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'Sam,' snaps Dean, pushing at his little brother. 'Get back in your bed.'
Sam makes a huffing noise and burrows down further into Dean's narrow bed, disappearing under the covers like a mole or a groundhog retreating into a hole made for hibernation.
'Cold,' he mumbles. Dean can feel Sam's cold feet pedalling towards him under the covers, looking for warm places to lodge themselves. Dean brings his knees up and shuffles away from until his back is hard against the cold wall. He knows Sam and his searching, icy toes; Sam will have them lodged between Dean's thighs, hooked round the backs of his knees, flat on his stomach, anywhere warm.
Dean looks down at Sam's face, eskimo-wrapped in the musty old blankets they found in the closet. Tip-tilted nose, clever slanted cat-eyes, little pink rosebud mouth making promises it can't keep. Sharp little bones beneath caramel tinted skin. Thirteen and perfect and forbidden.
'Seriously, Sam', he growls, shoving at Sam again but without any real force.'You're too old for this shit. Get back in your own fucking bed.'
'Dean,' snaps Sam, emerging tousle-headed and dark-eyed to glare at Dean. 'I am freezing to death. There are no more blankets. I need you to warm me up and not be a dick about it.'
'S'weird,' mutters Dean, hugging his knees to his chest. It is really, really cold. He's shivering and he can hear Sam's teeth chattering.
Sam snorts. 'Are you serious?' He wriggles closer to Dean, pushes at his knees. 'That's what this is about? You're having some kind of gay incest freakout?'
Dean winces. He tries not to think those words, ever.
'The fuck, Dean?' Sam's got one leg hooked through Dean's now, his face pressed up against Dean's rabbiting heart, an arm slung over Dean's waist, pulling the blankets warm around his back. 'I'm not gonna molest you. Chill out.'
'Shouldn't swear,' says Dean weakly.
'Fuck you,' says Sam succinctly. 'Go to sleep. I promise I won't grope you in your sleep.'
Sam is warm and fits perfectly against him, bodies pressed flush together, his hot breath on Dean's skin.
'S'not really the problem, Sammy,' whispers Dean quietly, when he knows Sam's asleep.
He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around his brother, thinking just this once. Just this last time.
Ten years later, it's cold again.
This motel room came cheap because the heating was broken. Dean's beginning to think it wasn't worth it. They should just get back in the car, get up to 100 and blast the heater, and drive. Anywhere, doesn't matter. Somewhere warmer.
'Dean,' says Sam from the other bed.
Dean has a fluttering, sick feeling in his stomach. He doesn't say anything.
'Dean,' says Sam again, low and intimate. 'I know you're awake.
'Mmm,' grumps Dean, hoping Sam will get the message and back off. He won't, of course. He never does.
'Dean, it's freezing in here.'
'Mmm,' says Dean again. His heart is hammering and he's remembering another night, another dingy room, Sam's eyes in the darkness.
He hears Sam get out of bed and pad over to him, feels the weight of his brother as he sits down on Dean's bed.
'Dean,' repeats Sam. He sounds almost amused this time. 'I'm gonna get in your bed. Alright? To keep warm. I'm so – I'm so cold, Dean.'
'Sam. Don't.'
Sam ignores him and slides in, slides right over to Dean's side. Dean tries to move away but Sam puts an arm out and stops him, just holds him right where he is without even having to try. Dean doesn't know where he's come from, this gentle giant with his little brother's face and limbs of burnished steel. How his little Sammy, all delicate bird-bones and wicked temptation, has become this, this glorious creature walking around like sin personified, that pink mouth still making promises, that powerful body making them more like demands.
Just when Dean feels utterly lost, there they are; icy toes creeping between his calves, searching out warmth in big brother's skin. Dean laughs.
'Jeez, Sam,' he splutters. 'Feet are freezin'. Some things never change, huh?'
Sam snorts, pulling Dean in to his chest and draping one long leg over his hip.
'Yeah, been a while. When was the last time? Maybe ten years ago? Wyoming?'
'Minnesota,' corrects Dean. 'That shitty old schoolhouse.'
'Yeah.'
Dean is warm now, wrapped in Sam's octopus limbs, sleep beginning to creep up in the back of his skull.
'Promise not to grope me in my sleep?' he asks, teasing.
There's silence. Sam's tense against him, and then he feels him bring a hand up to Dean's face, brush long, feather-light fingers along his jaw. When he speaks, his mouth is very close.
'Do you want me to?'