"Not tired," Sam tells him, and it sounds more like a petulant response of a nap-deprived four year old. Fantastic.
Dean, for once, doesn't comment on it. "Here," he says instead, and the next thing Sam knows is that there's a blanket in his lap. A really soft one, one that smells fresh and clean and new. One that suddenly reminds him of the suspicious looking shape in the Wal-Mart bag Dean bought just that morning.
Bastard.
"I'm not-"
"Tired, I know," Dean says, and he's serious now. "But you didn't sleep well three nights ago, you barely got two hours two days ago, and last night you didn't sleep at all. Your dark circles have circles, and...look, I'm worried about you, okay? You need sleep, Sammy," Dean pleads, turning away from the road to look at him and pin him with the very big-brother-worried face. "You need to talk to me in a girly manner, that's fine, so long as you catch a few z's."
Hell. "It's not that, I..." The blanket feels soft and warm in his lap, and the urge to lean into the leather jacket-pillow is growing with each moment. He is tired, bone tired, and he wants to sleep. The nightmares won't quit, though, and he knows it.
"I won't sleep long," he admits softly. "I'll just wake up because of..." Saying "nightmares" or "bad dreams" out loud just doesn't convey the bad things that'll happen.
Dean's already reaching for the tape player, though, and soon Styx is playing through the speakers. One of Sam's favorite bands, and Sam smiles softly. "I'll wake you up if something happens," Dean says casually. I got you, is the unspoken promise.
His brother had him at "Sammy," and they both know it. Sam lets his head rest on the pillow and closes his burning eyes. The lids are heavy and he lets out a sigh of relief when they close. His body twists back into a comfortable position, and he can feel Dean tugging the blanket up just a little bit higher. Not because it's particularly cold out, but just because he can.
"Thank you," seems silly. They don't do that unless it's earth-shattering, life and death. "Can't believe you bought me a fleece blanket," Sam murmurs, already half asleep.
"You should be grateful it wasn't pink," Dean retorts, but there's a smile in his voice, Sam can hear it.
For the first time in weeks, Sam doesn't dream at all.
Not Asleep On the Road, 2/2
Dean, for once, doesn't comment on it. "Here," he says instead, and the next thing Sam knows is that there's a blanket in his lap. A really soft one, one that smells fresh and clean and new. One that suddenly reminds him of the suspicious looking shape in the Wal-Mart bag Dean bought just that morning.
Bastard.
"I'm not-"
"Tired, I know," Dean says, and he's serious now. "But you didn't sleep well three nights ago, you barely got two hours two days ago, and last night you didn't sleep at all. Your dark circles have circles, and...look, I'm worried about you, okay? You need sleep, Sammy," Dean pleads, turning away from the road to look at him and pin him with the very big-brother-worried face. "You need to talk to me in a girly manner, that's fine, so long as you catch a few z's."
Hell. "It's not that, I..." The blanket feels soft and warm in his lap, and the urge to lean into the leather jacket-pillow is growing with each moment. He is tired, bone tired, and he wants to sleep. The nightmares won't quit, though, and he knows it.
"I won't sleep long," he admits softly. "I'll just wake up because of..." Saying "nightmares" or "bad dreams" out loud just doesn't convey the bad things that'll happen.
Dean's already reaching for the tape player, though, and soon Styx is playing through the speakers. One of Sam's favorite bands, and Sam smiles softly. "I'll wake you up if something happens," Dean says casually. I got you, is the unspoken promise.
His brother had him at "Sammy," and they both know it. Sam lets his head rest on the pillow and closes his burning eyes. The lids are heavy and he lets out a sigh of relief when they close. His body twists back into a comfortable position, and he can feel Dean tugging the blanket up just a little bit higher. Not because it's particularly cold out, but just because he can.
"Thank you," seems silly. They don't do that unless it's earth-shattering, life and death. "Can't believe you bought me a fleece blanket," Sam murmurs, already half asleep.
"You should be grateful it wasn't pink," Dean retorts, but there's a smile in his voice, Sam can hear it.
For the first time in weeks, Sam doesn't dream at all.
~Nebula