Pretty Little Horses

Soft Wincest
Hurt/Comfort

Dreams. Dean Winchester wished with everything inside of him that they weren't real. He wished he didn't have to wake up to Sam having a nightmare and see the torture on his face.

Pain reliever did little to ease his little brother's pain from the piercing migraine that never completely went away. It lingered, lying dormant until he dozed off only to come back stronger, causing a shuttering sickness to swell in his stomach. His bones were sticking out where they shouldn't be, he couldn't keep anything down. The exhausted grey bags under his eyes were only getting darker. His clothes, as big as they were, were starting to hang loose on his figure.

It was like a demon was in his dreams; chasing him while he was awake then trying to kill him when he slept. Dean could feel the distance between them slowly growing further and darker each passing second. He stopped offering his help when Sam started refusing; rejecting every advance Dean made to try to comfort him.

Dean used to pull Sam's hair back when he was hovered over the toilet throwing up the sickness his dreams had forced into him. Now, Sam locked the bathroom door before Dean could get there, leaving him to stare at the peeling paint in his face. They used to sing like idiots in the Impala because it helped Sam forget about things, but then the dreams, the visions, and the headaches became worse. Now, Dean didn't even turn the radio on; he watched Sam stare out of the window, completely gone and purged of all emotion but one.

He couldn't remember the last time Sam spoke. He didn't even nod or shake his head, he was like an empty vessel that Dean hoped relentlessly his Sammy would occupy again. At diners when the waitress came, Dean ordered for himself and Sam. Burger and coke for him, a water and bowl of lettuce for Sam. It had to be plain Jane; he couldn't handle much more than that. He stopped ordering pie, to his own surprise, because he always split it with Sam, always. But, not anymore.

Sometimes he would beg for Sam to say something, anything, give him a sign of comprehension. But he was always given the same look, blank, and then Sam would brush him aside and lay on the bed for hours on end.

Then one day Sam didn't wake up. Dean had emerged from his dreamless sleep to find Sam unresponsive to his persistent shaking and slapping. He tossed, turned, mumbled incoherently, but he was stuck in his dream. Trapped at last.

That's when Dean called for help, pacing and pulling his hair. No answer, he called again. No answer, one more time. His fingernails were slowly chewed away until the other end of the receiver clicked, "Dad! It's Sam, he's – I don't know what to do! He won't wake up and -"

The sinking in his heart was as heavy as every boat on the ocean floor. He listened as his father's voicemail played and let the phone slip to the floor.

Sam was thrashing, ungodly words spitting from his mouth. He was soaked in sweat and soon tears as well. The sheets were in a mess around him as he clenched them in his fists. It was worse than a possession.

Dean's eyes pooled with tears and he fell to his knees by Sam's bed. "You gotta wake up, Sammy!" He grabbed Sam's hand and a flicker of hope rushed through him when his screaming stopped. As soon as he pulled it away, he started up again.

"I'm gonna get you out of there, Sammy, I promise." He whispered and climbed onto the bed. Touch made him silent, perhaps words would make him still.

"Mom always sang to you. I know you don't remember, but I do." He wiped the sweat from Sam's face and brushed his hair away as he continued to jolt. "She would hold you to her chest and sing you a lullaby." He sat cross legged and pulled Sam's head onto his lap. "I cried every time I heard it. She had the voice of an angel, Sammy." He unconsciously started rocking back and forth, slowly, calmly, running fingers through his brother's hair.

And he sang,

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry
Go to sleep, my little baby

When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses

Dapples and grays, pintos and bays
All the pretty little horses

"Sweetie, don't cry." Mom smiled at him as she and Sam rocked away. "It's okay."

She kissed him on the forehead then tucked Sam in tight before tucking him into his bed.

"You can sing it to him, too, if you want. He really likes it." She said with a grin.

Dean shook his head, his long hair falling around his eyes.

"Why not?"

"Because I cry."

"That's okay, baby. Everyone cries." Another kiss and she shut his door.

She died that night.

Way down yonder, in the meadow
Poor little baby, crying mama

Birds and the butterflies, flutter 'round his eyes
Poor little baby, crying mama

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry
Go to sleep, my little baby

When you wake, you shall have
All the pretty little horses

Dapples and grays, pintos and bays
All the pretty little horses."

"Dean?" There he was. Sammy, as he used to be. The Sammy that spoke, ate, smiled, laughed, and sang hideously. His brother. His life.

Dean wiped his face, but it was pointless. He started crying in hard, heavy, shuttering sobs which slowly turned into laughs as he pulled Sam into an awkwardly angled bear hug on the bed.

"God, I missed you."

"Yeah." Sam fell into him, never feeling so relieved than in that moment. "Me, too."

From that day forward when Sam felt strange, sick, or woke up in the middle of night he'd leave his bed and crawl into Dean's. The warmth of his body, the comfort of his breathing would settle his nerves.

And every time Dean would pull him in, Sam would whisper, "Sing to me."

And Dean would smile, "Alright."

They fell asleep in each other's arms more often than not. It was the only comfort they had.

And they knew that when they woke, they'd have all the pretty little horses.