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His. His own. It’s his, and Sam can’t come in unless he lets Sam in. His guns adorn the walls, his favorite records hang with so much life to them across the paint and he just has to stand back and grin about it. There’s a bed that’s his that’s going to remember him long after he’s gotten up from it and there are sheets that are going to smell like whiskey, cigarettes and gun powder because that’s what Dean smells like. Something after all these years that’s his. Sure, the Impala is his, but it was never really his to begin with. His music isn’t his, neither is the way he dresses or the way he talks. He learned that from John but he’s 33, now, and he finally has something to call his own and it’s this fuckin’ room.
He snuggles into the sheets, pulls their warmth high up on his chest and he breathes in the silence. It’s silent. There’s no cars driving by, no crying babies, no dogs barking in the far off distance, no sirens, nothing.
Nothing.
Not even Sam.
Not even Sam…
The absence of his brother is startling after a few moments in the dark. There’s no Sam breathing or Sam rolling over on himself like a dog trying to get comfortable on the mattress, there’s no twist and pull of a hair tie as Sam ties his hair up so he can sleep without it in his face, there’s no scrape of Sam’s stubble on the pillowcase as Sam rolls over, there’s no scritch-scratch of Sam’s briefs against the bed’s comforter, and Dean’s acutely aware of the jarring absence of every one of these things, these sounds that Dean’s grown up with, especially the rumble of Sam’s breath in his chest once his breathing evens out and he falls asleep.
He pads barefoot back into the main hall about five seconds later, and he leans against the door frame and listens to the even breathing of his brother as he reads over books that would take Dean weeks to read, though he’s certain it’ll take Sam mere hours. Sam’s fingers glide easily over the old pages, he even raises a glass of whiskey to his lips now and then, hissing as the liquid stings his throat—a noise he doesn’t make around Dean. To be honest, Dean’s content leaning against this doorway listening to Sam just be alive—breathing, moving, clearing his throat, rubbing his face with his hands. Dean’s happy to listen, and that’s when Dean realizes he isn’t too keen on having his own room.
“Sammy?” he says, and his voice is soft at first, almost too soft because his voice cracks on the end. Sam puts his book down and turns around in his chair, his face splitting into too-big a grin at 2:42am upon landing eyes on Dean.
“Hey. Thought you went to bed,” he says, probably realizing how tired he is because his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen as he brings his hands up to rub at them. Dean worries that eventually all the late-night reading and no sleeping is going to put a strain on Sam’s eyes and he’ll need glasses soon.
Dean shrugs, though. ”Eh. Couldn’t sleep. I… this place is quiet.”
Sam hums in response, leaning back in his chair and stretching far enough back that his t-shirt rides up and Dean can openly admire the trail of wiry hair that leads down into Sam’s jeans.
“Did you need something? Was I being too loud? ’m sorry, man, I-“
“No, no,” Dean says, and he wishes that were the case; he wishes he could have come in here and told Sam to shut the fuck up, I’m tryin’ to sleep God damnit, but all Dean wants to say is no, no you weren’t too loud, you just weren’t loud enough and I can’t sleep without you, especially when I’ve grown so used to listening to your breathing even out so that I can go to sleep, because Dad told me to take care of you and that’s how I learned to when I was four years old, Sam, I learned to not be able to sleep without you and it was so fucking hard when you were at Stanford and when you were dead and when you were in hell and when I was in purgatory and I nearly died a couple times from just plain not sleeping because I didn’t have you, but Dean doesn’t say these things.
Instead, Dean says, “I just… I couldn’t sleep. This place is too quiet. Wished soft rock worked on me like it does you,” and he sort of grins this awkward grin as he rubs the back of his neck. ”I didn’t mean to interrupt you, man. I’ll go back to sleep.”
Sam’s brow creases in that incessant I’m Sam and I know everything about you sort of way, and he says, “Somethin’ wrong, man?” and Dean wants to punch him, but he wants to confess more than he wants to hit him.
“I can’t sleep without you, man,” and the look on Sam’s face is enough to shock Dean back into realizing that holy shit he really said that.
“You… what?”
“I… I just… for 30 years I learned to sleep hearing you, man, and I know I was so gung ho about this fuckin’ room but I can’t sleep without you, Sammy, I can’t. So will you come to bed so that I can get some God damn shut eye?”
The soft smile on the corner of Sam’s mouth is not what he was expecting, but he rolls with it and gives him one back as Sam picks up his glass and downs the last of the drink in it.
“I’ll be right in, Dean.”
So Sam curled up against the curve of Dean’s spine was also a thing that he missed that he didn’t realize that he missed until Sam was right there, breath hot in his ear as he wraps his gigantic fucking body around every part of him.
Dean sleeps the best sleep of his life in his room with his brother.