Sam blinks sleep out of his eyes and glances at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table, red numbers piercing through the blackness – 3:04 am. He heaves a sigh and waits until his vision adjusts enough that he can make out vague shapes in the dark before reluctantly shimmying out from under Dean's arm and sitting up over the side of the bed with a loud yawn. Wiggling his toes to ease the static shooting up through bare feet that had fallen asleep, he looks back over his shoulder to his brother, still sleeping peacefully in their cocoon of scratchy motel sheets. Satisfied that Dean isn't going to wake, he stands and pads to the dingy bathroom, not even bothering to turn on the light as he kicks the door closed behind him out of habit. All he has to do is take a piss – and then he'll be back in Dean's protective embrace, holding tight to the fabric of his worn t-shirt and breathing in his familiar scent before slipping back into unconsciousness.

He hasn't been able to sleep without being in Dean's arms for weeks, since the 'incident'. Only sixteen years old, Sam had never been face-to-face with a vampire until that night, and he was traumatized – still is, in fact. Nightmares plague him every single time he closes his eyes, and the only thing that can ever seem to calm him when he wakes up screaming and thrashing around is his brother's soothing voice and familiar calloused hands running through his hair. The only good thing that's come out of the whole affair is that their dad is off trying to find the nest, meaning that Sam and Dean get the motel room to themselves for over a month – something they almost never get to have. It's tough, sleeping in the same bed but not being able to touch because their dad is three feet away, not being able to kiss each other good morning or take showers together because they have to hide their not-so-brotherly affection from John. But at least for now, they can do whatever they want, and they're determined to make the most of it before their dad comes back.

Sam smiles at the thought, considering maybe waking his brother up for some middle-of-the-night action as he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs and washes his hands at the sink. However, when he turns around and realizes that he had shut himself up in the bathroom, all those thoughts fly out of his head and he freezes, completely motionless except for the violent pounding in his chest. Why had he shut the door behind him? He never shuts the door behind him anymore – never separates himself from Dean. As he begins to hyperventilate, he backs slowly into the corner and sinks down to the floor, not once taking his eyes off the door.

Turning off the water and drying his hands on the too-big jeans set low on his hips, Sam combs his fingers through his hair in the mirror before turning with a satisfied nod and reaching for the doorknob. When the panel of thin wood swings in toward him, he looks straight up into a pair of dark, narrowed eyes and a dangerously sharp set of teeth that curve inward and interlock, almost like a cage. He stands there unmoving for what feels like a long time but could only have been seconds before the creature towering over him lets out a throaty growl and triggers his own blood-curling scream. He slams the door shut, twisting the lock, falling back onto his ass and kicking his feet up to press against the door. He bangs his head on the cupboard under the sink but doesn't stop kicking, can't stop kicking, can't see anything but those teeth, and there's a shrill ringing sound in his ears that he wishes would stop but it won't, it won't stop, and then he realizes that it's him, he's still screaming, and he tries to breathe but he can't, can't force his lungs to work, can't think straight at all.

It could be minutes or hours that he sat on the bathroom floor, screaming and kicking, gaze trained on the back of the door, praying with every fiber of his being for that thing – that awful, horrible thing – to just go away, to never come back. He doesn't hear the pounding on the door, doesn't register the sound of Dean calling his name, just throws his forearms over his face when the door is kicked in, still screaming, still flailing around, even when Dean's strong arms circle around him and rock him back and forth, whispering in his ear that it's okay, Sammy, he's gone, you're okay, I'm here, I've got you, I'm not gonna let anything hurt you.

Sam stayed on the bathroom floor with his brother until he screamed himself hoarse and cried himself to sleep, clutching at Dean's shoulders, burying his face in his broad chest, images of those teeth still flashing behind his eyelids and sending him off into restless unconsciousness.

It's as if it's happening all over again. Sam can't move, can't breathe, can't think. All he can do is picture that vampire, looming over him,lying in wait behind the thin wooden door, and he's petrified to leave his spot on the bathroom floor. His mind is racing, but the only semi-coherent thought he has is Dean, Dean, Dean.

So he screams it at the top of his lungs, over and over, legs starting to kick out of their own accord, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, chest heaving and fists clenched so tightly he feels as though his fingers are going to snap. And just when he's on the brink of completely losing it, just when he's about to shatter into a million pieces because of the fear raging through his veins and threatening to tear him apart –

Dean is there. Dean runs in through the door, hair still bed-mussed, eyes still glazed over from sleep, voice still gravelly and groggy, but he's there. He's on his knees, arms around his shaking brother, one hand curled into the hair at the back of his neck, other one rubbing circles into his back as he pulls Sam into his lap and rocks him, just like he did that night.

"Shh, Sammy, I'm here, it's okay," Dean soothes him. "You're okay, nothing's gonna hurt you. I've got you."

"D-Dean," Sam sobs, clinging tight to his older brother, moving to wrap his lanky legs around Dean's waist. "P-please, Dean."

"I've got you," Dean promises again. "Hang on tight, okay, Sammy? Hold on."

He stands, Sam still clutching him around his neck and hips, and moves a hand to support Sam's backside as he walks them out of the bathroom and climbs onto the bed. He lays Sam down gently and tugs the blankets around them both, wrapping up the little trembling body next to him like a burrito before sitting back and pulling him into his chest, stroking his hair. "You're okay, baby, I got you," he whispers.

Tears soak through his shirt and Sam is probably stretching it out the way he's holding handfuls of it in his fists, but Dean doesn't care. He just whispers into his ear and kisses his cheek, his neck, his forehead. Finally Sam starts to calm down, his breathing evens out and gets deeper, his muscles unclench and he stops sniffling. Before he knows it, Sam is asleep against his chest, and Dean can finally relax himself. He tightens his hold around his brother and just before he drifts off, even though there's no one awake to hear it, he murmurs, "I'll always be here, baby. I've got you. I love you, Sammy."