"I think..."
Sam strokes Dean's back through his T-shirt, up and down. "Mm?"
Dean snuffles, fingers Sam's bellybutton. He squints at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. "I need, uh..."
"What?" Sam runs a palm over Dean's warm, scratchy jaw.
Dean looks past him at the sofa, swallows.
"Ohh." Sam considers his face. "Really?"
"Shut up."
Sam presses a kiss to his feverish forehead.
:::
The cushions teepee over top of Dean, worn harvest yellow velvet sealed under an extra quilt. He yawns happily out the end at Sam, wriggles sideways with a sneeze.
"Nice craftsmanship." He shivers. "You coming or what?"
(100)