Entry tags:
SPN: Close To You
Fandom: Supernatural
Main characters: Sam, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: None
Contains: N/a
Rating: G
Summary: Sammy didn't want his own room. For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
feywood.
Note: Only seen S1 at this point.
"I don't even want a room of my own," Sam said. It was five fucking AM and Dean was going to have a bitch of a hangover in the morning and his little brother was stood there in the doorway, clutching his covers and a pillow and giving him a look that was half accusing, half pleading. Puppy dog eyes. All Winchesters have puppy dog eyes, really: their dad used his to get them fed, sometimes, when Dean was younger. He'd look at some kind-hearted woman, and then down at his kids, and he'd sigh and ruffle Dean's hair and it'd always friggin' work. Dean just has it for getting girls into bed -- which is fair enough and a good application as far as he's concerned.
The thing is, Sam's puppy dog eyes are universal. They'll work on anyone, any situation. That is unfair.
"Sammy," Dean said, trying not to slur his words too much, "it's five AM."
"I know. And I can't sleep."
Dean could feel the eyes on him even when he buried his head in the pillow. "I can't hear you," he tried.
Sam huffed. "Dean..."
"Seriously. I've gone mysteriously deaf."
A sigh. Dean sighed himself, in triumph, figuring that it was a sigh of defeat. Then there was the sound of padding feet, coming towards him and not going away from him, and the bed dipped.
"Sam, there seriously isn't room."
"Make room."
"Demanding little bitch," Dean said, but he did move, anyway. "If I throw up in your hair in the morning, it's your fault."
"No, it's your own fault for drinking too much," Sam said, delicately, dragging his covers and pillow onto the bed and then jamming himself in too. He was already getting way too lanky, Dean thought. Like a beanstalk. It was equal parts irritating and amusing -- irritating because Sam seemed to be making a bid for being the tallest, amusing because he was clumsy with it, and he looked like such a dork. He took up way too much room in the little bed, squirming in close to Dean and throwing an arm over him.
It was immediately too warm in the bed, but Dean decided he couldn't be bothered to move. He buried his head deeper in his pillow. "Fine, but if you wake me up, squirt..."
"Whatever," Sam mumbled, almost into Dean's shoulder, and slumped a little against him. "Night, Dean."
"Don't you dare drool on me," Dean said, and then, "sweet dreams."
Main characters: Sam, Dean
Referenced characters: N/a
Pairings: None
Contains: N/a
Rating: G
Summary: Sammy didn't want his own room. For
feywood.Note: Only seen S1 at this point.
"I don't even want a room of my own," Sam said. It was five fucking AM and Dean was going to have a bitch of a hangover in the morning and his little brother was stood there in the doorway, clutching his covers and a pillow and giving him a look that was half accusing, half pleading. Puppy dog eyes. All Winchesters have puppy dog eyes, really: their dad used his to get them fed, sometimes, when Dean was younger. He'd look at some kind-hearted woman, and then down at his kids, and he'd sigh and ruffle Dean's hair and it'd always friggin' work. Dean just has it for getting girls into bed -- which is fair enough and a good application as far as he's concerned.
The thing is, Sam's puppy dog eyes are universal. They'll work on anyone, any situation. That is unfair.
"Sammy," Dean said, trying not to slur his words too much, "it's five AM."
"I know. And I can't sleep."
Dean could feel the eyes on him even when he buried his head in the pillow. "I can't hear you," he tried.
Sam huffed. "Dean..."
"Seriously. I've gone mysteriously deaf."
A sigh. Dean sighed himself, in triumph, figuring that it was a sigh of defeat. Then there was the sound of padding feet, coming towards him and not going away from him, and the bed dipped.
"Sam, there seriously isn't room."
"Make room."
"Demanding little bitch," Dean said, but he did move, anyway. "If I throw up in your hair in the morning, it's your fault."
"No, it's your own fault for drinking too much," Sam said, delicately, dragging his covers and pillow onto the bed and then jamming himself in too. He was already getting way too lanky, Dean thought. Like a beanstalk. It was equal parts irritating and amusing -- irritating because Sam seemed to be making a bid for being the tallest, amusing because he was clumsy with it, and he looked like such a dork. He took up way too much room in the little bed, squirming in close to Dean and throwing an arm over him.
It was immediately too warm in the bed, but Dean decided he couldn't be bothered to move. He buried his head deeper in his pillow. "Fine, but if you wake me up, squirt..."
"Whatever," Sam mumbled, almost into Dean's shoulder, and slumped a little against him. "Night, Dean."
"Don't you dare drool on me," Dean said, and then, "sweet dreams."