Work Text:
There aren't any windows in the bunker, but the lights in the corridors start to shine dimly in the early morning. The yellow-green of them is nothing like dawn. Sam used to go out to get his run in, just to see sun-dappled trees, shining like confetti as the light gets brighter. Really, Sam used to be productive early in the morning. That seems like a far-away thought right now.
Their room is just Sam's room, because God forbid they spend more than a few nights a couple feet away from each other. Dean's bedsheets have been pristine for the past week. He's feeling a lot more clingy, lately. Sam isn't complaining.
For a man who's smaller than him, Dean's taking up all of the space in their bed. Sam's sleeping on his stomach as usual, hands comfortably under his pillow with his gun. Two of Dean's limbs, a leg and an arm, are hooked underneath him, tucked safe like a blanket. Speaking of, there's no blanket. Must've fallen off sometime during the night. Sam's cold. He can feel Dean's warm breath on his lips, every exhale a grunt.
He tries to shuffle, realizing he was less awake than he thought. Nightmares tend to escape him when he's like this, under his big brother. Sam's safe, and he's been sleeping for– twelve hours!?
“What?” He asks no one in particular. Sam's never had more than four hours of consecutive sleep, even when Dean's with him. Some switches in his brain never turned back on after his hallucinations of Lucifer. His clock is broken. Or it's actually noon and they're still not up.
“Mm,” grunts Dean in his sleep, a cat. Sam sighs. His eyes are glued shut, and he's too trapped to even try to go shower. For the better, anyway. His hand is barely articulate as he pets Dean's hair absently.
“Before you ask,” says his brother, slurred enough that it could just be sleep-talk. “We are not getting up. Not today.”
Today, when they have it all. The bunker. Cas. World peace. Simpler days, where Sam doesn't have psychic powers and Angels and Demons are finally behaving. This is it. This is the apple-pie.
Sam's drifting off when Dean starts to shift. That's annoying, the reptilian way his brother maneuvers when he's trying to get comfortable. Sam whines like a kid. A hand is caressing his face.
“Sammyyy,” Dean drawls. His voice is so rough from sleep. Sam almost purrs under the attention, tired and fond and content and grateful. Grateful for everything wrong in their lives despite it all, because it means they get to be together. To live like this.
Sam's face is so beautiful when he's asleep. Not that Dean's brother is ever not beautiful. He's got these expressions that if Dean sat down and drew, they'd be freakin’ worshipped or something. People would make Sam a saint just to have an excuse to carve statues of him.
Sure, tell him he's exaggerating. Dean's never going to believe it. Looking at Sammy is the only reason he wakes up in the morning, after all. It's such a pleasure. Sam's got mom's nose, mom's eyes. Dad's stubborn attitude that leaves its mark on his forehead, an upside-down horseshoe wrinkle. Isn't that a beautiful thing, too? That he gets to see Sam get older, look aged.
He's on his side, with Sam's arm still thrown over him, in his hair. Dean runs his own fingers through Rapunzel's hair. How is it a lighter colour? Dean remembers when it was shorter, with bangs like a barbie doll’s. Beautiful. Plain beautiful.
They're breathing in sync. Sometimes Dean thinks their hearts are synced too, like a fucking sap. He can't help it when it's Sam, really, he can't. It's intrinsic. Dean's never thought he's fully human, the way he craves Sam. Like an addict.
“Creep,” accuses his baby brother, resting his face on his arms instead of on the pillow. Dean seizes the opportunity, runs the tip of his finger along the bridge of his nose. Perfect. When Chuck made Sam, he made him perfect. His brother lets him do it, used to this habit by now; this reverence that Dean only turns into practice in early mornings.
Dean scratches at his stubble. He misses clean-shaven, teenage-looking Sammy like a dead wife, back when he was reasonably protected from bad things. But this Sam– this Sam is a fighter. God, a leader, how hot was that when it happened? This Sam is all Dean's to save as much as he can, and he's proof that the universe is only right with him in it. It's law.
“That tickles,” Sam giggles. A grown-ass man. Dean smiles and smiles. He's just a baby.
Slowly, Dean's hands roam all over Sam; the dip of his back, the faint scar from the first time he died; the backs of his knees exposed because of the lack of a blanket; sure, even his ass, boxer-clad as it was (you can't blame Dean, it's a good ass.) His nape, the sides of his pecs. He gets distracted by the way their legs tangle perfectly together. So this is it, then. Lock and key.
Faint tears prickle his eyes when he looks up and sees Sam snoring, mouth open. Between them, Dean's the light sleeper, which is ironic, because he's often told he could sleep through an apocalypse. Another apocalypse. Dean traces Sam's lips, plush and pink.
“These lips, Sammy. The people I've killed for these? God.”
Sam just hums, smacking them together. He's not listening, but he grabs Dean tighter, tugs him closer. If they could be one. Dean's not proud to admit it, but when he was a demon, it was all he could think about. Possessing Sam, being inside and conscious and a part of him. That's a crazy-person thought.
“Wish we were one person sometimes,” voices Sam. He's a crazy person too. It makes Dean giddy, like a teenage girl.
He kisses Sam, not expecting him to kiss back, but pleasantly surprised when he does. Slow and soft and warm. Sunlight. Look at them, mom and dad, a married couple. They should get married.
“We could get married?” He suggests, because he's scared Sam will get upset. In proper husband fashion. His brain briefly short-circuits as he imagines Sam as his wife, his bride; in an elegant white gown. A veil. Maybe with those cute gloves Audrey Hepburn wore in that film, surrounded by whatever the fuck girly favorite flower Sam has. A suit looks amazing on him too, though, so it's a hard choice, but regardless, Dean's making him pop the collar like he used to–
“I’m not sure if that's legal,” Sam says, Pre-law from Stanford, thank you very much. Dean sort of wilts.
“Right,” he says, not even trying to hide his disappointment. It pisses him off when people don't understand this between him and his brother. Especially those holier-than-thou Supernatural fans. He loves Sam more than anything, always has. This is just what makes sense.
Sam twists, faces Dean on his side. He intertwines Dean's fingers with his hand that's not rubbing circles on his scalp. “Hey,” he murmurs. “We're kind of already married. Mr. and Mr. Winchester, yeah?”
Yeah. Dean wants to hear him say it over and over. Sam is his whole heart, but most importantly, he's Dean's. He's been only Dean's since he was born. Of all the ways the universe could have made them soulmates, it chose the one where they knew it the second they coexisted.
He coughs. “I've got, like. All the fake documents to head to Vegas or something and get hitched. By the way.” Is he blushing? Or is it hot in here? Probably the latter. Yeah.
Sam laughs, deep in his chest. Now Dean's plain horny. “Yeah, Dean. ‘Course. This weekend.”
It's so late in the day. They're burning daylight, there's probably a vamp or a wraith or a god that needs killing. But it's one P.M. and Dean Winchester is in bed with the love of his life. The love of his life after life, of life again and again.
“I love you,” he says into Sam's neck where he's nestled now. It says everything that needs to be said.
“I love you too, Dean.”