wetsammy

When Sam slept, his walls were down -- he couldn't overthink or fight, just breathe and dream -- and Dean got hard just thinking about that.

The cold medicine left a tacky blue ring on the bathroom counter. Dean hated the taste -- like cherries dipped in kerosene -- but his brother liked it, said it was one of the few things that helped him sleep.

It was a miserable ride that day. For two hundred miles, Sam was unable to sit still, a headache building behind his eyes. Dean reached out across the back of the seat and tangled his fingers in the curls along Sam's neck, rubbing the tight muscles underneath. Sam leaned into the touch but soon his eyes were pinched and squinting against the sun, and he pulled away when it became too much.

When they checked into the motel, Sam shuffled into the bathroom for a quick shower and to shoot back twice the normal dose of Nyquil.

As his brother slept, Dean watched. He sat on the second bed, cleaning their guns in the darkened room, soaking in the quiet. No tv, no police radio, just the rattle of the ancient air conditioner in the corner and the sound of Sam's steady breaths from the other bed.