It's not a surprise anymore when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night, knees so stiff he can't even attempt to roll over. The first time it happened, twelve years ago, he had freaked out so badly that he had woken up Dean, who had launched himself upright so quickly, he was still asleep when his feet hit the floor. Even after being retired for twenty years, he still slept with a pig sticker on the bedside table, just in case anything supernatural should (foolishly) wander into their room at night. This evening, he held the knife at chest level for a good five minutes while his brain slowly registered that, first, he was standing, second, there was nothing suspicious in the room and third, Sam was laughing like a loon as he tried to straighten his legs out.
Tonight, Sam wakes up and can't turn his head. His muscles have cramped up from digging in the Williams' garden all afternoon and it's not all that painful but Dean told him to wake him up next time it happened so he reaches across the bed and, like he does almost every night, slaps Dean's shoulder as hard as he can. Dean is awake in seconds and, although he's not out of bed and grappling with imaginary demons, he's still alert and aware and Sam loves him for it.
"Dean," Sam grunts with effort, "Dean, I can't move my fuckin' neck and I need to piss like a race horse."
Dean blinks owlishly at him for another moment and Sam almost wonders if his brother is awake yet but then he's sitting up and stretching, joints popping as he reaches for the ceiling. He stands up and Sam knows he's heading for the bathroom but he still turns around to reassure him.
"I'll get your muscle cream, Sammy. Do you need an advil?"
And god, does Sam ever need an advil. Being stuck like this is making his head ache in ways he had never known were possible.
"Yeah, that'd be great. Would you get me a banana, too, while you're at it?"
Dean turns back around, a fond smirk gracing his lips, "Do I look like your bitch, ass hole?"
Sam smiles and replies, "Only on Tuesdays."