"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?"