Work Text:
The worst part about killing a basilisk, Sam has learned, is that you have to find the little suckers first. Yes, ‘suckers’ plural. Because based on the sudden drop in the deer population and the surge in cattle-to-stone transfigurations, it’s pretty darned clear that there are at least four of them crawling around.
You’d think they’d be easy to find, basilisks. Sam thought they would, anyway. He thought that getting them to chow down on the weasel-shit covered stones (no, really, he couldn’t make up something that ludicrous) was the tough part.
But they’ve been in Burke, Oregon, for the better part of three weeks now and there are still at least three of the suckers roaming around. The one they did find—by sheer luck: Dean literally tripped over it—was ridiculously easy to kill. It just sat there, a rabbit-sized, grey lump of a lizard, while Dean made Sam smear the rock and hold it out. The stupid thing ate it, burped once, and fell over—dead as the proverbial doornail.
Now, if they can only find the other three, they can get the hell out of here and onto a case that will hopefully a) be more exciting, and b) have less to do with excrement.
Only, did Sam mention? Rabbit-sized, grey lumps? That look more like rocks than lizards? And like to sit completely still most of the time and sunbathe? And are freaking impossible to find?
“Dibs on the first shower,” Dean grunts as they climb back into the Impala after yet another fruitless day of hauling themselves through the woods.
Sam wants to protest—Dean, at least, doesn’t have twigs and leaves and tree sap stuck to his hair—but he’s too tired to manage it. It rained this morning, see, which means that they spent the afternoon sloughing through various densities of mud. Which means that Sam is fucking wiped and all he really wants to do is go back to the motel, curl up into a ball, and sleep for like a million years.
Screw the basilisks. They can eat their way through the whole damned county for all he cares.
Dean’s exhausted too—Sam can tell from the way he doesn’t even bother thumbing on the radio. He forgets to signal when he’s making a turn, too, which is really uncharacteristic, and then mutters, “Oops,” and puts it on while he’s driving down the new road. As though that’s going to make up for his earlier lapse.
Sam considers making Dean pull over and getting behind the wheel himself, but he’s too tired. If they crash and burn in a fiery inferno, he’s planning on sleeping through the whole thing. Only no matter how hard he tries as Dean pilots them back to the motel, the most he can manage is a grey, sullen feeling, like his brain is covered with ash.
He sits with his forehead against the window while Dean parks and turns the car off. Waits for the sound of his brother’s door opening, of Dean getting out of the car. Instead there’s silence and the ticking of the Impala’s engine as it cools.
Finally, Dean says, “We’re here.”
Sam manages a grunt of acknowledgement and doesn’t move.
“Sam.”
“I’m gonna sleep here,” Sam announces without opening his eyes.
“Sleep there and you’re gonna regret it tomorrow,” Dean says. “Member the last time?”
Sam sort of does. Remembers thinking that it’d be less painful if someone were in the process of sawing his head from his neck with a rusty spork.
He should maybe, probably, most definitely get inside and onto a bed. And probably fit a shower in there somewhere.
Groaning, he forces his eyes open and finds Dean staring blearily through the windshield. His brother still has both hands on the wheel, like the car’s going to start rolling at any moment. Just to be sure it won’t, Sam flops a hand over and pulls up the emergency brake.
Getting from the Impala into the motel room takes forever, mostly because Dean spends three minutes trying to fit different keys into the doorknob before Sam realizes what his brother is up to and remembers for the both of them that this is one of those card jobs. Then it’s another five minutes trying to figure out which of them has the keycard, and two more after that getting Dean’s wallet out of his back pocket (Sam) and thumbing it open to get at the thin piece of plastic (Dean).
Finally, though, the door’s open and they get to stumble inside. Sam makes a beeline straight for his bed and falls on top of it without bothering to even take his shoes off. He almost lets out a moan at how soft it feels, but it turns out that anything more than breathing is too much of an effort.
Sleep continues to elude him while he listens to Dean clomp into the bathroom, dropping articles of clothing on the way as he goes. Then there’s the unmistakable sound of piss hitting the toilet bowl.
Sam waits for the following flush, or maybe for the shower to start up, but instead something knocks into the side of his bed and then thuds down on top of it, making the mattress shake. With a gargantuan effort, he gets one eye open.
Dean is lying next to him on his stomach. Shirtless. Just as mud- and forest-streaked as Sam. When Sam rolls his eye down along his brother’s body, he sees that Dean’s jeans are hanging a little too low on his hips to be buttoned. Zipped either.
“Didn’t flush,” he says.
Lying as still as that lone, stupid basilisk, Dean grunts.
“Not gonna shower?” Sam tries. He doesn’t even know why he’s still talking, except that he needs a way to keep himself awake while he finds out what’s wrong with this picture.
“T’morrow,” Dean mumbles. He flops his head to the side, away from Sam, and then goes still again. But the ripple the movement sends through the bed cued Sam into the problem he’s having and he reaches out the couple of inches he needs to with one elbow and nudges his brother in the side. “Nnff,” Dean complains.
“Dude. Get off my bed.”
“Comfy.”
“Your bed’s comfy too,” Sam points out. He’d push again, but he’s used up all his energy. Even his eyelids are giving up on him now, sinking down and leaving him in the dark.
“’S too far.”
Sam doesn’t have a comeback for that, so he just lies there and lets himself fall asleep.
He wakes with a start some time later—not enough later, though: not judging from the way his head is just as muzzy as ever. He’s confused and slow enough that it takes him almost ten minutes to figure out that he woke up because his brother is wrapped around him like a freaking octopus. Sam isn’t sure he doesn’t have eight hands, either.
“Dean,” he grunts.
Dean doesn’t move.
“Dean,” Sam tries again, this time accompanying the name with a labored shake of his torso.
Dean’s grip tightens. “’S too early, Sammy,” he burbles into Sam’s chest. “Back t’sleep.”
Sam knows his brother has a point, but he’s still stuck on the Dean being all over him thing. Especially since Dean is practically naked.
“Dude, get off,” he tries, poking one finger in Dean’s side. Dean flinches away from the finger and then resettles, nuzzling his nose into Sam’s chest.
“’M cold.”
Sam’s of the opinion that if Dean is cold, then he shouldn’t have taken all his clothes off before getting into bed with Sam. Or he should possibly be getting under the covers. Of his own bed. But it’s all too much trouble to articulate, so he settles for rolling over onto his other side, thereby dislodging his brother. Hah.
Except Dean makes a displeased noise and, a moment later, thumps down on top of Sam. The sudden weight pushes Sam over onto his stomach and now he has a backfull of Dean, like the world’s heaviest blanket. Although really, Dean is making him nice and warm.
Sam mulls the problem over for several minutes, while Dean shifts around and makes himself comfortable. Finally, his brother settles with his cheek against Sam’s shoulder blade and lets out a contented sigh. And since Sam’s really pretty comfy himself by now, there’s only one thing to do.
“Better not drool on me,” he mumbles.
Dean makes a sleepy noise that might mean anything from ‘yes, Sam, I hear you loud and clear’ to ‘did you say something’ to ‘fuck you, bitch, you’re waking up in a puddle’ and worms an arm underneath Sam’s chest. And this? This has crossed the line from using Sam as a personal space heater to cuddling.
Sam’s surprisingly okay with that.
“Back t’sleep,” Dean orders. Shifting on top of Sam, he hooks a leg over Sam’s hip, covering him even more completely. “Thinkin’ too loud.”
“Cuddler,” Sam accuses. Cause, yeah, it feels good, but this is Dean. There’s some kind of law about mocking your older brother in this type of situation.
Only it’s kind of hard to mock when Dean just groans in agreement.
“Usually I get sex before someone tries to suffocate me,” Sam points out through a yawn.
Instead of freaking out or protesting, the way he’s supposed to, Dean mumbles, “Promise t’fuck ya in th’ mornin’ if it’ll make ya feel better,” and makes a single, weary roll of his hips.
Sam’s awake now, oh yes he is. He’s wide-awake and ... hard? Oh, Christ he is. He’s wide-awake and hard.
On top of him, Dean starts to snore.