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Bobby's house is completely silent, though you're unable to perceive it. If you were able to appreciate the silence, perhaps you'd be asleep. Perhaps its calm would have lulled you into the wasteland of dreams.
Perhaps you wouldn't have ended up like this. On the living room rug, legs crossed, the hollow of your neck resting on the sofa.
After turning over and over, and over again on the mattress, you've decided that it was enough.
Blame the voices and images and the dialogue in your head. A turn to the left and the question of whether you'll ever stop staring into people's eyes to see if they hide completely black pupils. Another turn in bed. The thought of a family. The possibility of losing a child to a ghost.
Another turn.
Dean's bloody chin. Sam's hands on the first aid kit. The lights of a hospital.
You couldn't take it anymore. At least in the living room you could keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, and watch as the shadows of the night drew figures. With the living room light on, they were very timid. Soft silhouettes that danced.
You had intended to read one of the books Bobby piled up there, but it had been quickly forgotten to one side.
You were too tired for that.
In fact, your eyelids were closing, in that strange position, despite being unable to stop the wheel in your mind from spinning. That's the thing about insomnia, you are tired, despite being unable to fall asleep.
That's why you don't hear him.
You don't hear Sam's footsteps coming down the stairs, nor the sound the refrigerator makes when he grabs the water pitcher.
He's the first to notice your presence.
The light catches his attention. Damn Dean, Bobby's going to end up charging us for the electricity. It's when he's about to turn off the switch that he senses your body. Your head thrown back, eyes closed.
He says your name, very quietly. A whisper.
Of course you don't hear him.
You don't hear him until he's two steps away. Bent over, his knees encased in flannel pants, a worn Stanford T-shirt as his pajama top. It's starting to get too tight for him.
He says your name again. Very softly.
That's when you open your eyes.
If you weren't so tired, you might feel embarrassed. That's usually the effect Sam has on you. Unlike Dean, whose jokes have helped you distinguish him as a stupid hunter and also a friend, with Sam it's different. You are friends, of course. You've been in that house with them long enough for both brothers to have become part of your world.
But Sam is… just different. He's formal. He's always calm around you, but in a tense way, as someone who is holding something back. He spends hours researching in front of his computer. He always knows what he's talking about. He talks to you in a certain way. Not paternalistic, but profound. With respect.
Ultimately, he's intimidating.
"I think you fell asleep..." His voice is deep when he speaks. Did you wake him up when you shuffled past his bedroom door, exhausted?
"No. I'm not asleep." You try to sit up a little, using your elbows for support. It's an awkward gesture. Because you're so, so tired; moving has become an effort. "I can't sleep."
Sam notices, of course he does, how your eyes open weakly; and the frown that forms between your eyebrows as you look around. Disoriented.
"Well, but its sleepy time, don't you think?" His tone sifts. Something in him warms up just seeing you barely able to open your eyes.
Mm is all you are capable to say. His hand rises, finally pressing his index finger against the spot between your eyes. You hadn't even noticed the pressure building there. A sigh escapes you.
Sam smiles. Unlike his brother, he always notices your presence. The effort you make, how tired you look at the end of the day. What you carry, like all of them, on your shoulders. It seems that tonight it weighs a little more heavily on you.
More composed, you rub your eyelid and pick up the book lying beside you. You hold it up so he can see it.
"Actually, I did go to sleep. But I couldn't fall asleep."
"And you decided to read?" You nod, but a pout escapes you. Sam's eyes land on that spot, above your slightly raised lower lip. His gaze changes. It softens. It transforms into an expression bordering on the desperation of a hungry puppy.
"I haven't read anything." The words escape you with frustration.
You almost feel like crying. You're so tired, and you haven't slept. And who knows what time it is. And tomorrow you'll have another case, and to make matters worse, not only will you be tired, but Sam will be too, because you've already kept him awake. And you don't want to bother him.
And it's not fair, because all you want is to be able to sleep.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I just wanted to sleep. And I can't..." You bend your knees, resting your forehead on them. Your voice comes out muffled. "I can't sleep. And it's not the first day. And I'm so tired. So, so tired. And I'm sorry I bothered you, tomorrow we'll both be tired..."
"Stop."
Your mouth closes suddenly. You've never heard him speak to you like that. With authority. Something inside you jumps. You're about to raise your head to look at him again, to apologize again, when you feel the palms of his hands beneath you.
In a second you're in the air, leaning against his chest.
Too shocked to say a single word.
The sensation lasts barely a second, the time it takes Sam to lower your body onto his own on the sofa. You're lying across his lap, your upper body pressed against his chest.
You're too tense to notice him bend down to pick up the book you had on the floor.
"Slavic folklore, really?" Then his eyes are on you, with an almost amused smile. You feel the heat rise up your neck. You're going to open your mouth, this time for real, and say something. He pulls the blanket over the head of the sofa with his left hand and covers your legs. “I’ll make sure you sleep, but if you have nightmares about this…”
“It’s interesting.” You try to defend yourself, but it comes out as an excuse.
He has kept one hand on your bent knees. He gives it a squeeze. His other arm encircles you just enough so you can see him open the book with one hand.
“Get this… Samodivas lure men in the middle of the night, in the woods, to beguile and eat them.”
You already knew that, because like him, you also read a lot. But you’re barely aware of what he’s saying. A sweet, comforting warmth has enveloped you, as Sam’s voice remains steady and low.
He reassures you, reassures you enough so that you forget your heart had been racing two seconds ago. Calm you enough so that your head naturally ends up tilting against his chest. Enough so that his pine scent, his clean smell, makes you close your eyes. You're listening to him, and Sam knows it. He keeps reading as he feels your body giving up against his. His hand gently traces your leg, caressing you in circles.
As he turns the pages, with difficulty and thanks to his thumb, he notices how your breathing starts to deep in.
His does too, to such an extent that the book ends up slipping from his hand, and he has to make an effort to let it fall onto the table before it clatters. All of it without waking you up.
You've fallen asleep against his chest. The sensation it awakens in him is so profound that his body knows it's time to give in too. He's about to fall asleep too.
That's how Bobby will find you in the morning, and it won't be the only day. They will keep finding each other, at night. Too tired to talk about what is happening to them, but knowing that they both have been aware about how something is changed.
Bobby notices. And in the old hunter's gaze there will be something akin to nostalgia. To the vision of his wife, in what already seems like another life, lying in his arms on that same sofa.
Rocked, like you by Sam, into a sleep much sweeter than what reality allows you both.