Sam and Dean. PG. ~800 words. 4.06 coda.
Like he always does (when he can get away with it) Dean had taken the bed nearest the door.
Like he always does (when he can get away with it) Dean had taken the bed nearest the door. It’s old habit. Be the first line of defense, or if it’s one of those days, the first available target. Sam started picking up on it round about the time he turned ten. ‘Course, Sam didn’t have a point to prove way back then, so it wasn’t like Dean had to work a con to sort out the sleeping arrangements properly.
The sinister, leering red numbers on the alarm say it’s exactly five minutes since the last time Dean peeked out to check, which means it’s only five minutes to three.
Three’s not a good number. They say bad things always happen in threes. Witches like the number three. The only thing worse than one witch is three of ‘em.
“Dean,” Sam booms, practically right in his friggin’ ear.
Dean gasps and chokes on a glob of spittle. Yeah, suffocation by spit, that’s dignified. He’d put money down that choking was one way he bit it back in Broward County. Fantastic, he’d leave Sam with another nightmare to remember him by.
“Quit squirming,” Sam complains, voice muffled because half his stupid face is squished into the pillow.
“Don’t sleep like that,” Dean warns him, ducking back underneath the covers because there’s less in here to deal with than out there. “You could suffocate.”
A pause, then, “What?”
Without looking, Dean can tell Sam’s just as wide awake as he is, eyes boring holes in the back of Dean’s head.
Thank god that’s just a metaphor. Sam gets pretty intense sometimes, but Dean’s sure his stare doesn’t harbour secret skull-piercing powers. Really pretty sure, anyway.
Sam lets out an annoyed puff of breath. “Dude, just go to sleep.” The blankets rustle softly as he thumps at his pillow.
“You go to sleep,” Dean mutters.
Just like that the blankets go flying clear to the foot of the bed. “I’m trying and I can’t because you won’t keep still!”
Dean opens his mouth, thinks, and shuts it again quietly. Miserably, he mutters, “Sorry.”
The blazing numbers on the clock flicker. Two minutes left. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to hear the rabbit-fast patter of his heart.
“Alright. Fine. Here.”
Dean curls a finger over the top of his blankets and tugs them down again just far enough to peer out at Sam. “Here what?”
“Come here,” Sam says, pulling his sheets back. “I slept with you often enough when I was a kid, and hey, you’ve always got the mentality of a seven year old anyway.”
Dean scowls. “You wet the bed when you were a kid, y’know.”
Abruptly, the blankets drop straight down on the warm inviting spot, obliterating it. Dean’s pulse spikes at Sam’s glower. Seriously. The guy’s kinda scary.
“Sorry!” Dean flings back his own covers before he can chicken out (too late) and dive bombs from his bed onto Sam’s. His aim’s a little off, ’cause he was in a hurry, so the accidental elbow he gets to the gut is only fair.
When he’s got his breath back, he burrows into cocoon of warmth Sam’s made. Sam always was a god damn furnace. Came in handy during those cold winters out east, though.
“I invited you over here so you’d settle down and go to sleep,” Sam reminds him.
“I am settled down,” Dean insists. He worms his foot between Sam’s calves to keep it toasty. “See? Settled.”
“Hurry up and get on with the sleeping part.” The blankets shift, Sam shuffles, and suddenly a heavy arm drops across Dean’s middle. Casually, Sam jams his chilly nose right in Dean’s neck.
Dean blinks up at the ceiling. “What’re you doing.”
“Dunno.” Sam yawns contentedly.
“You’re cuddling me.”
“Hallucination. You’re deathly afraid of cuddling, remember?”
“You started it.”
Resigned, Dean wiggles his shoulder down a little further, trying to figure out what the hell to do with the hand he usually flops on his stomach since somebody else’s is there now.
He chews on the inside of his lip for a minute, glances up at Sam’s face and decides that’s way too close a perspective on Sam’s freakishly long eyelashes. Eventually, because everything else he tries feels uncomfortable or just plain abnormal, he ends up wriggling his hand under Sam’s arm, his thumb curved over the bony joint of Sam’s wrist.
He doesn’t say anything about the smile he can feel pressed against his shoulder or the slight twitch that feels suspiciously like a hug, because he’s awesome like that.
After all, wouldn’t want to embarrass Sam to death.
Five minutes later, Dean’s eyes snap right back open again, because shit. Shit. It’s not actually possible to die of embarrassment, right?
Because he’s being cuddled here.
Cruelly, the clock had no answer.