Title: Onward
Author: kbk
Rating: PG-13 for a bit of bad language
Disclaimer: oh, who owns these ones? uh... WB + Kripke, right? I can't keep track, I just know it ain't me.
Summary: Dean wakes up, and goes back to sleep. A few times.
Notes: The hymn quoted is Forward, Ever Forward by Charles W. Naylor - I was sure I was quoting from somewhere, but had no idea where, and when I googled, I found this, and decided it actually fit quite nicely.
Also: It's fairly obvious to me but just in case, it switches from "reality" to "dream" and back again a few times.

When Dean wakes up, Sam's talking, very fast and very angry, and even Dean has trouble pissing him off that much, so the other end of the conversation is obviously Dad. But Dean can't hear him yelling, so he must be at the other end of a phone call, and that means he doesn't have to get ready to physically separate them, so maybe he'll just lie here a little longer. If it sounds like the phone's about to hit a wall... eh, maybe he'll open his eyes.

"You decided," Sam says, "he agreed, but I didn't, and you're wrong, Dad, he needs you... I need you..."

Dean worries, and slips back under.

Sammy's crying, and Dean wants to go to him, but Dad says, "Your brother has to learn to stand on his own two feet," and that means no, Dean, do as you're told, Dean, be a good little soldier and stay here, Dean, but...

But Sammy's his responsibility, his to take care of, and it must be something really bad because he's not saying anything, he's just sobbing and sobbing like he can't even breathe.

And when Dad's gone out, Dean will crawl into bed with Sammy and hold him tight, wipe the tears from his face and rock him to sleep, but not until Dad's gone. Dean hopes it's soon.

Dean wakes up again, and there's an electronic whirr and an intermittent click-click that tell him Sam's on the computer again. He's probably sulking, after that fight with Dad, and maybe Dean should have got up and tried to get between them, again, but really, it's easier to deal with the passive-aggressive-bullshit when it isn't actually aimed at him.

If it was anything important, Sam would have woken him. In fact, Dean's kinda surprised he didn't get woken up anyway, just to provide an audience for the five-year-old pout and the twelve-year-old slouch and the college-boy vocabulary, but if Sam's willing to let him sleep, well then.

Dean's gonna take advantage of the situation.

He can feel them looking at him. He puts a little extra swagger in his step and a little extra frown on his face, though his black eye makes it difficult. Stupid security guard, you'd think he'd notice a hellhound living in the back room. Not to mention the puppies.

They're talking about him as well, he can hear them muttering as he opens his locker and starts dumping his books, but only a few words stand out, like "took quite a beating," which, no, actually, considering the guy had the advantage of him in height and weight and Dean still knocked him out. "Domestic abuse?" asks someone else, and if Dean was going to be here past the end of term he'd turn around and sort her out, but he isn't, and it's not worth the attention, and he doesn't give a fuck what they think anyway.

"His brother," someone says, and what the fuck? Sammy's halfway across the town, and...

He wakes up, and Sam's talking again, talking to him this time.

"C'mon, big brother, give me something, here, anything. I know you can hear me, just squeeze my hand, OK? I'm right here."

And suddenly it makes sense, that beeping isn't the broken alarm clock from that motel eight years ago, it's a goddamn heart monitor which is attached to him, and he must be really fucked-up this time because he can barely crack his eyelids open, but OK, there's a ceiling. Fantastic.

And what's even more fantastic, absolutely fucking brilliant, no really, is that he can feel his hand resting limply in Sam's, and Dean does not need to be in this chick-flick-moment, so he stretches his fingers and makes a serious attempt at flipping his brother off.

Sam is delighted.

He goes into the nursery to say goodnight to Sammy, but Sammy blinks up at him with big blue eyes just starting to shade into brown, and Dean can't help himself. He pats Sammy's cheek with two fingers, then trails them down until Sammy latches onto one finger with his chubby little hand.

"Hey, dude, how's it goin'?" he says, and Sammy smiles up at him. In years to come, that smile will be melting hearts across the country, so Dean doesn't feel too bad about giving in and picking him up, settling him along one forearm against his chest, and grinning again as Sammy grabs at the lapels of his leather jacket.

"You, my man, were so much easier to get along with before you could talk," Dean informs his baby brother, and Sammy blinks his big eyes and gurgles up at him, which Dean takes as total agreement.

And maybe this is something Dean regrets, losing the chance to have a child of his own, maybe a little girl with milky mocha skin and green eyes. Someone to protect and love and teach; but then, that was probably what John wanted, and look how that's turned out.

It only takes a day for Sam to stop treating Dean like he's made of glass, but it takes another before Dean can stay awake long enough for them to talk about Dad not being there.

"Remember that shitty little town in Tennessee? We had a room in the hotel, already paid for, and Dad slept in the chair in the hospital." Sam just rolls his eyes, so Dean keeps going. "He did that because you were his fourteen-year-old kid and you were hurt. But we're not kids any more, and he can't keep coddling us like that."

Sam's up and pacing, and if Dean was in better physical condition he might get up and pin the little bastard down, but, whatever. "It's not coddling," says Sam, "to visit your son when he's this close - this close, Dean - to being dead!"

Sam's frantic gesticulations are kind of funny, so Dean's laughter is a little more amused and less scornful than he'd intended. "Like that's new. Man, the first time, he was all over it."

"The first time?! You..." Sam is about to seriously go off on one, Dean can tell, and he so does not have the patience for it. He cuts his brother off with a raised hand.

"Look. Sammy. This is what we do. If I was... if I was a rock star, would he come to every concert? No. It's cool."

Sam rolls his eyes again, but he seems to take the hint. Discussion over.

The feel of the worn leather of the wheel under his hands and the seat underneath him; the air rushing in the open window, bringing the smell of baked asphalt from the flat expanse of road in front of him; hard rock blasting from the radio to scare the local wildlife; this might just be heaven.

He glances to his right and grins, because Sam's there grinning back at him, with a light in his eyes that was rare even before he left. His long legs are curled to one side, one arm trailing out of the window, his stupid hair blowing in his face. Dean watches him long enough for Sam to throw a nervous glance out of the windscreen, but there's nothing there, nothing that's going to harm them, because a car crash is a fucking stupid way to die, especially for them, and nothing is going to get in their way.

Dean laughs, and looks forward.

Dean wakes to the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine and asphalt under the tires. He stretches, banging his elbow on the window, and he can hear Sam's chuckle over the quiet voices of talk radio, which might be discussing poetry or wine, he's not exactly sure.

"Where are we?" Dean asks - he can see trees and clouds and not much else.

"Middle of nowhere," says Sam, and grins across at him for a second. Sam's relaxed in the driver's seat, eyes lazily fixed on the road ahead, and he's probably the most interesting thing to look at for miles around. Dean watches him, memorising again the way his hair falls down all over the place, the curve of his arm and the flex of his hand.

Sam smirks, and glances at him again. "Go back to sleep, Dean," he says. "I'll wake you when we get there."

Dean nods, and lets himself drift to the lullaby of the open road.

Coda

"You have six new messages," the phone tells John. Charlie in San Francisco wants a batch of rock-salt cartridges, and a woman from the cellphone company offers him free minutes, and a girl he helped in Miami has had her baby and is calling it Joanna.

"I'm not an only child," Sam says, bitter and angry, "just thought you might like to know."

Chastity from Minnesota wants to know if he's ever going to sort out the water-horse in her local lake like he said he would, not that it's urgent, but really, she'd like to catch a fish one of these days.

"Hey, Dad, it's Dean. We had kind of a rough one, but things are OK. So, uh. Onward, ever onward, and all that. Take care."

John hums the tune as he pulls out of the parking lot, and smiles to himself. His sons are alive and well, and they have each other. And his family is still fighting.

Facing the foe with an ardor high,
Plying our weapons till he must fly;
Vict'ry in Jesus shall be our cry,
Onward, ever onward.