Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW – I'm just borrowing the boys for a play date. I'll put them back, I swear…

Genre: Hurt/Comfort & Horror

Rated: M+

Timeline: S7, slot it in anywhere before Bobby's death

Features Hurt/Limp/Traumatised Sam, Protective/Worried/Scared Dean and Gruff/Loveable Bobby.

No Rest for the Wicked

But the wicked are like the raging sea, that cannot rest;

Whose water cometh with the mire and dirt.

-Isaiah 57:20

CHAPTER ONE

SINGER SALVAGE YARD

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Day One

Sleepless nights were not uncommon for Sam Winchester. He was reaching the big Three-O and he had already died several times, spent an insurmountable time locked up in The Cage with Lucifer and had his soul rammed back into his body by Death himself. Insomnia was a given, especially with the Devil popping up every now and then to offer his unwanted advice…or to pester the fuck out of him.

It had just gone 2am and Sam was staring up at the ceiling of Bobby's spare room. The deep and even breaths coming from the other bed told him that Dean was well and truly out and would probably sleep through a hurricane.

The reason for his insomnia varied on a nightly basis –from memories of being locked in The Cage to his overwhelming guilt for the damage he had caused while he was without a soul, but usually he got so beyond exhausted that he would eventually fall asleep and grab enough hours to keep him functioning.

Tonight, it was Lucifer, straddling a chair in the corner of the room and playing with the switch on a flash light. On, off, on, off, on, off, on, off for hours and fucking hours.

'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts,
There they are, all standing in a row
Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head
Give them a twist a flick of the wrist
That's what the showman said…

I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts
Every ball you throw will make me rich
There stands my wife, the idol of me life
Singing roll a bowl a ball a penny a pitch…'

Then there was that. The same two verses, from the same song at least a thousand times since the light went out.

He was about to lose his shit.

'Shut up,' he ground out through clenched teeth, gripping the edge of his mattress in a vain attempt to regain some sanity.

'Aww c'mom Sammy! I'm so bored! I've been sitting here for hours and you've barely said two words to me! Don't you know it's rude to ignore your houseguests?' He replied with a pout.

When Sam was first made aware of Lucifer's actual existence, he never imagined that the devil would be such a whiny pain in the ass.

'Well, nobody invited you – so you can leave anytime you like.' Sam grumbled, rolling over to escape…only to find Lucifer inches away from his face, chin resting on the bed.

He jumped back with a curse, earning a grin from the vessel.

'I know! We can take the Impala out for a spin! I wanna see what that baby can do!'

Sam groaned out loud and pushed his face into the pillow. Maybe if he suffocated, he could finally get away from the prick.

It was going to be a long night…

Dean was just settling down to his morning coffee, when Sam emerged; eyes bloodshot and glassy, his too-long hair a dishevelled mess. He took a sip of his drink and ran a critical eye over his younger brother, a stone of dread settling in his gut.

'Dude, did you get any sleep last night?' He asked, handing Sam the second cup he'd prepared.

Sam shook his head mutely, sat down at the table and took a mouthful of coffee, wincing at the burn.

The elder Winchester joined him, still running a health assessment with his eyes. The only thing he knew for sure was, the kid wasn't looking so hot.

'Anything that I should worry about?' He asked gruffly, though not unkindly.

Sam yawned widely and leant forward to rest his head on the table.

'Lucifer. About a thousand verses of 'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts' and a request to take the Impala for a joyride…' He mumbled.

Dean scowled. 'You didn't, did you?'

The younger man shot him a glare and scoffed. 'Yeah, I'm going to take my hallucination of Satan for a spin in your ride. I'm not insane man,'

'Just checkin' buddy…you've had a few screws come loose lately. Seriously though, what a dick. Monty Python and the Holy Grail?'

'Yeah. One thousand, four hundred and eighty two verses.'

'You counted?'

Sam just shrugged. What else was I supposed to do?

There was an uncomfortable silence, then: 'Where's Bobby?'

'In town, picking up some supplies. How about I give him a call and get him to swing by the pharmacy to grab something to help you sleep. You were awake for a whole year, can't really pull that again huh?' Dean suggested, thumping him on the shoulder as he stood and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Sam just grunted – at this point, he was willing to give anything a shot, although he doubted it would work.

Finishing the rest of his coffee, Sam stood and stretched until he felt his joints pop before joining Dean on the porch.

He wound up his conversation with the elder Hunter and flicked his phone shut, stuffing it in his jacket pocket with a growl.

'Bobby's got us a hunt,' he stated with some annoyance. Usually, being idle didn't sit well with the older Winchester – but with the wall in Sam's mind obliterated and given the shit they had been through over the last few weeks regarding the Leviathan scourge, taking a well-earned holiday sounded awfully tempting.

'What do we have?' Sam asked, leaning backwards against the railing so the harsh sunlight didn't exacerbate his already pounding head.

'The Hotel Alex Johnson, in Rapid City. They've had poltergeist activity there for a while now, but it looks like the sonuva bitch has upped its game. A guest was thrown through a window on the eighth floor three days ago, died on impact.'

Sam winced – he hated Poltergeists. They seemed to be magnetised to him in particular and being thrown out of a window was not on his list of things to try.

'When do we leave?' He asked through a wide yawn.

His brother eyed him dubiously, an eyebrow raised. 'You can sit this one out, dude. It's a simple vengeful spirit activity – nothing I can't handle on my own.'

The younger shook his head. 'Not a chance, Dean. Dad drilled it into us practically on a daily basis. Poltergeists are unpredictable and nasty mothers, you need someone to watch your back. So when do we leave?'

Dean growled. 'Sammy, you haven't slept – so you won't be the top of your game…not to mention the fact that you seem to have a massive 'throw-me-around' target strapped to your ass. Last thing you need after everything is to be thrown out a window by Casper the not-so-friendly ghost.'

Sam held his brother's gaze, determined not to back down from this fight.

'Great. When do we leave?'

The shorter man threw his arms up in frustration, before heading inside. 'Fine! But your Sasquatch ass is packing the car. We haul ass in half an hour, so move it buddy.'

'Oh goody! A road trip!' Came Lucifer's voice from beside him.

Sam closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

'We're Knights of the Round Table.
We dance whene'er we're able.
We do routines and chorus scenes;
with footwork impeccable.
We dine well here in Camelot.
We eat ham and jam and spam a lot.
We're Knights of the Round Table.
Our shows are formidable;
but many times we're given rhymes
that are quite unsingable.
We're opera mad in Camelot.
We sing from the diaphragm a lot.

In war we're tough and able;
quite indefatigable.
Between our quests we sequin vests and impersonate Clark Gable.
It's a busy life in Camelot.

I have to push the pram a lot.'

Sam groaned, thudding his head against the passenger side window as Lucifer continued his one-man Monty Python Musical Show; bouncing in the back seat of the Impala and conducting an unseen choir with his fingers.

'Bro, how you doin' over there?' Dean asked, his eyes flicking from the road to check on his brother, who had been pressing his hands to his ears for most of the ride.

'Jesus, Dean – I can't get him to shut the fuck up,' the younger man groaned miserably, feeling like his brain was trickling out of his ears.

'Lucy?'

Sam grunted his affirmation, and pressed his hands tighter in an attempt to block out the shrill singing.

'More Monty Python?'

Another grunt.

'Dude, that sucks.' Dean stated, eyes back on the road. 'Well, you tell that evil douche-bag to shut his pie hole.'

Sighing, Sam turned to peer in the backseat and rolled his eyes. 'Just poked his tongue out at you.' He said dryly.

The older hunter snorted, not quite believing how much of a child Sam's hallucination was as he steered the car off the highway. 'Have you tried digging your thumb into that scar? Pain usually shorts him out for a while.' He suggested.

'Doesn't work anymore.' Was the clipped response.

Brow furrowed, Dean considered their options. If his brother didn't have a way to dispel the hallucinations for long enough to get some rest, the kid was gonna burn out fast and hard. He knew what sleep deprivation could do and soon, everything would go to shit. Sammy would eventually fall into full blown psychosis before his body completely shut down on him. He wasn't even sure that sedation would work given the supernatural nature of the problem.

Pulling up outside the first motel he saw, the elder booked them a room for the night and grabbed their duffels from the trunk. 'Why don't you hit the shower, Gigantor? I'll get us some grub. What do you want?' Dean asked, dumping their bags on the closest bed.

'Not hungry.' Sam responded, massaging his temples before plugging his laptop in and setting it up on the small dining table.

'Not negotiable. I'll make sure it's light – coffee?'

'Double shot.'

'You gonna be ok with your bunk buddy while I'm gone?' Something in Dean's tone changed, reminding the younger sibling of a time when they were more brothers than partners and he almost smiled, but the sound of Lucifer pretending to retch in the wastepaper basket only caused him to scowl as he booted up the internet.

'I'll be fine. Just don't be long.'

The door closed quietly and Sam's research began, but it was terribly difficult to concentrate on the old newspaper articles with Satan jumping on the bed.

After using what was left of the daylight to formulate their plan, the brothers stood outside of the impressive hotel, weapons in hand and cleansing ritual ready. From what Sam had been able to glean from the history of the place, a young woman had fallen to her death from an eighth story window about 70 years prior. Foul play was suspected at the time, due to the fact that she was about to inherit a fortune – but there was never enough evidence to find the culprit. She was cremated, which left no bones to torch and from the sounds of things, any personal items were burnt along with her. Which meant they had to purify the room she was pushed from.

'C'mon Sammy, lets waste this sucker,' Dean grunted, stepping aside to give Sam access to the lock. They were inside seconds later, Lucifer trailing behind them, whistling a jaunty tune.

Sam's last coffee had given him a fifth wind, but now that he'd come down from his caffeine high, he was starting to wish he'd stayed behind. The main foyer tilted alarmingly around him and it took all of his physical strength to put one foot in front of the other without falling over. His head was pounding and he'd already swallowed back his lunch more times than he was happy with. He didn't want to give Dean a reason to bench him.

'You good, Kiddo?' Dean asked, taking point as they began their ascent up the stairs.

'Peachy,' the younger replied flatly, gripping the banister until his knuckles were white. 'Stop worrying about me and get your head in the hunt.'

'Newsflash Sammy, you're my baby brother. I'll never put the hunt before you. If you can't do this, I'll call Bobby right now to get someone else on it. No biggie.'

Sam didn't respond, but continued the climb; determined to finish the hunt and get back to the motel. Not that there would be any sleeping – but he really needed to lie down.

As they drew nearer the eighth floor, the brothers noted the significant temperature drop and remained silent. Sam had lost his chance to bail, and he held his gun at the ready with shaking hands.

The corridor was dark and silent – but Dean knew instinctively that it wasn't a peaceful silence. This was the calm before the storm and when the pair approached the room in question, a heavy table, complete with flowers and vase, flew past the brothers and shattered as it hit the stairwell.

Warning one.

'She's powerful.' Sam pointed out as he pushed the door to room 812 open.

'No shit.' Dean muttered, firing his shotgun as the woman flickered momentarily into existence. 'You take the east and south walls while I cover you. Then we swap. Deal?'

No sooner had the words left his mouth, Sam was airborne, slamming bodily into a timber cabinet with a grunt.

'SAMMY!' Dean bellowed, pumping the sawn-off and sending a spray of rock salt into the misty apparition.

Meanwhile, the younger Winchester was trying to find his feet, blinking away the greyness that was swarming at the edge of his vision. Stumbling like a newborn colt on too-long legs, Sam jabbed his elbow into the drywall several times to create a hole, and stuffed the cleansing pouch home.

One down, three to go.

Then he was weightless again, slamming back first into the ceiling – pinned and helpless, staring down at the spirit.

God, she was messed up.

The once beautiful woman had a chunk missing from her skull and as her head lolled to peer up at her trapped prey, vertebrae from her broken neck slid through the flesh of her throat.

Taking advantage of her distraction, despite his instincts to help his brother, Dean continued the cleansing – his gaze shifting periodically towards Sam, who seemed to engaged in an intense stare-off with the dead chick.

Then, unexpectedly - the spirit spoke.

'You got a bit of the Devil in you,' she hissed, the words turning Dean's blood to ice.

Sam swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. Concussed, definitely – though he didn't know how badly.

'He won't let you sleep.'

Not only was this spirit as powerful as hell, she was intelligent.

There was a beat of stillness, Dean poised to shove the last pouch into the wall – slightly distracted by the way the ghost was eyeing his baby brother like a hungry shark, then;

'Let's find out if he'll let you die.'

Dean's stomach plummeted and he fumbled the pouch, dropping it as Sam sailed out of what was left of the window.

'SAM!' The elder roared, his throat tight as he jammed the last bag into the wall with trembling fingers.

There was a flash of blinding light and Dean was out the door before it dissipated, leaping down the stairs two at a time.

God, Sammy…please be alive…

TBC