But in Your Dreams (Whatever They Be)
Five times people passed out on Dean, and one time he returned the favor.
4.
The water swirling down the drain is the strangest shade of poisonously vivid orange, and Dean cranks the hot water up another half-turn and shrubs vigorously at the gooey, curdled-looking stuff where it's sticking to his skin. They'd ro-sham-boed for first shower rights and Sammy'd won like he always did, leaving Dean standing in the middle of their fleabag motel room covered in drying, congealing monster slugbeast ooze, trying not to drip on anything important. How is this his life?
The water pressure's for shit and it's taking forever to get clean, Dean fighting down the instinctive Get it off, get it off! and working methodically down each arm, each leg, torso, his back, his head. He feels a gelatinous clump dislodge from the hair at his temple and practically flings it into the drain, shuddering with disgust.
His brother, that asshat, hasn't left Dean much hot water to work with, so by the time the puddle around the drain is clear Dean's shivering, spray gone from tepid to chill to fucking freezing in five minutes. He slams off the tap and tugs back the curtain, to discover that not only has his brother emptied the hot water tank, he's also made off with the one towel the bathroom boasted.
"Sammy!" he bellows, stepping gingerly out onto the slick yellowed linoleum. "Sa—" He slips and catches himself on the counter, forgetting his strained muscles and sprained fingers until the pain sings like a live wire up his arm. "Ouch, fucking—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Sam says, muffled and exasperated through the door, and it's pushed open just wide enough for one freakishly long Sasquatch arm to deposit the damp, used towel and the first aid kit on the floor before it swings closed again. Dean glares at the cheap oak panels, massaging his fingers for a moment to try to ease the ache out of them before reaching for the towel.
He rubs the terrycloth roughly over his hair, and glancing up catches sight of his bruised and battered face in the mirror. He looks like he went five rounds with something that had cinderblocks for fists, not a giant radioactive slug.
He also sees the man stagger into being behind him, and turns and catches Castiel just as the angel's eyes roll back in his head and he slumps forward in a dead faint. Dean overbalances, and they both go crashing to the floor.
"OW, godDAMNit—Sam! SAM!"
The door is slammed open and Sam's framed in the doorway, looking down at his very naked brother pinned underneath one very unconscious angel.
"… Should I leave you two alone?" he asks sardonically.
Dean is struggling to get out from under the angel, and Castiel slides down into a boneless heap in Dean's lap. Stubble scraps over his bare stomach, and Dean yelps, "Damnit Sam, help me!"
They end up with Castiel in Dean's bed and Sam saying, "Dude, please, at least put some pants on," and Dean firing back, "Fuck you, my pants are covered in slug slime. And where am I supposed to sleep?"
He ends up in Sam's spare boxers and Sam's bed, sleeping ass to ass with his enormous baby brother while the angel across the room fills the silence with thin, soft snores.
Seriously, how is this his life?