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Sam drools.
And not just a trickle down the chin, either. Sam Winchester drools like a damn Rottweiler who’s just been given a sniff of a T-bone steak; Eileen would go so far as to say it pools on his pillowcase.
It’s endearing, really.
Besides, it’s true what they say, about people looking younger when they sleep, although Eileen has no idea what Sam looked like when he was younger; the Winchesters are not ones to keep family photo albums. For Sam, maybe it’s not so much that he looks younger, than it is that he looks peaceful. And given the lives they all lead, that’s a rare and precious thing.
She bites her lip to keep from laughing as Sam grunts in his sleep, and rolls over into the reservoir of drool, and it goops into his hair; he’ll have one hell of a cowlick tomorrow morning, and she’s sure Dean will give him grief about it.
Eileen waits until she’s sure Sam is completely asleep before she slips out from underneath his arm and out of the bed. She grabs Sam’s flannel from the pile of haphazardly thrown clothes on the floor, and pulls it on, buttoning it. It’s long enough that it comes to her thighs, and it’s soft against her skin. It smells like Sam’s cologne.
She makes her way towards the door, gingerly opening it. She slips through the door and gently replaces it. She quietly makes her way down the hall towards the kitchen, where she knows Sam has a stash of tea – or, at the very least, what she assumes is the direction of the kitchen; it’s astoundingly easy to get lost in the labyrinthine halls.
Just as she rounds the corner, she stops short as the door ahead of her creeps open, and she realizes it’s the door to Dean’s room. She watches as Castiel slips into the hallway much in the same way she slunk from Sam’s, closing the door with a fine degree of care. He turns towards her.
Castiel’s dark hair is a mess, sticking up at all angles, clearly from having hands pushed through it, and is wearing nothing but a pair of green boxers and a black Zeppelin t-shirt she knows she saw Dean wearing at dinner that night. A hickey, still red and new, peeks out from underneath the slightly stretched out collar of the shirt.
The two of them make eye contact, regarding each other warily from the few feet that separate them. The angel looks mildly embarrassed at having been caught sneaking out of Dean’s room this late at night, wearing a piece of clothing that is undeniably the older Winchester brother’s, with obvious sex hair and a hickey gracing his collarbone, blue eyes wide, a blush starting to creep across his face, his ears burning red. Eileen didn’t even know angels could blush.
After a moment, Castiel looks away
Hello, Eileen. Castiel signs to her.
Cas, she returns, remembering the nickname Dean called him. She nods her head towards the closed door at Castiel’s back. Dean asleep?
Castiel nods.
Eileen grins. Does he drool in his sleep, too?
Castiel seems to relax a bit, his shoulders no longer as tense as they were, and shakes his head.
No, he signs. But he does talk in his sleep. Something about a sexy doctor? It’s all very jumbled and doesn’t make much sense. He smiles. But I don’t mind.
Eileen laughs.
I’m happy for you both. I’ve been wondering when this would happen since I met you.
Castiel winces slightly.
Are we really that obvious? He asks.
Eileen gives him a look. I’m deaf, not blind, Castiel.
Castiel huffs out a breath and looks at the ceiling. She sees another hickey along the side of his neck.
She throws a thumb over her shoulder.
I’m just going to make some tea. She says. Care to join me? I’m not exactly sure where the kitchen is, anyway.
Castiel chuckles, and nods.
I’d like that, yes.
***
It becomes sort of their thing, really. On nights when neither of them can sleep – which is every night, as far as Castiel is concerned; angels don’t need sleep, after all – they both find their way into the kitchen, where they share a cup of tea, and talk. Sometimes it’s about the cases they’re all working on, or about an arcane bit of lore one of them read up on recently, or they swap stories back and forth, but they never pass up an opportunity to gossip about their respective Winchesters. Eileen tells Cas that Sam is an unapologetic blanket hog, and Cas tells Eileen that Dean is a cuddler and prefers to be little spoon. Sam’s drooling habits are often discussed, as are some of the bits and pieces of dialogue Cas has managed to gather from Dean’s sleep talking. Often times, they part with goodnights and several cups of tea between them, and smile knowingly at each other come breakfast time. It’s astoundingly funny, talking about the brothers right in front of them, without them even knowing it.
Sam and Dean can only watch as they sign back and forth to one another, grinning like loons all the while.
“They’re talking about us, I just know it.” Dean grouses, eyeing the two of them as he takes a long drink from his cup of coffee.
Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re being paranoid, Dean.”