Castiel collapsed against the wall for the fourth time that night, nails dragging along the bricks in an attempt to keep himself upright. Dean kept his focus on the fight, but he was still worried about the weakening angel. What the hell was going on with that guy tonight? Castiel looked up; their gazes locked. And then Dean's left ribs were rammed into by the spirit's palm and he was thrown against the bricks. His back hit them first, then his head whipped back and slammed against a sharp bit of brick. And then he was out.

: : :

"Dean."

"Come on, Dean."

"Your brother is waiting, Dean."

A different voice said, "I know you're awake, so if you don't open your eyes now I won't get pie for a week."

Dean groaned, peeling his eyes open. Motel room. Two twin beds. No sofa. Small wooden desk chair which had wood a few shades darker than the desk. Smaller than usual, but doable. Sam was standing over him, and Cas was sitting next to him on the bed. Close. Nope, he still didn't comprehend personal space. Dean suspected he never really would.

"So what happened?" he asked.

Sam snorted. "After you blacked out? Cas, as far as I gathered, saw the spirit throw you, didn't see you get up, went on a mad rage. Isn't that right, Castiel?"

Cas pursed his lips, looking out the window (at a dead, untrimmed bush that had been left to grow over the glass) and not saying anything.

Dean shoved himself up and tossed his legs over the side of the bed. His head hurt. He was used to it. "Yo, Sam, go get me some Advil or something, will you? I left it in the glove compartment."

Sam gave him a quick once-over, then exited the room to get it.

Silence stretched out before them like a vine, wrapping around the mens' lips and rendering them unable to speak-at least, that's what it seemed like. Dean leaned back and rested a hand on Cas's shoulder. "Did you really do that?"

Castiel cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I thought you were direly wounded."

"I was just unconscious."

"I didn't know that."

"When did you figure it out?"

"When your brother came to check on you."

Dean's brow furrowed, confused. "I thought you could tell that sort of stuff. Angel mojo and that."

Dark hair brushed his strong jawline as Cas bowed his head. He seemed almost… embarrassed. "I 'used it up' when I… Well, when I presumed you'd been critically injured."

"Well, how long until it comes back?"

"A few days. No teleporting, no banishing demons back to hell. You're familiar with the extent of my power."

Sam entered again and Dean pulled his hand back from Cas, catching the plastic bottle his brother tossed him. He swallowed two pills and placed the rest on the table. A bit of clearing up for Sam plus a few questions later, and they'd figured out that Cas would stay with the brothers for the next few nights and help out on hunts. Problem was, the motels they selected weren't exactly high-class, and therefore usually didn't come with a couch or the three-bed option. Worst case scenario, there weren't any extra pillows or blankets in the tiny closet they almost never used. So the time came where they had to decide who got the beds and who got the floor.

Leaning against the narrow counter, Sam began in a tone that made it clear he was internally smirking cockily, "Well." That smirk played at his lips. "I'm the youngest, so I automatically get a bed. I'm also the largest out of the three of us, and you're the ones with the more profound bond."

Dean jerked up quickly, suddenly wanting to be, or, not to be on the same mattress as the angel. "Oh no," he snapped. "I am not sleeping with Cas."

Sam's smirk broke free.

Dean flushed and scowled.

Cas pretended he still didn't understand sexual innuendo.

A few awkward moments of quiet later, Dean cleared his throat. "Besides," he grumbled, "Cas is the one who doesn't have powers. Must be feeling pretty out of it. He needs it more than I do."

"I beg to differ," the angel protested. "You were knocked unconscious. Your head…"

They continued to spit out reasons why the other should get the bed while they get the floor. Sam cracked open a beer, sipping at it and enjoying himself immensely. They were so completely in love and they were so completely oblivious. After weeks and weeks of sex-via-eye-contact and lingered touches, Sam finally got the chance to do something about their I-don't-know-what-love-is relationship. To anyone else, their argument was based on the fact neither wanted to share the bed. To Sam, the real reason was clear. It wasn't that cuddling was off their schedule, crossed off in Sharpie and marked as 'NEVER HAPPENING.' Oh no, it was so much better. Cuddling was on both of their agendas under 'not accomplished,' maybe with a doodled heart and some initials. This argument was more about 'I care about you more than you care about me' rather than 'I'm so totally not doing something as gay as sharing a bed' (because they SO wanted to. Both of them). At one point, he actually heard Dean say, "You deserve it because I mean, honestly, you fell from goddamn Heaven."

Sorry, Dean, Sam thought to himself. That's not really the right context for that line.

Finally, both muttering, both every now and again stating even more reasons why only one should get the bed, they ended up agreeing to share it. Apparently, Dean had said something like, "You always seem so cold," to which Cas had gotten a lusty look (at least, in Sam's imagination) and said, "Perhaps that can be fixed."

:::

Later that night, when the three had each gave synchronized yawns, they all decided to retreat into the comfort of sleep. Sam watched Dean slide into bed, watched Cas awkwardly place himself beside him, and politely turned away while the pair got situated. It seemed like it took a while. He heard them murmur every now and again.

But then he heard the pop of a button snapping, and oh hell to the no was he going to be here for that. So Sam slowly got to his feet and slid out the door, saying, "I'll be back in the morning."

Dean and Cas didn't say anything, but as the door closed, Sam heard a moan.

:::

And then it was dawn and Sam strolled back into the motel room, a satisfying novel in hand (The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. Supposedly a children's book, but it had so many wordplays it was hard to resist) and a bag of pie and fruit in the other. Dean and Cas lay sprawled atop each other, tangled in the sheets that - oh, Jesus Christ, were they wet? - stuck to their skin. Sam almost tricked himself into thinking it was because of sweat, though that wasn't much better. The younger man cleared his throat and the pair groaned harmoniously, shifting their way so they could each toss their legs over the bed while Sam pulled the food from the bag and waited for them to dress. Or finish. Or whatever they were doing behind his back.

Throughout breakfast Sam was witness to lip-biting, lustful stares (he wasn't imagining it this time), and even a bit of hinting within the conversation. That wasn't the worst bit, though.

The worst bit was when they were about to leave and Dean grabbed Cas's trenchcoat from the side of the bed and handed it to him and gave him that look. The look that, when Cas had given it to Dean, the hunter had said, "Cas, the last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid."

Sam walked out quickly to load the duffle bags into the car, wondering if hooking them up that way was the best thing - or, the smartest thing - he could have done.