The Things We Do for Love
Summary: Dean finds Sam all stuffy in his room. That's it, that's the story
Warning: sleep drunk writing, often considered gross bodily fluids but not that gross? Fluffy as fuck, not edited at all my bad
Word Count: ???drabble length maybe?
A/N: I'm so tired enjoy
“what the-”
Dean was used to a lot of bizarre things. Life on the road, hunting what goes bump in the night, left him considerably jaded. And with the Trickster frequently popping into the Men of Letters headquarters when he fancied, not much phased Dean anymore. So when he stumbled into his bedroom at 4am, fresh out of the shower after an 8 hour drive home, slippers and robe fighting the early spring chill, to find his younger brother on his bed, he was surprised to say the least.
Sam was as out as one could be. Drool lingered in a small puddle on the pillow he hugged. The blankets snaked around his body in a messy tangle. The second pillow had somehow ended up across the room. His breath rasped out of his open mouth; the sound of congestion clogging his chest and sinuses evident.
Dean felt a mix of disgust and adoration. He took a moment to change into his usual sleep shirt and boxer briefs. His massive brother, as if on queue, turned and sprawled his body across the entire mattress. It didn't stop Dean from finding a spot to sit, however; the movement startled Sam awake with a gasp.
“deamn? whusha doin’ ‘n my room?”
A half lidded smirk lazily captured Dean's face. “Could ask you the same thing.”
Sam’s bleary eyes rolled and blink in the dim light. “‘s’not my room?” He wiped his face with the back of his hand and flipped the pillow to a drier side.
“‘fraid not, Sammy. So what happened to you?”
A loud, wet sniff made Dean want to gag. “Stuffy.”
“Yea, got that, Slimer.”
“Go ‘way,” Sam whined, turning his head away from his elder brother.
Dean gently dragged his fingers across Sam’s back. “It's my room, dude. Why don't you go back to yours?”
His brother audibly struggled to breathe through his nose. “‘s’too hot. Your room’s colder.” Dean’s hand paused for his face to deadpan. “noo...no, keep wif the tickles...helps.”
Dean smiled endearingly that and continued, now with both hands. “You closed the vent during the winter and forgot to open it. You're eight feet tall, just open it.”
Sam gave up and started breathing through his mouth again, quickly slipping back into unconsciousness. “‘kay, I ‘wol…”
Deans fingers traced deep into Sam’s slumber. He drew stars and hearts and swirly clouds, ensuring a soft dimpled smile dressed his cheek and lips.
“Night, Sammy.”