"I think..."

Sam strokes Dean's back through his T-shirt, up and down. "Mm?"

Dean snuffles, fingers Sam's bellybutton. He squints at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. "I need, uh..."

"What?" Sam runs a palm over Dean's warm, scratchy jaw.

Dean looks past him at the sofa, swallows.

"Ohh." Sam considers his face. "Really?"

"Shut up."

Sam presses a kiss to his feverish forehead.

:::

The cushions teepee over top of Dean, worn harvest yellow velvet sealed under an extra quilt. He yawns happily out the end at Sam, wriggles sideways with a sneeze.

"Nice craftsmanship." He shivers. "You coming or what?"

(100)