Word Count: 313
Seamus appears in the doorway, clad in his dark blue pajamas. He yawns and rubs his eyes. "Dean, come back to sleep. It's the middle of the night, and I can't sleep without you."
Dean knows that isn't quite true. There have been plenty of times he's found his boyfriend sleeping so deeply that a parade couldn't even wake him. He doesn't point this out though. Instead, he just smiles. "Sorry," he says. "I have a lot on my mind."
He sets his pencil down, studying his drawing. Seamus' face peers up at him from the page, rendered in granite. He's always loved drawing Seamus. While on the run during the war, it was the only thing that made him feel halfway sane.
"Not getting cold feet, are you?" Seamus asks.
Dean laughs. Cold feet. He wonders if Seamus knows exactly how ridiculous that is. Cold feet implies someone is having doubts or concerns, but Dean definitely isn't. He can still remember being eleven years old and realizing he loves his best friend. He's never been more certain about his feelings for anyone or anything.
"You actually want to marry me?" Dean finally manages looking away from the sketchbook and focusing on the real Seamus in front of him.
Seamus laughs like Dean has told the funniest joke and makes his way closer, sitting next to Dean and resting his head on his shoulder. "Of course I want to marry you. I wouldn't have asked it I didn't."
Dean sighs, and the relief he feels at that reassurance is honestly ridiculous. He shouldn't doubt Seamus' love. They've been through so much together, and they are unbreakable.
"Are my eyebrows really that thick?" Seamus asks, tapping his finger against the sketch.
Dean chuckles. "Was drawing from memory," he says, kissing Seamus' forehead before climbing to his feet. "Come on. Let's go back to bed."