runedgirl | Fic: I'm Gonna Make This Place Your Home (G, SamnDean)

Title: I’m Gonna Make This Place Your Home
Author: runedgirl
Rating/Pairing: G for Gen with SamnDean schmoopiness
Word count: 2340
Summary: Set vaguely in S8. No matter what season, no matter how far apart Sam and Dean are dragged, they will always be home for each other.
A/N: Written as a gift for

de_nugis, one of my favorite people in this wonderful fandom. Title and song from Phillip Phillips, because it screams Winchesters to me. Happy Thanksgiving flist – thank you for making this place feel like home!

Sam dozed in the passenger seat, the rumble of the Impala better than any sleeping pill. Dean turned the radio up just to be a dick, and for a moment Sam considered rising to the bait. They’d done more fighting than anything else since Dean had been back, and apparently Dean was ready for more. Sam huffed the expected protest, rolled his shoulders and geared up to deliver a pointed curse at his brother or a vicious poke in the side. Luckily for Dean, the music caught Sam’s attention then, the lyrics making the insult catch in his throat.

* * *

When Sam was ten, he had nightmares all the time. Not the prophetic kind that would split his head wide open a decade later, but the kind that woke him up gasping for breath and convinced there were six different kinds of monsters nipping at his heels. They were renting a house on Carter Street, run-down but spacious compared to what they usually had. That meant that Sam and Dean had their own rooms. Sam hated it. Dean was thirteen and loved it, which made Sam hate it even more. He couldn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t want to sleep in the same room like they almost always had, or curl up in the same bed. Sam had never craved distance, not from his brother. He was used to the warmth, the movement, the rhythm of Dean’s breathing. When he woke in the night, the nudge of Dean’s elbow to his ribs or the brush of Dean’s fingers on the back of his neck were enough to quiet him.

Now there was a hallway between them. Dean kept his door closed, like the distance between them wasn’t cavernous enough already. Sam had never slept with a night light; Dean was reassurance enough in the darkness. Now he wished for something to vanquish the demons he imagined lurking in every corner when he woke from a nightmare. The bare bulb in the ceiling was Sam’s only option; it illuminated the corners, casting harsh shadows that never seemed to stay still as Sam stared, but sleeping with the glare of it in his face made going back to sleep impossible. Turning it off was equally impossible, thanks to ten-year-old imagination and the fact that Sam already knew he couldn’t use the mantra other ten year old boys did. Not real? Hell yes, they were real. One of them had killed his mother. In the middle of the night. In the dark.

By the time they’d been on Carter Street for two months, Sam had circles under his eyes as dark as his room was without the overhead bulb glaring. Dad was gone for weeks at a time. When he was back, he gave Sam a cursory look and said “Sam looks like crap, Dean. Are you feeding him enough?”

“I’m feeding him everything the kid will eat,” Dean protested, the two of them talking about Sam like he wasn’t sitting right there. Dean looked angry, his fists clenched at his sides in a rush of teenage adrenaline, but he pursed his lips and didn’t say anything else. Dad shrugged, threw a duffle full of weapons over his shoulder and started for the door.

“Eat more, Sam,” Dad said as he closed the door behind him. Dean slid the lock into place with far too much force, then snatched his hand away and sucked his thumb that had been caught under the bolt into his mouth.

“Sonofabitch,” he cursed, then waved the injured hand in the air, still angry. “Are you not fucking eating enough, Sammy? Am I not givin’ you enough food?”

At ten, Sam already knew that Dean worked odd jobs for a few of the stores downtown to make extra money. He wasn’t sure if Dean actually looked old enough to work (he did to Sam, but that probably didn’t hold for Mr. Wickerson, who looked twice as old as Dad) or if Dean was just that good a liar (he probably was), but somehow he came home with enough money to keep them in groceries when the amount Dad left inevitably ran out before he came back.

“I didn’t say anything!” Sam protested, because Dad had started it, and now Dean thought he was ungrateful.

“Well don’t!” Dean yelled, and Sam felt his eyes prickle. Dean didn’t yell at him for real very often. Sure, they fought – they were brothers – but there was rarely any heat behind it. Dean took care of him; Sam had always known it.

For once, Sam was glad for the door on his room. He slammed it so hard, the wood shook against the frame, and for a second Sam was scared it would splinter. He heard Dean banging things around the kitchen and muttering (probably curses) under his breath. Sam turned on the harsh overhead light and stared at it like it was the source of all evil in the world.

It took half an hour for Dean to knock on his door.

“C’mon Sammy, come outta there.”

“Why should I?” If Sam sounded petulant, he was too tired to care. “I’m just too much trouble for everyone, I get it.”

He could hear Dean’s sigh even through the door, and the shuffle of his sneakers on the wood floor. “Sam,” he finally said, and his voice had lost the Dad-like tone of disapproval. “You know that’s not true. C’mon, I made grilled cheese.”

That was a low blow. Dean knew that was Sam’s favorite.

“Not hungry,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest where he sat on the bed, frowning even though Dean couldn’t see him.

Dean sighed again. “Yes you are, c’mon.”

When Sam stayed quiet, Dean finally turned the knob and pushed the door open.

“Hey! This is my room, you can’t just barge in!”

Dean shook his head and ignored Sam’s protests. He sat on the side of the narrow bed. Sam scooted up against the headboard to get away, arms still crossed and face still set into a scowl.

“You’ve never even had your own room, kiddo,” Dean said, trying to match Sam’s frown but mostly failing. “Since when do you wanna keep your big brother out?”

Of course it was the last thing Sam wanted; it was most of the damn problem. But Sam knew the rules. Don’t admit to the things you want the most, especially if they’re sappy and childish and involve wanting your big brother to sleep in the same bed with you.

“Dean, I’m ten,” Sam huffed.

That broke Dean’s composure. He snorted, and reached over to grab Sam around the shoulders and tackle him to the bed.

“Big ten-year-old, huh?” Dean said, laughing as his fingers unerringly found the ticklish spots under Sam’s ribs. “Think you’re all grown up now, Sammyboy? Huh?”

Sam kicked and squirmed and got in a few good jabs to Dean’s stomach, but there was more difference in their height and weight that year than there would ever be again, and Sam found himself pinned in no time. He gave up with a put-upon sigh and Dean stopped his torture and just held on for a minute. His hands felt good, and Sam missed his brother’s reassuring touch terribly then, hadn’t realized how much.

“Sammy, what is it?” Dean asked, and he let go of Sam’s wrists and sat up. “C’mon, you can tell me. Dad was right, there is something wrong. What is it, kiddo?”

The prickle started in Sam’s eyes again, and his nose crinkled, suddenly running. Oh god, he was gonna cry, right in front of Dean.

“Sammy?” Dean said again, and his brow furrowed with worry. Which only made it worse.

“I can’t sleep here, Dean,” Sam finally said, and he could feel the tears start to overflow. “It’s dark and I keep seeing demons and monsters and I only have this one light and then it’s too bright but without it it’s too dark and I’m all alone in here and I – I hate this place! It’s not a home, I don’t have a home, I’ve never had a home! I’m the only kid in my class who doesn’t have a home.”

The words came out in a rush, half smothered against Dean’s chest, and somewhere in the midst of his blurted confessions, Dean got his arms around Sam and pulled him in, and it felt so good that Sam started to cry for real. “I’ll never have a home,” he sputtered, fingers clenched in Dean’s shirt. “I-I-I’m homeless!” he finally wailed, and Dean said “Sammy,” and petted the back of his head like he had when Sam was a little kid. Sam thought he shouldn’t like it so much, now that he was ten, but he did.

When Sam finally stopped crying, Dean got him some tissues and made him blow his nose, then pulled him off the bed and into the kitchen, where the grilled cheese was cold but still delicious.

“So you haven’t been sleeping,” Dean said as he poured tomato soup from a can into a pot on the stove. “It’s not the eating, it’s the sleeping.”

Sam nodded, wiping his nose again. He was suddenly hungry. He finished two bowls of piping hot soup, dipping the last of his cold grilled cheese into it and smacking his lips with appreciation. Dean watched him from across the table, expression half fond and half worried.

The next day Sam came home from school to find Dean already home and the bed in his room partly intact and partly collapsed to the floor.

“Gettin’ so damn big, you broke your bed, Sammy,” Dean said matter-of-factly when Sam dropped his bookbag in the doorway and stared. “Guess it was pretty old and worn out though, cause when I tried to fix it, the whole thing just gave way. I’ll put it out in the trash tomorrow, break it up into pieces a bit more.”

“Dean,” Sam said, wide-eyed. “Where will I—

“Guess you’ll have to sleep in my room,” Dean said with a shrug. “My bed is the biggest one, bigger than Dad’s. That okay, Sam?”

A hint of uncertainty crept into Dean’s voice, and brought a warm rush to Sam’s chest. He spun on his heel and broke into a grin.

“Yeah,” he said softly, and watched an answering grin spread across his brother’s face. “Yeah, sure, I don’t mind.”

“Okay then,” Dean said, and went back to cleaning the guns he had spread out over the kitchen table. “You wanna do your homework before we do some training?”

Sam nodded, still unaccountably full up with some unfamiliar feeling that was making his throat burn and his chest ache.

“There’s chocolate milk in the fridge,” Dean said without looking up, “And some of that granola fruity bar shit you like that tastes like crap. You’ve got no taste, Sammy. None at all.”

Sam grabbed two of them and poured himself a glass of chocolate milk. The unfamiliar feeling was making his eyes prickle again.

The worn-soft red flannel blanket that Sam kept in the bottom of his duffle when they were on the road was already folded at the bottom of the double bed in Dean’s room. It had cowboys and mustangs on it, the edges finished in once-shiny satiny material that was fraying in a dozen places. Dean had stolen it from a Kmart outside Tulsa when Sam was six and had the flu; it was big enough to wrap his shivering body from head to toe then, as Sam lay on the Impala’s back seat, his head pillowed in Dean’s lap and Dean’s hand rubbing between his shoulder blades every time he coughed. Now it barely reached around Sam’s shoulders, but he spread it over every bed he slept in – on his side of the bed, because Dean said he didn’t need extra blankets. It smelled like Dean as much as it smelled like Sam though. Dean teased him about most things, but not that blanket. Sam wiped at his eyes and threw himself across the double bed, elbows propped on the cowboy blanket and his books spread out before him, still smiling.

* * *

Hold on to me as we go / As we roll down this unfamiliar road / And although this wave is stringing us along / Just know you're not alone / Cause I'm gonna make this place your home …
Settle down, it'll all be clear / Don't pay no mind to the demons, they fill you with fear / Trouble, it might drag you down / If you're lost you can always be found / Just know you're not alone / Cause I'm gonna make this place your home…

Sam listened to the last chorus, then scrubbed a hand across his face and opened his eyes.

“Got somethin’ to say there, Sammy?” Dean asked, smirking.

“You did,” Sam answered, and watched Dean jerk his head around.

“Huh?”

He frowned when he saw the fond smile on Sam’s face, confused. It wasn’t a look they’d exchanged much since Dean had been back. “I did what?”

Sam didn’t care how much of a girl it made him, it was true. “You made this place my home. You always did.”

For a second, Dean just frowned harder. Sam could see clearly the moment he made the connection.

Dean’s eyebrows flew up and his eyes went comically wide, then he flicked the radio off and shook his head. “Oh forgodsakes Sam, you giant girl. Can’t even annoy you with sappy songs on the radio anymore.”

“Nope,” Sam agreed, and turned it back on – at a normal volume this time.

Dean sighed, put upon, and didn’t change it.

Sam turned his head toward his brother and let the smell of the leather and the rumble of the engine and the drum of Dean’s fingers on the wheel, the familiar sounds of home, pull him back under.