The trucks outside woke Sam without waking Dean; his eyes turning immediately toward the table and chairs near the foot of his bed, surprised to not see Dean.
Rustling came to him from the next bed. Sam watched his brother toss onto his side facing away from Sam. He'd been sure Dean would have stayed up, make sure he slept.
Sam rubbed at his eyes as he sat against the headboard, pulling the covers farther up on him, head tilting toward the next bed. Dean wasn't much to move at night. He always found the most comfortable position before fully succumbing to sleep. Most people Sam knew got annoyed at the noisy sleepers, the ones that moved around so much that they twisted their sheets all around them. He was one of them; suffered the wrath of others for it, but those were the sleepers Sam didn't mind. Not because they were like him, but because he didn't need to check to make sure they were breathing. Dean slept still, with his face into the pillow most of the time. Maybe Sam was being paranoid with the thoughts of his brother suffocating, or that each night Dean would stay still.
Dean's black shirt moved, making indistinguishable shadows with each breath taken.
He hadn't meant to collapse, now he knows not sleeping is not an option. If he lived any other way, some quiet one where no one knew who he was and he didn't matter, he could collapse until his heart was content. He can't take the chance here where it could hurt Dean.
Going into the last gig Sam felt it. The sluggish pull of weight on his limbs, attaching to each joint as if it was demolition time and everyone was prepping to tear down. Winchester men were notorious for their power to ignore things. A gift bestowed to them from up on high that came in good and handy when they were kids. Sitting two boys down together in a small car caused all to learn to deal with flying toys or unknown brown liquids that wouldn't be rubbed out of the carpet no matter the cleaning fluid used, but sit two grown men down in a bar with a laptop where one becomes so tired he can't even type, the power to ignore becomes detrimental.
Not that Sam blames Dean for allowing him to collapse, not at all. Sam takes full responsibility for his actions, unless he's possessed or brain fucked. Which, again, happens a lot, just not here though.
Dean doesn't move once he's picked a spot, so why did he roll?
It's been a long couple of days for him, Sam, come on. It's not like you wouldn't be stressed if your baby brother drops in a middle of a hunt.
Sam wipes at his face. He didn't think of that. Dean could have thought it was anything. They weren't trained for normal. As normal as sleep deprivation was. Spell, curses, weird creepy charms that smell funky, yeah, they deal with, biological mechanisms, no, not so much.
"Jesus." Sam didn't even want to control the volume of his voice. Dean only grunted. "Crap."
Dean grunted again, almost as if agreeing.
