Perchance to Dream

Fandom: Supernatural

Category/Rated: NC17 for Wincest

Year/Length: 2006/~4929 words

Pairing: Dean/Sam

Disclaimer: Not mine, and I do this for love rather than money.

Summary: Sam suddenly finds that Dean isn't completely infallible.

Beta: Thanks go to ailurophile6 and el_gilliath

For Dean Winchester, sleep had always been a haven into which he could escape when the real world dragged him down and kicked his ass. He'd never had any problems falling into a sleep that would soothe and restore him.

Sam Winchester on the other hand, knew that sleep was a terrifying place, full of images that he wished were only in his imagination, but which he knew with a certainty that made his bones ache and took the warmth from his soul, were all too real. Sam would have done almost anything, if he could only stop himself from sleeping. This time he'd chosen to drive them both, because that way he would be able to stay awake despite the bone-deep exhaustion that caused his vision to shimmer and turned his thoughts to mush.

And as another night came down, darkness tight around them, the two of them were seeking yet another third rate motel, this time in the backwoods of Minnesota.

The road had been limited to the pool of light cast by the headlights of the Impala for what seemed like hours. The rain coursed down steadily, lit by the car as it ate up the miles, strands of silver that beat relentlessly against the windshield and wrapped the vehicle in a steady hissing of white noise that made the outside world seem remote and inconsequential.

Dean, exhausted, was sleeping, his jaw slack, face bruised and dirty from their most recent encounter - a struggle with a poltergeist that had been terrorizing an elementary school. As Sam drove, he couldn't help stealing a glance at his brother lying stretched out beside him, boneless and comfortable seeming, open and vulnerable in his slumber, peace written on his features.

The battle to rid the school of its unearthly infestation had taken its toll on both of them, but it had been Dean who had been thrown bodily down a flight of stairs; Dean who had been targeted by the flying books and equipment; Dean who had felt a moment's cold touch him, making him shiver and cry out, and who finally had come perilously close to being hurled from a second storey window before Sam could finally pronounce the exorcism that they believed would banish the entity from its haunt. As the being had faded, Dean had felt that icy hand on him once again and muttered that they had to get away from there pretty damned quickly, because he didn't feel so good.

After their ordeal, the two of them had been anxious to put a little time and space between themselves and the ordeal they'd just experienced, and now they were partway between Grand Rapids and Duluth, with only the dark to keep them company.

The appearance of lights on the horizon gave Sam a sudden sense of relief. It had been a very long day, and the promises of a bed and food, however poor, made him ache with longing. He put his foot down, sending the Impala surging forward through the rain-soaked darkness, towards the promise of hospitality ahead.

The lights proved to be a small settlement, hardly more than a truck-stop, a couple of houses and a trailer park barely glimpsed in the darkness, but there was indeed a motel, and it was with a sigh of relief that Sam pulled the car into the space in front of the office and clambered stiffly out to go and book them a room.

The clerk behind the desk barely looked up from the small black and white TV he was watching, merely pushing the keys toward him and indicating that he should sign the guestbook before turning back to the movie he'd been watching. As Sam glanced over the counter, he could see that it was Poltergeist that was engrossing the young man, and he smiled wryly. If only they knew!

Driving around to room number eighteen, Sam glanced at his still-sleeping brother, wondering now, if there was a little more than exhaustion causing him to sleep so determinedly. Dean was bruised and bloody, and he had definitely been forced to undergo a battering. Sam wondered if he should have called a doctor to check him out and decided to keep an eye on his brother for the next hour or so, just in case.

The room itself was a carbon copy of all the rooms they'd ever stayed in. The impersonal look that seemed to embody the spirit of motels everywhere infused the plain furnishings. The beds were draped in beige, the walls were cream, and the carpet was of that lamentable shade of orange-brown that was all the rage back in 1970, but which had certainly seen better days since then.

Dumping his duffel bag onto the bed on the left, Sam turned to go wake Dean and get the things they needed for the evening.

The rain was easing a little now, but there was still enough moisture flying around to drench Sam and plaster his hair to his head as he fumbled in the trunk, grabbing the things they'd need that night. He'd half expected that slamming the trunk would rouse his brother, and it was with some concern and more than a slight annoyance that he saw Dean was still dead to the world.

"Hey! Hey asshole, come on." He shook Dean, somewhat urgently. "Wake up! It's time to go to bed."

Dean mumbled something, but it took a few minutes before Sam could actually see Dean slowly drag himself back to consciousness once more.

"Sam?" Looking around himself, seemingly confused, Dean Winchester yawned mightily.

"We're here – wherever here is." Sam indicated the lamp lit rectangle made by the open door to their room. "You could get horizontal, if you move your ass a little. Come on in and take a shower; you're filthy,"

For a moment, it seemed that Dean didn't quite understand the words he was hearing, and then he smiled a little wryly, yawned again, so widely that Sam could hear his jaw crack, and climbed out of the car.

Once inside the room, with the sodden night banished beyond the closed door, Dean appeared to be back to normal, laughing at Sam's wet hair, ducking as a pillow was thrown at him and peeling off muddy boots and jeans prior to taking the shower he so badly needed.

Sam had toweled his hair and dumped his damp jean jacket over a chair back to dry. He'd booted up the laptop, and was now looking through his email, wondering if Dean would want to go straight to bed, or if he'd be up for going to find food of some kind. It was just before nine o' clock, and they hadn't actually eaten anything since noon, so Sam's stomach was beginning to think that his throat had been cut.

The door to the bathroom opened, loosing wisps of steam into the room, and Dean emerged, a towel fixed around his hips, looking a hundred percent better than he had when he went in, his face clean and shining apart from a bruise that darkened one cheekbone and gave him a vaguely piratical look.

Fumbling for clean underwear in his bag, Dean smiled over his shoulder at his brother. "I left you a towel, if you want to go wash up."

Sam had been gazing abstractedly at Dean, admiring the way the sheen of moisture on Dean's broad back enhanced the slide of muscle beneath the smoothly tanned skin. Since their reunion, and Jess's dramatic death, there had been an uneasiness between the two of them that had so far not been addressed. Sam's feelings for Dean were complicated, and he was reluctant to try and work them out, feeling somehow that to do so would return him to the powerlessness he'd always experienced as a child.

As Dean turned to look at him, he felt a sudden pain behind his eyes, stabbing through him, causing his breath to catch and his blood to drum in his ears. He had a sudden vision of Dean standing like this, stooped over something, his skin sheened with a substance that was not water, but which coated him like shellac and glistened red in a strange half-light.

His vision swam; he saw Dean's face lose its smile, the easy sweetness change to concern as he dropped the boxers he was holding to rush towards him.

Before Dean could reach him, the moment was gone. Sam blinked and found himself on his knees, his brother's hands gripping his shoulders as he stood over Sam, gazing down at him with concern.

"What's happening, Sammy? You sick? What?"

"I just… I don't know." Sam's heart was still pounding. "I saw you, that's all I can tell you. I don't know what happened, but you weren't here. You were somewhere else, and there was blood on you."

"Is that all?" Dean's easy grin was back in place. "Sounds like every other case we handle, wouldn't you say?" He ruffled Sam's still damp hair and patted his brother's cheek. "I think you need to get washed up, so we can go seek sustenance, if this place actually has any kind of facilities. I think I'd even consider McDonalds, I'm so hungry."

Sam nodded, rising to head into the bathroom, leaving Dean to dress in clean clothes and wait for him.

Later, much later, the two of them returned to their room, well fed and with several drinks under their belts feeling lazily content and affectionate.

After consulting with the clerk in the office, they'd followed his directions and found a bar that was still serving food, staying to drink a few beers as they rehashed the happenings of earlier in the day.

Dean, who for once had been the one who had attracted the apparent venom of the unearthly foe, was covered in bruises and grazes that had been caused by their struggle to vanquish it. He'd set about drinking enough beer to act as an anesthetic, complaining that otherwise there was no way that he'd get to sleep that night.

Sam laughed. "Dude from the way you were sawing logs in the car, you won't have any difficulty dropping off; I just about had to slap you silly to get you to open your eyes."

There was a curious expression on Dean's face as he listened. "Hey, do me a favor and don't let me sleep in the car like that again. I had the worst dream." He winced. "Nothing looked right; it was like I was locked into this weird place and couldn't find the way out."

"Yeah?" Sam wasn't really listening; already busying himself with the minutiae of turning down his covers, dragging out the ragged T-shirt he liked to wear to bed and getting his toothbrush out of the pocket in his duffel.

"Got your teddy bear?" smirked Dean, one elegant eyebrow arched in mockery.

"Fuck off!" Sam headed for the bathroom, gesturing rudely as he disappeared inside to wash up, leaving Dean to snicker as he pulled on his own sleepwear.

"Your command of the language is impeccable, dude," he murmured as the door was closed against him.

Later, in bed with his shoulders propped up against the headboard, Sam tried to think of things to say to Dean that would give him an excuse to stay awake for another minute or so, knowing that whenever he contemplated the coming of sleep the image of Jess pinned to the ceiling would be waiting to burn the back of his eyes and etch itself deeper into his memory.

"Where do you suppose we should head next?" he asked, glancing over to where his brother lay cocooned in blankets and apparently suffering from no such night terrors.

""We'll look in the morning, Sam," murmured Dean, smacking his lips and snuggling down into his pillow. "Sleep now."

"Yeah, I guess."

The night would pass; it always did, and in the morning he and Dean would ride away again towards another battle. That's who they were; that's what they did, and Sam would suck it up for yet another night and pray that the nightmares stayed away.

"No! God, no!"

The voice was high and sharp. Sam woke with a start from his mercifully dreamless sleep and reached to click on the light, looking around for what had roused him. Dean had kicked the clothes off himself in his restlessness and was twisting and turning in what appeared to be a dream, his sturdy body straining against the sheet beneath it as he tossed his head and cried out.

"Dean?" Sam frowned, unsure what was going on. He rose from his bed and crossed over to shake Dean, to wake him up and break him out of whatever bad dream he was having.

"Come on, man! Snap out of it." The contact seemed to do the trick, and Dean opened sleep-dazed eyes, looked around wildly and then flung himself into his brother's embrace, clinging so tightly to him that Sam could feel the fine trembling wracking his body and the clammy funk-sweat that bathed his brother's limbs and dampened the T-shirt he wore.

It was a good minute or two before Dean stopped shaking long enough to lift his head and look his brother in the eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Don't know how that happened." He pulled away from Sam, looking a little sheepish as he attempted to reassume his usual carefree demeanor. Sam ground his teeth, feeling slightly stupid for trying to embrace Dean, until he looked at his brother and took in the panic that was still visible in his impossibly wide-eyed stare.

"You looked like you were having one hell of a bad dream," was all he said.

Shuddering, Dean nodded. "It was," he said, shortly. "You've got no idea."

"Oh, I think I can relate to people who have bad dreams," said Sam, feeling somewhat pissed off. He released Dean, experiencing an unexpected pang as he went back to his own bed and left his brother to sort out the bedclothes and try his best to get himself comfortable once again. "It'll be time to head out in a couple of hours. Go back to sleep and try to stay out of nightmare territory, will you?"

"Sorry," said Dean again, looking longingly over at his brother. Nodding as Sam turned the lamp off and plunged the room back into darkness, he sighed. "It was the same place, the same dream I had in the car, only I was there longer. There was… I think it was some kind of garden, but it wasn't pleasant; it wasn't pretty…"

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but the tone of Dean's voice stopped him cold. Dean wasn't fucking with him, not at all. His voice was strained and panicky, and Sam didn't know what to say that would make his big brother feel better, make the scary things go away. It had always been Dean who'd comforted him, Dean who'd pulled him into a rough, protective embrace and told him that he was going to be safe, no matter what, because nothing bad would ever happen to him while Dean was there to take care of him. He wasn't used to Dean requiring comfort, and for a moment or two he had no idea what to do about that.

He paused, thinking, listening to Dean's ragged breathing, and could tell that he was on the edge of panic. Remembering days gone by, before he'd grown taller than Dean, he groped for a way to comfort his brother. "You want to come over here?" he murmured at length, scooting to one side of the bed to make room. "Lose the T-shirt, though; it's soaking wet."

He heard rather than saw Dean stumble wearily out of his bed, heard the rustle of his T-shirt being tossed onto the sour bedding, and then the mattress dipped, and Dean was there, sliding in beside him, tense, his flesh a little chilly from the loss of his blankets earlier.

"Thanks, dude." The words were spoken so softly that Sam almost missed them. Something inside Sam seemed to be melting, warming as he felt Dean there beside him, felt the slight tremor that indicated that his brother was still scared to death. Somehow the fact that Dean needed him for once instead of the other way around was enough to unfreeze some of the resentment that had lain festering in Sam's belly for years.

Reaching out, Sam pulled his brother in against him and held him tightly, until at last he lay quiet, pressed to Sam's side, his breathing finally becoming slow and regular, indicating that he had succumbed to exhaustion. The warmth of Dean's body against him, the sound of the man's regular breaths lulled him, and he felt himself sliding into sleep.

Later, Sam thought that he felt himself fall and then came to his senses, frowning as he looked around, not quite understanding where he was. The ground under his bare feet felt gritty, spongy, as if to stand there for any length of time would result in him sinking into it. He shuddered and moved his feet, looking around him with a worried expression on his face. It seemed to be twilight, and the angles seemed all wrong, the shadows too stark for so little light.

"Sam? Sammy?" Sam jumped, then turned to see his brother, clad only in his boxers. "You weren't in the dream before. How did you get here?"

"This is your dream? Dude, you have one scary fuck of an imagination," snarled Sam, looking down at his own nightwear and wondering just what was going on.

"Sammy, we have to move." Dean's voice was sharp. "They'll be coming in a minute or two – they did before."

There was no time to ask exactly what they were, and then there was no need. There was a scratching, chittering sound behind them, and Dean grabbed Sam's hand, started to run, towing Sam with him. Running after Dean, Sam didn't pause to question. There was something about the sound that sent a frisson of cold deep down in his stomach, and he accelerated, starting to feel something very much like panic.

"They don't cross the stream," panted Dean. "Once we get to the stream we're okay for a moment."

Sam didn't stop running. Ahead of Dean by a couple of paces now, he found himself dragging Dean along with him. Ahead he saw in the distance the stream that Dean had mentioned, and moments later he was splashing through it, long legs flying as he covered the ground.

The water felt thick and viscous, and it was warm to his skin, coating it to the knees as he passed through. As Sam felt Dean draw to a halt he stopped thankfully, turning to look at what they'd been running from. Pouring from the distance to cover the ground completely, a moving carpet of reddish brown insects swarmed over the earth, chittering and squeaking as they drew to a halt at the edge of the stream.

"What the hell…?" Sam drew back, revolted, turned to Dean and saw that his brother's legs were slick and red to the knee.

"Blood," murmured Dean. "It's blood."

"Where's the way out?" Sam grabbed Dean's elbow. "This can't be real, but it sure feels it."

"The place wants something from me. I don't know what it is, but I know that so far each time I've tried to go a different way from the path it wants me to take, it's almost killed me." Dean indicated the path – a faintly worn, slightly shiny area that led past skeletal trees and strange, livid blossoms. "God, Sam, I'm sorry. I should've stayed in my own bed. I guess that you were dragged in along with me."

"Hey, it's all right." Sam gave his brother a fleeting smile, patted his bare shoulder and started to walk along the path. Roses with tiny flowers and huge, black thorns edged it, and equally huge yellow jackets buzzed between the blooms. He gave Dean a sly smile, lowering his eyes with an aura of bashful pride. "You know, it makes a change for me to be looking out for you. It's kinda nice."

An itch on his calf made him hiss out a breath and pause. What seemed to be a large hornet was crawling over it, and he yelled, batting it away.

"We should move." Dean's voice held dark certainty. "It… it doesn't encourage you to stay still for long."

As they began to walk, the ground behind them began to split and Dean grabbed for Sam's wrist, yanking him forward. "Come on; it wants us to move faster."

Sam looked over his shoulder, expecting to see the bugs begin to pour out of the cracked earth, but instead he saw Jess standing there, reaching out to him, and he tried desperately to drag his hand away from Dean's.

"No, Sam, you can't!" Dean sounded panicky again. He was hauling on Sam's arm in earnest now, and as Sam screamed abuse at him and tried to break free, the flames erupted around Jess, engulfing her, consuming her in front of him until his eyes flamed red from the smoke, and the tears ran unchecked down soot-encrusted cheeks.

Wordlessly he turned back to Dean and allowed himself to be led away, trusting his brother now and no longer trying to fight him. He could hear weeping, and knew that it was himself, saw that Dean too was allowing tears to drip from his chin to spatter onto the sere, grey earth.

"I didn't want you to see that, bro. I tried to stop you," Dean said, putting a hand out to touch his brother's cheek. "I hoped we could just leave it behind."

There seemed to be nothing to say to that. Sam lifted his hand and covered Dean's, his eyes saying everything that he couldn't put into words. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Sam looked at his brother, really studying him, taking in the handsome, clever features, honest eyes gazing at him with the very soul of him showing through them, and he suddenly wanted to put his arms around Dean, pull him close and kiss away the anguish that was twisting his brother's expressive mouth.

"Later," he mumbled. "Not now; not here." They'd come to a stop again, beneath a huge weeping willow, and as Dean started to ask Sam what was the problem, the tree creaked and the branches began to dip, reaching for them with long, raking fingers as blood began to rain down, dripping from every leaf.

Fighting past branches that snatched at them, caught in Sam's hair and twined themselves around his limbs, the two of them broke free from the tree's canopy, running, not stopping now, afraid to do so for fear of what might lie behind them.

Ahead there was mist, a thick grey blanket that curled low to the ground and from which came screams and moans as if it hid souls in torment. They paused, looked at each other, red-soaked and terrified.

"We go in together, dude," said Dean, giving him a twisted smile.

"Together," nodded Sam. He surveyed Dean. If this proved to be their last battle, it should mean something – he should make some sort of statement. Words didn't come any easier for him than for his brother, and he was at a loss to express the complex emotions that churned inside him. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again and shrugged, mute and inadequate. Then at last he bent forward to kiss his brother gently on his lips.

For a moment, Dean was frozen. Sam thought that he'd say something cutting, something inappropriate, and wasn't sure quite what answer he could give, but Dean merely nodded as though he could read the answer he was seeking in Sam's eyes and turned to head into the mist, Sam's hand firmly clasped in his.

Inside the mist, it was difficult to breathe. Light seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere, while shadowy figures seethed and bubbled all around them. The path remained visible, and they pressed on, not looking around any more than they had to.

The figure that rose up in front of them was at first indistinct, pale flesh and dark shadows where the eyes would be, but as they watched it slowly took shape and stepped forward into their path.

"You," it said, reaching for Dean. "You will stay with me."

"The hell he will," snorted Sam, stepping between the two of them and pushing back to feel Dean behind him. At last this was something he could deal with. A way he could express the feelings that filled him. "Dean's mine. He goes with me," he said, knowing with utter certainty at last that this was the truth, and that he would never be able to lose sight of that truth again.

He felt Dean's hand against his hip, pressed his own down against it and forced it into his flesh, trying to still the trembling he could still feel in his big brother's fingers. "Mine," he said again, certainty in his voice as he looked at the phantom.

"I marked him." The thing before them shimmered, became Jess, reached for Sam. "Sammy? It's your fault that I died. Won't you grant me this? Give him to me."

The outrage that flooded Sam was complete and blinding in its simplicity. He struck out, furious that he should be manipulated in this way by something that could pluck his deepest regrets from him and twist them to suit its ends. "Think again, sunshine," he growled. "Dean goes where I go." He turned to Dean, his back to the thing that was taunting him. His brother still had that knowing look on his face, and as Sam leaned closer he lifted his face as if he knew exactly what was needed.

As mouth collided with mouth, he heard a shriek, felt a dislocation, jerked awake and found that he was clinging to Dean, kissing Dean, his arms tight around his brother as his tongue explored the slick planes and surfaces that were so delightfully available to him behind Dean's parted lips.

He would have started, reared back with shock even earlier that evening, but now, with Dean in his arms, clinging to him, he could only press himself tight against the finely muscled body, skim his hand down over satin skin and map the contour of hip and thigh.

"Sam?" Dean's voice, soft as oiled silk against a wound. "Sammy, what are we doing here?" His words were toneless, but his cock pressed against him, the movement of Deans hips a counterpoint to the softly spoken words.

"The name's Sam, dude, and I believe that I'm saving you from being possessed by some spirit that's taken a fancy to you, that's what." Sam's statement held utter certainty, and the hand he traced over Dean's chest and down to play across his muscled abdomen was equally certain, equally knowing as it dipped beneath the waistband of his brother's boxers to find and cup the straining cock beneath.

"Well, since you put it that way…" There was a faint smile in his brother's voice, and Sam opened his eyes, gazed down into Dean's and saw himself reflected there, both in the shine of his brother's pupil and in the tenderness of the expression Dean wore.

"I never really knew before," Sam whispered. "It was always me that needed you to keep me safe. I never thought you needed anyone."

"Fucking idiot," murmured Dean, tenderly, gasping slightly as Sam began to stroke his cock, rub his thumb over the tip to spread the moisture that was oozing there. "You complete me; It was always you, Sammy."

And Sam felt complete at last, his hand cupping Dean's balls, sliding up to grasp Dean's cock and stroke, feeling the weight of it, the strength of it, wanting to know it inside and out as he pulled it, smoothing along the velvet hardness of it and gazed down at Dean, drinking in every little gasp and moan.

It had always been him, Dean had said, and now he knew he was as able as Dean. He wasn't an object to be cosseted, protected and shielded always; he was an equal partner, as likely to be the one to protect as not. Dean was different, but that didn't mean he was stronger, just that he had different strengths. The thought made delicious shivers pulse through him, and he stroked Dean harder, faster, his mouth seeking Dean's neck and sucking, nipping, wanting to taste all of Dean and leave his mark on every inch of golden, freckled skin.

The sound that Dean made when he came was something he'd heard before in the night, but before it was never for him. The pulse of Dean's cock as it sent spatters of thick, creamy white over Sam's still clasping hand were the final piece in place. Looking down at Dean, whose face was lost in the savor of his release, Sam smiled, his pride complete.

"You're mine, now, Dean. You're always going to be mine."

And for once, there was no smart aleck reply. Dean didn't brush him off, didn't say anything at all about chick-flick moments. For once, Dean just smiled fuzzily at him and said, "Yes."

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