On Thursday morning Sam wakes up first, but he doesn't go for coffee. He looks across the gap at Dean's bed, at the psychedelic orange bedspread and the shape of Dean under it, the back rising and falling with each soft breath, the hair on the pillow spiked up with sleep. He looks until he can't stand it anymore, and then he gets up. He tells himself he's getting up to go and get coffee, but instead he pads across the curling stick-on tiles and flops down on top of Dean, straight across the lump of brother. Dean snorts a violent snore and Sam feels the tip of a knife press against his throat, but he's not worried.
"Sam! What the hell?"
The sharp point disappears. Sam breathes in the fake-flower smell of the comforter in the dark. "Hey."
"'Hey'? Dude, get off me!"
Sam works his arms around the pile of Dean and sighs into him. "No."
Dean heaves himself up onto his elbows. His eyes shine in the dark when they find Sam's. "What's going on?"
Sam's hands slide all the way around, wrapping Dean in the blanket like he's the filling in a crepe. His hands meet at Dean's belly. "Just... shut up and let me do this."
Dean blinks. "Is this a Tuesday thing?"
"Yeah. It's a Tuesday thing."
A nod. Dean grunts and drops back down to the bed. "You get fifteen minutes."
Sam squeezes him soberly. "'Kay."