Chapter Text
Dean doesn't know where the First Blade is, but he can hear it.
He can mostly ignore it during the day, when he can drown it out with the noise of working on the Impala, cooking, or doing research with Sam. But at night, when the bunker is quiet, just before he falls asleep, the silence itself seems to take on that high, mind-numbing note. And to this poisonous lullaby, he sinks into dreams of blood and teeth and murder.
This particular night, he finds himself staring into his own face-- a twisted, feral version of it, with black demon eyes. His alter ego speaks, but the voice issuing from his mouth sounds wrong, it isn’t Dean’s voice, it sounds much more like Cain’s...and it tells him, “Then would come the murder you’d never survive, the one that would finally turn you into as much of a savage as it did me.” Dean tries to protest, but he can’t make a sound, and he jerks awake gasping and making strangled noises in the back of his throat.
Dean lies there for a few moments, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, scanning the dark bedroom. He can just distinguish the dark blobs that are his guns decorating the walls, the blocky shapes of his dresser and bookcases, the books and papers scattered across the floor. All is silent, and the song of the First Blade is in his head again. Suddenly, Dean wishes he was back in a dingy motel room with scratchy sheets and lumpy pillows. As much as Dean likes having his own room--and as glad as he is that it means he can keep his nightmares private--he misses having Sam's reassuring presence a few feet away, misses the sound of his even breathing filling the room.
Now, though, Sam is down the hall and Dean will have to get up and go over there if he wants that reassurance. He sighs and heaves himself upright, bare feet padding soundlessly on the floor. He listens briefly outside the door to Sam’s bedroom. At first, he hears nothing. Then, a faint whimper filters out into the hallway. Dean clenches his teeth and eases the door open.
Sam’s moving restlessly under the covers, clearly having a nightmare of his own. Dean steps forward, thinking he should go to him, wake him up, try to comfort him like he always used to when they were younger. But then Sam speaks in his sleep, and his words stop Dean cold.
“Dean, stop! Listen! I know you’re still in there, somewhere. I don’t want to use this blade on you!”
Dean feels sick. It’s not just any nightmare Sam’s having--he’s dreaming about the day Dean almost killed him. Would have, if Cas hadn’t stepped in. Now everything in him is screaming that he needs to go over there and wake Sam out of that dreadful nightmare, shatter the terrible images he must be seeing. But will Sam want to see him, having just awoken from such a dream? Would he want comfort from Dean, having just relived the moment when Dean tried to kill him?
Dean hesitates too long. Sam stirs, waking, and sits up when he makes out Dean's outline in the open doorway.
"Dean? What're you doing?"
Dean swallows, willing his voice to be steady when he speaks. "Couldn't sleep." It comes out a little hoarse. "Thought I'd check on you."
There's a pause, and Dean expects Sam to whine at him that he's not a little kid, hasn't been for a long time, and he doesn't need to be checked on in the middle of the night. So he's totally unprepared when Sam says sympathetically, "Another nightmare?"
Dean stills, his stomach plummeting. "What? No," he denies flatly, knowing as he says it that it’s already too late. Even in the dark, he can tell Sam's giving him The Bitchface.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, in that irritating way of his.
Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking down at the floor. “How did you know?” he asks in a low voice.
“Come on, Dean,” Sam says, exasperated. “Did you think you were the only one who can't sleep sometimes?"
“Guess I’m not.”
“Guess not.” Sam’s voice sounds hollow.
I'm not a demon anymore, Dean wants to say. You cured me, Sammy. Except that he's not so sure of that himself, these days.
"Hey Dean?" Sam sounds uncomfortable. Dean rouses himself from his thoughts.
"Yeah?"
“Um… you wanna give the separate rooms a pass for tonight?"
Dean surprises himself by feeling nothing but profound relief at the suggestion, as though he had been waiting anxiously for it all along. He shuts the door behind him, shuffles over to the bed, and climbs in next to Sam. Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he sidles over until he can feel his brother's warm body pressed against his side. Sam lets out a breath, as though he’s relieved, too, and presses back.
The silence seems different in Sam's room. Calmer, quieter somehow. It's only right as he's about to fall asleep that Dean realizes he can't hear the First Blade's song anymore. Huh, he thinks. Maybe Sam's cure worked after all.
Then he slips gratefully into a dreamless sleep.