holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

Sam sets two steaming cups of coffee down to the
bedside table and sinks down to the bed, careful not to wake Dean just yet. He reaches
out and touches his brother’s neck: he’s warm with sleep and comfort beneath
Sam’s touch.

It’s sweet and simple: absolutely perfect.

Dean stirs, and his eyes draw open. Sam’s heart aches
in the loveliest way because Michael is gone: it’s Dean in there, looking up at him; a soft, sleepy smile spreading
over his face. Dean stretches with the air of a spoiled cat, rubbing his face
into Sam’s hand.

“Hey,” Sam whispers. It’s so calm and quiet and Dean
is so soft, and the happiness that flares in Sam’s chest is almost frightening.
The moment feels so perfect and frail that he’s afraid he’ll shatter it just by
speaking.  

“Hey,” Dean murmurs back, the fullness of his mouth warm
against Sam’s palm. “I smell coffee.”

“Yeah. I made pancakes too.”

Dean pushes himself up on his elbows, winces a little,
and looks at Sam properly. “Instead of brushing your hair?” he asks flippantly,
his raspy voice achingly familiar and affectionate. “It looks like an animal crawled
onto your head and died there. One of these days I might lose it, you know. Seize
a pair of scissors and cut it all off.”

Sam laughs as he catches a glimpse of himself in the
mirror across the room. His hair is a long, tangled mess around his unshaven,
pale face. He drags a hand through his dirty strands, pointlessly. “Grooming
hasn’t been a top priority lately.”

The mirth fades from Dean’s face at that, and he
reaches out. Sam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Dean’s soft touch. “Yeah,
I can tell,” Dean says, quietly. Can’t remember ever seeing you with a beard like
this before.”

Sam’s fingers curl around Dean’s wrist. The pulse beneath
his fingertips is quick and fluttering, and it makes Sam’s entire body thrum
with want: he wants to feel that heartbeat in his bones, wants to feel it
against him forever, wants to become one with that soft, perfect rhythm of Dean.

He tugs his brother closer, feels Dean gasp a little
against his face as his hand comes to rest on Sam’s shoulder. Sam cradles Dean’s
head in his hand. Dean’s naked chest is warm against Sam.

“I’ll get rid of it,” Sam promises against Dean’s
mouth. “The hair stays though.”

“Mm,” Dean murmurs in agreement, fingers tangling in
the hair of Sam’s nape. His eyes find Sam’s. Dean looks so certain, so kind, and Sam wants to cry. “Hey,”
Dean adds gently. “So do I.”

Dean slowly kisses the shaky little sigh of relief
from Sam’s mouth.

Soon, the coffee goes cold beside them.