A/N: One-shot that woke me up in the middle of the night begging to be written.
A/N2: Canon up to present, this fits in anywhere after episode 10.17, "Inside Man"
A/N3: I own nothing.
MAKESHIFT MOTEL
They never talk about it.
After setting up shop in the Men of Letters bunker, they were excited to finally have their own rooms.
Dean immediately set to work making his room his own, with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning. Weaponry became wall decoration, porn became reading library. Sam preferred a more Spartan style, but that felt like a personal expression too.
It was okay at first. Luxurious, even. No more stepping on each other's toes or over each other's belongings, no more being woken up by each other's snoring. Sam could wake up after four hours sleep and then lie about it when Dean finally stumbled into the day. Dean could drink until he passed out without the looks of judgment from Sam.
There was something of relief to not being in each other's pockets every second of every day, for once.
Then, in the middle of one night, Sam heard his brother call out his name. He bolted upright, sleep banished in an instant. The speed with which he moved, gun drawn, through the halls from Room 21 to Room 11 – to Dean's side – would have impressed the older Winchester...if he'd been awake. But it was far too slow for Sam's taste. He spent the rest of the night in a chair, at his brother's bedside, watching Dean toss and turn under the influence of dark dreams.
The next night, without saying anything, Sam waited until his brother was asleep, and then quietly bunked down in the empty bedroom next to Dean. It was dusty from lack of use, but Sam didn't care. He dozed on the bare mattress, an ear tuned next door for trouble, for a full week before Dean noticed.
Dean didn't ask why Sam was spending his nights nearby, and didn't say anything else.
But a few days later, Sam checked on Dean before turning in and found Dean's room empty. He squinted at the untouched bed, then scrubbed at his gritty eyes. There was a small square of paper on the pillow.
"Look in a mirror, zombie-boy. Then come to Room 18 and get some sleep."
Reflexively, Sam's gaze landed on the mirror above Dean's dresser. The Sam that stared back at him did look a little like a zombie. The circles under his eyes were a deep shade of purple, and the lines around his mouth were pronounced. He scrubbed a hand over his thick stubble - when was the last time he had shaved? - and sighed.
Frowning at the cryptic note, Sam crept down the hall to Room 18. He was pretty sure the note was from Dean, but since Dean was unpredictable these days, he didn't know what to expect.
The door was ajar. Sam reached out a hand, weapon at the ready, and pushed it open. He dropped his gun to his side and gaped at what he saw.
Every room in the bunker had a single bed, but someone had pushed a second bed into Room 18. It was more than that, however. There was something about the way the furniture was arranged - the two beds side by side, a nightstand creating a two foot gap between them, a small table with two chairs next to one bed, a long dresser with a television set up so it could be watched from the beds or the table - that triggered something for Sam.
It looked like any of the countless motel rooms they had crashed in all their lives.
There was a noise behind him, and Sam whirled around.
"Quit blocking the door, Sasquatch," said Dean with a lopsided grin. But Sam saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes that said he wasn't fully confident Sam would understand, or want what he had created.
Sam did. On both accounts.
That night was the best either of them had slept since moving into the bunker.
Dean smirked at the ashtray full of motel matchbooks that showed up on the table one day not long after.
A couple of days later, Sam chuckled at a god-awful landscape painting that had appeared above the beds.
He responded by putting a Bible, a note pad, and a pen in the nightstand drawer.
When returning from a particularly nasty hunt a few weeks later, Dean pulled a mess of tourist brochures out of his bag and fanned them on the dresser. This earned him a punch in the arm from Sam.
Over time, they silently made the room into the odd little sanctuary they both needed.
They don't sleep in the makeshift motel room every night; if Castiel is around, or they have other company, they keep it locked, hidden away from prying eyes. But when it's just the two of them, just the Winchester boys, there is no discussion – Room 18 is their home within a home.
In Room 18, Dean can tell when Sam isn't sleeping enough because he's working a case too hard. Sam can tell when Dean is drinking too much to avoid thinking too much. They can hear each other's restless dreams, and be within arm's reach if danger comes calling.
Sometimes, after a hard day, one will lay awake listening to the other one breathe. It's a small comfort, to hear that gentle sound of life whispering rhythmically from his other half. And it helps him fall into a restful slumber.
They never talk about it. But it's better this way.