Sam’s night terrors changed things. At first, Dad stayed with them. Then he shipped them off to Pastor Jim’s where, frankly, they had a great time running mad and disrespectful through his church chasing kittens and little girl named Jean who lived next door to the rectory. But, John Winchester did not like the distance to stretch too far between him and his sons. Dean was not surprised when they took to the road again and found that nothing had really changed after all, except the accommodations. Shitty houses and trailers. Apartments. Larger places. Places where a boy might scream his head off at 3:30 in the morning and cause less of a fuss than he would at a motel.
Dean learned to deal. In retrospect, he knew it had been harder on him. Sam might have woken up screaming, once or twice so keyed up that he’d even peed in his fuzzy blue pajamas, but once calmed, once soothed, he fell back asleep and remembered … nothing. He woke chipper every morning, early, God the kid had to have been part rooster because he’d gotten up so early. And he’d had no idea that he’d clung to Dean in terror for nearly an hour the night before, that he’d cried until he had no voice, that he’d gone back to sleep clutching tightly to his brother and to his book.
For almost eighteen months, Sam had been plagued by night terrors. They made infrequent appearances after that, but they were like snowstorms in May. Unexpected. Rare. And gone as quickly as they’d come. Dean didn’t know how he could tell the difference between Sam screaming himself awake from a nightmare and Sam screaming himself, well, that was it really. Sam didn’t wake from the night terrors. Dean had tried it once, tried not waking him because some bullshit book that Dad had brought home had suggested that it was better for Sammy’s sleep patterns or some shit to just let him lay there and scream like the world was ending and it was all his fault. Dean hadn’t been able to stand it. He himself had started crying after letting Sam scream for nearly thirty minutes. He’d woken him from it, shushed him, cuddled him, cried all over him, and Sam, tiny, chubby Sam with his big curls and his big eyes just hung on to him as if Dean had been the one piece of driftwood on all of the sea. Dean had read him back to sleep that night, once they were both calmer. Sam’s book with its silly scowling tugboat that had been all cross and surly because the world was too small and he’d wanted it to be bigger. Dean read to him. Sam, his breath still hitching at odd times as if crying had been an earthquake and he was having aftershocks, lay against him, his head over Dean’s heart, and he would sometimes point to the book and smile. And that’s how he always went back to sleep, with a smile.
So, this? This Dean knows. He knows Sam isn’t having a nightmare. He can tell it from the tone of his screams as he’s tromping down the basement stairs to the panic room. He can see it on Castiel’s face as he stands next to the iron door, brows pinched over his huge and endlessly blue eyes. He can hear it in the aching, terrified loss in Sam’s screams.
“I thought,” Castiel begins, “that Sam was improving. The demon blood should be purged and he has seemed stronger. He ate for me. Soft-boiled eggs over toast, just like you said. I thought he was improving,” the angel says again.
“It’s not the demon blood,” Dean tells him. He stops next to the angel for a moment and wonders, if Castiel looks that bad, how bad must Dean himself look? Are the shadows under his eyes twice as purple? Are his clothes beyond disheveled? Does he look as much in need of a hug and some sympathy and a little fucking hope?
He can see the questions budding on Castiel’s lips and he knows that the angel is about to just demand answers. Castiel may be new at friendship, but Dean knows already that he’s very fierce, very protective. Maybe he doesn’t know if he should treat Sam like a child or a man half the time, but the need to care for him seems to be instinctive to Castiel now. Dean approves, God does he ever, but he’s tired and it hurts him to listen to Sammy scream like that.
Re: Filled: A Toy Store Is No Place For a Red-Painted Tugboat 2/4
Dean learned to deal. In retrospect, he knew it had been harder on him. Sam might have woken up screaming, once or twice so keyed up that he’d even peed in his fuzzy blue pajamas, but once calmed, once soothed, he fell back asleep and remembered … nothing. He woke chipper every morning, early, God the kid had to have been part rooster because he’d gotten up so early. And he’d had no idea that he’d clung to Dean in terror for nearly an hour the night before, that he’d cried until he had no voice, that he’d gone back to sleep clutching tightly to his brother and to his book.
For almost eighteen months, Sam had been plagued by night terrors. They made infrequent appearances after that, but they were like snowstorms in May. Unexpected. Rare. And gone as quickly as they’d come. Dean didn’t know how he could tell the difference between Sam screaming himself awake from a nightmare and Sam screaming himself, well, that was it really. Sam didn’t wake from the night terrors. Dean had tried it once, tried not waking him because some bullshit book that Dad had brought home had suggested that it was better for Sammy’s sleep patterns or some shit to just let him lay there and scream like the world was ending and it was all his fault. Dean hadn’t been able to stand it. He himself had started crying after letting Sam scream for nearly thirty minutes. He’d woken him from it, shushed him, cuddled him, cried all over him, and Sam, tiny, chubby Sam with his big curls and his big eyes just hung on to him as if Dean had been the one piece of driftwood on all of the sea. Dean had read him back to sleep that night, once they were both calmer. Sam’s book with its silly scowling tugboat that had been all cross and surly because the world was too small and he’d wanted it to be bigger. Dean read to him. Sam, his breath still hitching at odd times as if crying had been an earthquake and he was having aftershocks, lay against him, his head over Dean’s heart, and he would sometimes point to the book and smile. And that’s how he always went back to sleep, with a smile.
So, this? This Dean knows. He knows Sam isn’t having a nightmare. He can tell it from the tone of his screams as he’s tromping down the basement stairs to the panic room. He can see it on Castiel’s face as he stands next to the iron door, brows pinched over his huge and endlessly blue eyes. He can hear it in the aching, terrified loss in Sam’s screams.
“I thought,” Castiel begins, “that Sam was improving. The demon blood should be purged and he has seemed stronger. He ate for me. Soft-boiled eggs over toast, just like you said. I thought he was improving,” the angel says again.
“It’s not the demon blood,” Dean tells him. He stops next to the angel for a moment and wonders, if Castiel looks that bad, how bad must Dean himself look? Are the shadows under his eyes twice as purple? Are his clothes beyond disheveled? Does he look as much in need of a hug and some sympathy and a little fucking hope?
He can see the questions budding on Castiel’s lips and he knows that the angel is about to just demand answers. Castiel may be new at friendship, but Dean knows already that he’s very fierce, very protective. Maybe he doesn’t know if he should treat Sam like a child or a man half the time, but the need to care for him seems to be instinctive to Castiel now. Dean approves, God does he ever, but he’s tired and it hurts him to listen to Sammy scream like that.