pattern of Dean falling asleep familiar, comforting.
He will watch over him, wake him up if Dean has another nightmare, make sure he gets some rest.
And hope that when Dean opens his eyes in the morning, they won't shine bright blue.