If my fic, 'Deprivation' is anything to go by, it would seem that a lot of you are rather partial to reading about our two boys in a bed. Can't for the life of me imagine why? Even when they're not doing anything remotely slashy, you apparently love them to be snoring and fidgeting and generally not enjoying the experience at all!
In 'Deprivation', a snotty, sleeping Dean finds all sorts of ways to keep his unfortunate brother awake, and it gave you pleasure; you naughty lot.
Therefore, by popular demand I am happy to post my sister fic (or shouldf that be brother fic) to Deprivation; Aggravation, where the tables are turned. And the mattress. And the blankets. And the stomachs ...
Word Count: approx 6,000
Disclaimer: don't own them; wished on a star ... didn't work.
The Impala sailed smoothly along the lonely highway; her headlights cutting through the January darkness, the only sign of civilisation for miles around.
Both of the car's occupants sat in silence; the sort of silence borne of exhaustion and crushing fatigue; a hard hunt had seen both of them digging through six feet of permafrost to excavate the desiccated remains of an 18th century blacksmith whose mightily pissed spirit had tossed Dean halfway into the next state.
Sam stared vacantly out of the passenger side window, watching countless miles and miles of dark, unlit nothing glide by. He'd been itching to ask the question for some time now, but occasional glances across at Dean's increasingly menacing frown had gradually drained his resolve.
Eventually, however, curiosity overtook him.
"Where the hell are we, dude?"
"I don' know," Dean snapped darkly; "looks like the friggin' moon!".
Sam regarded his brother hunched crookedly over the steering wheel; "we need to find somewhere to rest up Dean, your back's stiffening up all the time."
"M'back's fine, auntie," came the sullen response; "Jus' tweaked a rib or somethin'."
"Yeah, sure looks it," grunted Sam ingraciously, watching as Dean listed further and further to starboard. He knew that feeling altogether too well. The feeling when the body was simply too tired to hold itself up, and deal with the discomfort of even a minor injury. They both needed desperately to rest, to sleep and to heal.
"Well, you find us somewhere to rest up, an' I'll gladly rest up;" Dean murmured around a yawn, "but it may have escaped your attention that the only sign of life we've seen in the last ninety minutes was that raccoon that bounced off the radiator a few miles back."
Sam sighed and settled back into his seat, once again scanning the dark horizon for any signs of civilisation.
Another hypnotically dull fifteen minutes passed before Sam jolted awake; "Dean" he barked, pointing right across Dean's line of vision; "a sign for a hotel – up that side track". Dean jerked into wakefulness, slamming on the brake and the Impala screeched inelegantly into the tight turn following the ramshackle unlit sign for the 'Hotel Nevermore.'
As the Impala pulled up in front of the tall, slightly decrepit building, Dean killed the lights and peered through the darkness at it's dark, faintly gothic architecture.
"Nice" he mumbled; "a regular love nest!"
Sam shrugged; "any port in a storm, dude!"
Sam helped Dean out of the Impala, getting his hand irritably swatted away for his trouble, and strode up to the unlit building, carrying their two duffels.
The house appeared to be in total darkness; around it the ground was littered with rubble, sand, scaffolding poles, and planks of wood. The 'Hotel Nevermore' was clearly not expecting guests.
Sam was beginning to chalk the whole episode up as a lost cause when he was heartened to see a chink of light through the top of window from between a pair of untidily pulled curtains.
Hearing the crunch of faltering footsteps on the gravel, he turned to see Dean standing crookedly behind him scanning the building's crumbling façade, his nose wrinkling comically in disapproval. "This place sucks," he grumbled; "feel like I'm auditioning for the freakin' Rocky Horror Show!"
Profoundly disturbing images of his brother in basque and fishnets flitted briefly through Sam's mind; he had to bite his knuckle and count to ten before he could compose himself enough to knock on the door.
Dean shuffled around beside him, fidgeting impatiently; hands thrust deep into his pockets; "freakin' cold," he grumbled, stamping his numb feet; "tired too," he added with a lavish, uncovered yawn, making Sam idly reflect that he was clearly wrong in thinking Dean had had his tonsils removed years ago.
After a few moments, when no response was forthcoming, Sam tried the door knocker again.
"I'm warnin' you," Dean snorted quietly, "if this door is answered by a nine-foot butler with a bolt through his neck, you're on your own, 'any port in a storm-boy'!"
Sam was about to respond when the door was opened by a very elderly lady who looked as ancient and in a bad state of repair as the house.
"I've got a gun" she whispered nervously, peering round the door at the two strapping figures in front of her.
Dean rolled his eyes, "nice;" he muttered through a puff of vapour.
Sam raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture; "we're not here to rob you Ma'am," he replied in his softest tone, switching on the hi-octane 50,000 megawatt 'mother me' face, special edition, complete with dimples; "my brother and I have been driving for hours; we saw your sign and we want to check in."
"That's 'my brother and I' lady …" came a voice behind him which Sam did his best to ignore.
The tiny old lady looked up at the hulking figures in front of her, seemingly warming up to her unexpected guests.
"Oh, I'm sorry boys; you see the thing is, we're closed for the winter – the house is being renovated." She spoke apologetically, thinking silently for a moment, "you may be able to find a room in Pikes Pass – the town about eighty miles further down the highway."
Sam's face dropped, his voice taking on a hint of desperation. "Please, ma'am; we're exhausted, we've been driving for hours and we've somehow got ourselves lost. My brother has a back injury and needs to rest." Unsure if he was getting through, he cranked up the begging level; "we can pay cash." he blurted, instantly feeling Dean's glare burning a hole in the back of his head. "We'll sleep anywhere, an' we're very tidy and quiet – you won't know we're here."
She looked timidly round the wide-eyed giant on her doorstep to the slightly lop-sided figure standing beside him. Dean forced an ingratiating smile, and waved his index finger between himself and Sam; "brothers" he mouthed.
Sam smiled, manufacturing the biggest dimples he could manage. She finally cracked.
"Well … there is one room on the first floor which is usable; I suppose I could let you …"
"Oh thank you ma'am, you're a life saver;" Sam took her tiny hand in his enormous mitts and shook it warmly. "I can't tell you how grateful we are."
Dean was less than delighted to discover that the inside of the building didn't look a whole lot more encouraging than the outside.
Standing in a dilapidated reception area where cobwebs appeared to form an established part of the soft furnishings, Dean glowered darkly as Sam parted with a fistful of ten dollar notes.
Their venerable landlady smiled. "Straight up the stairs, and turn immediate left. Room number eight."
She handed them an old-style metal key, explaining apologetically that she wasn't geared up to provide breakfast. Dean didn't hear her, he was already halfway up the stairs, dragging his duffel behind him, grunting with each twinge of his protesting back.
Sam flashed a beaming smile of thanks, and followed Dean up the stairs.
Dean stepped back as they reached the door to the room to allow Sam to open up.
The lock gave a hollow clunk as the heavy metal key turned, and Sam pushed the door open, stepping forward to switch on the light.
He stopped in his tracks; "oh crap …" he groaned, slumping against the doorframe.
"What you moaning about?" Dean teetered on tiptoes, craning his neck to peer over Sam's shoulder into the room.
The Winchesters stood in the doorway and stared at the room's one bed which appeared to be as ancient and ramshackle as the rest of the building.
It was Dean that eventually blinked first. "Oh shit!" he croaked.
Sam sighed and, pushing past Dean, stepped forward into the room, he opened his mouth to speak …
"If the words 'any port in a storm' leave your mouth, I will hurt you", Dean snarled, glaring at his brother.
"All I was about to say is we're gonna have to make the best of it," muttered Sam, doing his best to placate the scowling figure beside him. "Neither of us is in any fit state to drive any further. At least we've got a roof over our heads, so we're just gonna have to suck it up and deal with it".
"Why the friggin' hell didn't the Wicked Witch of the West friggin' tell us the room only had one friggin' bed?"
Sam sighed heavily; "Dean you saw her; she was about a hundred and thirty nine; she probably forgot."
"Well, you can forget sharin' a bed. We ain't sharin' a bed."
"Why not?" Sam shrugged.
"Well look at us … we're too freakin' big!" Dean gestured irritabily up and down himself then his glance travelled across to Sam, "well you are, anyway; you decided to be the genetic freak of the family, and keep growing.."
Dean hesitated, a faraway look in his eyes. "Last time we shared a bed, I was still bigger'n you."
Shaking his head, Sam didn't quite believe they were having this conversation.
"Dean, I'm not up to psychoanalysing your inferiority complex right now … I'm taller than you; just deal with it."
"You're not just taller than me," muttered Dean, "you're a freakin' danger to aviation."
Sam groaned, "Dean; firstly, it's not my fault that I grew tall, and secondly, if we want to talk about genetic freaks, have you looked in the mirror lately?"
Dean turned sharply, "Huh?"
"Dude, your legs … did you get rickets or something when you were a kid?"
Dean glared darkly, but Sam warmed to his theme; "I swear, if someone straightened your legs out you'd be taller than me."
Dean shoved past Sam muttering under his breath; Sam wasn't sure but he was sure the word 'bitch' was involved.
Dean flopped heavily on the side of the bed and stiffly bent down to tug his boots off, wincing as his sore back pinched at the motion. Unable to reach, his fingers groped irritably at the laces, his back flatly refusing to co-operate.
"Need a hand?" Sam offered.
Dean grunted non-committally, and reluctantly allowed Sam to pull off his boots and socks while he turned his attention to his T shirt, managing to tug it clumsily over his head with a bit of unseen and unfelt assistance from his brother.
Sam stepped back and stood in the middle of the room yawning and arching into a massively satisfying stretch as Dean fumbled with the belt and fly of his jeans. Sam left him to it, knowing that an offer of help at this point was a brotherly step just a bit too far.
Kicking off the frayed denim, Dean laid back sliding under the threadbare quilt, and tried to arrange himself into a comfortable position; "Dude, it gives me altitude sickness jus' watching you."
Sam ignored him as he clambered into the bed beside his brother; "shove over, stumpy - quit hogging the quilt."
Sam relaxed into the thin, limp mattress, and promptly sunk.
Dean rolled down into the resulting furrow, and found himself sprawled face down on top of his brother.
There followed a frantic melee of flailing limbs, groaning bedsprings, creaking floorboards and spluttered oaths as the two bodies fought to untangle themselves and scramble back towards opposite sides of the bed.
"Don't ever do that again;" gasped Dean.
"I can't help it" snapped Sam, "damned mattress has hardly got any stuffing."
"Yeah, well, if you didn't weigh the same as a friggin' mule …"
Sam frowned, staring at Dean; "dude, we really need to address your size issues some time."
Dean grunted something obscene as he wormed his way into the quilt, trying to find a comfortable position for his sore back; "I ain't got no size issues - you're the sasquatch; I'm normal."
"You, normal? That's a laugh ..."Sam's words faded away as he rolled over, turning his back on the sprawled lump burrowed down in the quilt.
"Bite me ..."
Less than an hour passed since Sam had fallen almost immediately into a deep sleep but Dean found himself laying awake, eyes heavy with exhaustion, trying to ignore his brother's wall-shaking snores and clinging to the edge of the mattress to avoid Sam's wandering limbs.
He had forgotten how much of a sprawler Sam was. He had been bad enough as a child, but now his limbs were so much longer they went a lot further. So far Dean had already had an elbow in the ribs, a knee in the back (which had earned Sam a punch) and he had just spent the last five minutes excavating a thumb from his ear. Sam for his part had been on the receiving end of a tirade of pretty imaginative abuse, a kick in the shin which had only succeeded in giving Dean a stubbed toe and a whack around the face with Dean's pillow, and he hadn't so much as fluttered an eyelash.
Dean cringed, gripping his pillow and pulled it tightly over his head as he tried to block out the racket of Sam's snoring. He gave a choking squeal of frustration as Sam shifted and broke wind at an impressive volume. He would later deny vehemently that it sounded exactly like a whimper.
It wasn't long afterwards when he felt a long arm snaking across his bare back.
"Sam," the muffled growl came from under the pillow; "I'm warnin' you, one more ... GAH!"
His voice was abruptly cut off as the arm unconsciously curled round his middle and yanked him sharply into a tight hug.
Wriggling and squirming violently, he cursed and blasphemed as he tried to push the arm away, but he just seemed to succeed in making it squeeze tighter as it gathered him further into a crushing bear hug. The damp heat of Sam's chest was pressed hard against his back, his hair curling under Sam's hot damp breath as his face burrowed deeply into the back if Dean's neck. Dean made a mental note to remember to shave next time he intended to get up close and personal with someone. He was convinced he's be needing skin grafts before the night was over
He continued to worm and writhe against the massive arm which held him fast; "Sam" he croaked, "leggo ... squeezin' too tight ..."
He began to gasp, legs weakly kicking and arms punching anything he could reach belonging to Sam as he tried to escape the vice-like grip.
His eyes bulged wildly as the arm squeezed tighter still, and he began to gape goldfish-like for air. Beneath his weakening struggles the bed creaked and groaned, springs squeaking and protesting as he fought to break free of his brother's iron grip.
He could feel himself changing colour; he must have been a lovely shade of puce by now; but this was getting serious; if Sam squeezed any tighter, he was pretty sure he was going to burst.
Eventually, he decided desperate times called for desperate measures; he pinched a clump of Sam's forearm hair between his thumb and fingertip. And tugged.
Sam's arm jerked sharply catching Dean a backhander in the breadbasket, and withdrew.
Dean scrambled back to the other side of the bed, almost tipping out onto the floor as the mattress sunk beneath him and flopped onto his side, panting for breath; tenderly nursing his poor crushed ribs.
Dean eventually settled back and smooshed his face into his pillow, relishing the pull of sleep at long last; his eyelids drooped as his breaths began to slow and deepen. Nestling into the sagging mattress, he curled into a ball of drowsing peacefulness.
Is was right about that time that Sam shifted again and planted a freezing cold foot right up the back of his thigh.
Dean yelped, and swatted the icy cold foot away, "friggin' bitchface … assbitch ... douchebag eatin' sonofabitch …" he grumbled rubbing the goosebumps along the back of his leg, "freaking long streak of … who sleeps with their friggin' freaky great feet hangin' off the end of the bed …"
"How the heck can anyone have feet so cold without getting frostbite?"
He turned and landed a petulant, hollow punch across Sam's back. Sam jerked with a snort, his eyes fluttering open briefly, then settled back down with a breathy snore.
Dean rolled over, unsure if the creaking he heard came from the bed or from his poor mangled back, and glared angrily at the ceiling, screwing his eyes tightly closed as if he were almost trying to squeeze a decent night's sleep out of them.
"Anythin' else?" he groaned, "anythin' else you wanna do to ruin my night, Sleepin' Beauty?"
Sam stirred, untidily turning over with a throaty moan, and his bent knee landed heavily in a very unfortunate place.
"Apparently there is …" Dean squeaked hoarsely through a haze of tears.
Curling slowly into a small ball of agony, he clutched at his throbbing vitals, biting his lip to stem the high pitched flow of obscenities. Timidly, laboriously, he rolled over so that he was curled up, face down in a kneeling position, knees and head occupying the same patch of bed with his quivering backside pointing at the ceiling.
It was a good few minutes before he was composed enough to move without fearing that his crown jewels might drop off and roll away. He gingerly lifted his head, and leaned on his elbows, panting softly as the pain subsided to a dull pounding throb, and his lungs remembered how to take in air.
Glancing across at Sam he was just in time to see the flying leg as it took his knees out from underneath him and kicked him clean off the bed.
He landed, face first in an untidy tangle of limbs, with a sprawling thud which seemed to shake the whole room. Spreadeagled across the floor, he groaned miserably, clutching his throbbing nose. On the plus side, he guessed, it did distract him from thinking about other damaged and throbbing parts of his body.
Saucer-round eyes blinked blearily through the darkness, as they tried to focus through a haze of trauma and exhaustion induced tears. He coughed; he could have sworn he'd inhaled a dead woodlouse.
Slowly gathering up his wits along with his scattered body parts, he shivered as the room's chill bore down on him, and shakily rose to his knees, brushing a couple of decades' accumulation of dust and cat hairs from his t shirt.
He winced as his sore back, which was clearly feeling neglected amongst all the other injuries, abruptly reminded him of it's presence.
Leaning heavily on the side of the bed, he pondered for a moment, trying to think when getting a good night's sleep had become so dangerous, and peered nervously over the edge of the mattress. His head drooped at the sight that met him. Sam was lavishly sprawled face down across the length and breadth of the bed, his mop of unruly dark hair sprayed across both pillows, his bare feet in their usual position hanging over the mattresses' end.
Dean clambered up to sit on edge of the bed, grunting with the effort and almost sliding off again as the limp mattress gave way beneath him. He closed his eyes, trying to find a part of his body which didn't hurt to focus on, and the only part he could find was his hair.
He shivered violently; crap, this room is cold. No expected guests meant no heating, he supposed.
Fumbling through the darkness for a glass of water on the bedside table, he took a long swig, relishing the refreshing path of the cool water. He sat a moment, slumped with crushing fatigue on the side of the bed, breathing deeply through the stiffness of his sore back, his throbbing vitals and his aching nose. He knew that sleeplessness addled the mind, so did pain, and so did excessive cold. On the basis of those facts, he figured his mind was probably about as addled as a mind can get without being completely and permanently nutballed, and so he probably shouldn't be too concerned about the overwhelming urge he currently felt to stave Sam's head in with the heel of his boot. He would chalk it up to temporary insanity.
He took another sip of the water.
It shouldn't have come as a shock; he scolded himself for being even the least little bit surprised; but it was still a shock to the system when Sam's twitching arm caught him square across the shoulder blades, jolting the remainder of the water in his lap.
He staggered up off the bed, dripping all over his feet and stalked angrily across to the bathroom, wrestling a pair of clean boxers out of his duffel and stubbing his toe on Sam's boot en route. He bit his lip once more; "Not goin' to cry … not goin' to … you're a friggin' grown man for chrissakes …"
He angrily tugged off his T shirt, and stood in the doorway of the bathroom, drying himself off, muttering darkly as he watched his brother sleep soundly.
Once done, he hobbled back across the room, fiddling irritably with the new boxers and making a point of avoiding Sam's boot; stubbing his toe on the leg of the bed instead.
When he eventually got back to the bed he wilted briefly as he realised he still had the problem of 200 pounds of comatose brother spreadeagled across the entire bed to address. He reached across and grabbed Sam's shoulder, shaking him; "c'mon man, shift over …" Sam muttered something unintelligible, but otherwise didn't stir.
Dean sighed, and tried again; he shook harder this time, "Sam … Sammy … move yourself." This time, Sam stirred, his eyes flickered open and squinted up at Dean. "W-wha …?"
Dean shoved him, "move over man, you're takin' up the whole friggin' bed!"
Sighing deeply, Sam withdrew his limbs, shuffling over more to his own side of the bed. He was snoring again before Dean had even sat on the bed.
Dean climbed into the bed, wobbling slightly as he almost rolled once again down into the Sam-shaped dip in the middle of the mattress and lay back, pulling the quilt over himself with a sigh.
He settled long enough for his eyes to droop closed, and sleep to drift over him. He was just succumbing to the delicious pull of sleep when he felt the bed rock as Sam turned again and a wandering hand slid slowly under the small of his back.
His eyes snapped open; "Dude; knock it off," he growled the warning; but the hand continued it's wanderings. "God; not another friggin' bear hug."
He tried to wriggle away only to find himself hanging over the edge of the mattress. Sam stirred, with a groan, murmuring quietly as his limbs slowly began to spread out across the bed again, his long leg hooking over Dean's, effectively pinning him to helplessly.
Dean squirmed as Sam's free arm went wandering and he ended up with an elbow in his armpit and a finger up his nose.
"Jeez, it's like sleepin' with a friggin' squid," he snorted in pained exasperation, wrestling his arms free and angrily pushing Sam back over towards his own side of the bed. "Dude, back off …" he yelled.
Dean flopped back onto the bed flat on his back and groaned; Please God, he just wanted to sleep. That's all, he didn't ask for much out of life; all he wanted was a decent night's sleep without being disturbed, maimed or molested. Surely that wasn't too much to ask?
He was only a couple of minutes into his ponderings when Sam rolled over to his own side of the bed, dragging all the bedclothes with him.
Any engineer will tell you that everything has it's breaking point; whether it be rope or wire or concrete or high-tensile steel; everything has it's limit.
The same holds true for desperately exhausted, cold, bruised and battered, and insanely frustrated big brothers.
The quilt disappeared as smoothly as a receding tide, leaving his poor crumpled body exposed to the dusty chill of this god-awful prehistoric room, and his weakening veneer of self control crumbled spectacularly. A red mist descended.
Scrambling to his knees, he grabbed his pillow and laid into his blissfully snoring brother.
"You friggin'…" *WHUMP* "freakyass…" *THWACK* "sonofa …" *THUMP* "bitchfaced douchey long streak of …" *BLAM* "keepin' me awake…" *WHOMP* "snorin' your frickin'…" *WHACK* "head off all…" *WHAM* "friggin…" *THUD* "night …"
Jolted instantly awake; Sam cowered, curling into a ball and cradling his head in his arms under the manic assault. He yelled at Dean to calm down.
Straddling him, Dean lurched as the ancient, ramshackle bed listed and groaned under the violent punishment; he was too far gone to hear Sam's muffled pleas, a demented glaze glistened in his eyes, a pink flush of fury reddened his cheeks and a dribble of spit, swinging merrily to and fro, hung off his bottom lip.
Sam knew he had to act before he became an entry in the Health and Safety section of the Statistical Abstract of the United States under the heading of death by bedlinen.
"Dude" he yelled frantically, "calm down … it's me, Sam …"
*WHAM* "friggin' squddy douchebag …" *THUMP* "wanna sleep but…" *BLAM* *friggin' snorin' … fartin' … gropin' …" *THUD* "kickin' me off the friggin' bed" *THWACK* "touchin' me up, freakin' pervert …"
Dean's pillow had long since given in to the inevitable and burst, spraying it's meagre stuffing of duckdown all over the room. This didn't, however, seem to have deterred Dean who; sporting an impressive sprinkling of duckdown in his hair and stuck to his nose and lips, making him sneeze and lisp as he raged at Sam; was still furiously flapping the limp, empty pillowcase in Sam 's direction trying admirably to inflict the maximum amount of damage with it.
Sam reflected through the blizzard of flying duckdown, that it was really quite pathetic to watch.
Eventually, Sam reached up and grasped Dean's wrists. Holding them tightly at a safe distance with his long arms, he wrestled his squirming brother down onto the bed. He loomed over Dean's panting, red-faced figure."Dude, what is wrong with you?" He gasped, staring into Dean's face; wide green eyes burning with indignant fury, lips stretched into an enraged scowl; the whole effect ruined somewhat by a stray feather stuck to the end of his nose.
"I wanna sleep," spat Dean, "jus' wanna friggin' sleep!"
"Well, damnedwell sleep then. There's no need to beat me up," snorted Sam, still tightly gripping the flailing arms.
"Yes there is. You've kept me awake all freakin' night!" Dean huffed, a little calmer. " If I'm not gonna sleep, I may as well do something constructive an' keep you awake too." He groaned heavily, rubbing his eyes; "snorin' and kickin' and movin' about, feelin' me up, and pushin' me out of bed, kickin' me where it friggin' hurts; I'm freakin' exhausted man; if I don't get some sleep soon, I'm gonna go freakin' loco!"
Sam stared at him, incredulous; "whad'ya mean GOING TO GO …?"
Dean struggled, slipping his wrist free of Sam's hands. "Get off me," he grunted, landing a petulant slap on Sam's forearm.
Sam sighed and rolled over to his side of the bed.
"Just keep over your own side of the friggin' bed, keep your great pervy tentacles to yourself, keep friggin' quiet, an' we're gonna get along fine." Dean snorted, rolling over and groaning as his tender undercarriage twinged under his weight.
Sam rolled his eyes, he couldn't believe he could actually remember a time many years ago when he used to sleep with Dean for comfort and security.
Brushing stray duckdown from his pillow he flopped down on his back; pulling the quilt over himself, closing his eyes and waiting for sleep to claim him again.
It was barely a minute when he heard a small voice behind him.
"What?" he snapped irritably.
"Ain't got a pillow …"
Sam clenched his eyes tightly closed. "Tough" he snorted, "you shouldn't have tried to beat me up with yours."
He closed his eyes again, taking a deep breath, he tried to relax.
"That's nice," came a muffled grunt from the other side of the bed; "seein' as you've kept me awake all freakin' night, the least you could do is give me yours."
There was a sigh.
"Back really hurts … think I might've slipped a disc when you kicked me on the floor …" The voice contained an expertly calculated little groan.
Sam gave a long, pained sigh, and reluctantly threw his pillow to Dean, laying back stiffly on his flat, pillow-less side of the sagging mattress.
"S'ok I suppose". Dean grunted ingaciously and aimed a bloody minded backheel at Sam's shin.
"Ow … son of a bitch," Sam yelped, "what the hell was that for?"
"Felt like it;" came the grunted response from the snuggled lump burrowed deep into the quilt.
"Right, I'll have my damn pillow back then;" Sam snatched the pillow and tugged it sharply out from under Dean's head.
Wriggling free of the quilt, Dean's hands made a flailing grab for the disappearing pillow, and dragged it back to his side of the bed; but Sam's superior strength won out as he yanked it back, clutching it to his chest.
"Hah" he barked triumphantly.
Scowling, Dean lashed out and, punched him square on the nose, grabbing the pillow as Sam's hands shot to his nose.
Dean yelled angrily as Sam, nursing his nose, snatched it back one-handed and snorted angrily; "grow up Dean, what are you, a friggin' first-grader?"
Dean grabbed his end of the pillow, tugging viciously like a terrier tugging a rope; "nope," he growled, "an' you still wouldn't be able to beat me even if I was, Tinkerbell!"
The tug-of-war continued until there was a loud rip, and a spray of duckdown as the unfortunate pillow tore in half, sending both brothers tumbling off the bed.
"Great, now neither of us have got pillows, moron;" Sam groaned through the rain of duck down.
His response was two hearty sneezes as Dean fought to free his nose from the clinging feathers.
"You're such an infant," Sam continued.
"At least I'm not a friggin' overgrown sasquatch with perverted squid tendancies," Dean huffed back petulantly; from behind a mass of down which clung comically to the stubble on his face.
Clambering stiffly back onto the bed with a pained grunt, Dean flopped down, sharply pulling at the quilt, wrapping it tightly around himself.
Sam climbed up on his side of the bed and angrily pulled it back to his side of the bed, unravelling Dean like a roll of carpet.
Sprawled on his belly, Dean pulled himself up to his knees, lurching sideways as the mattress sunk in the middle and aimed a slap at his brother, "gimme back …"
"Didn't you ever learn to share?" snapped Sam, shoving Dean hard in the chest, gasping as he realised he'd shoved just a touch too hard, when Dean toppled off the bed again landing with a cringemaking thud that shook the room.
Sam knelt on the increasingly unstable bed, gathering up the quilt and steeling himself for the onslaught that he knew was to come, as Dean peered over the side of the bed, coated in duckdown, green eyes glimmering with unborn revenge.
Sam held up his hands in an attempt at peacemaking, "hey, I'm sorry man … I didn't mean to shove so hard."
His words were cut off as Dean leapt back onto the bed, a coiled ball of fist swinging indignation.
Sam fought back, throwing Dean down onto his back in a classic wrestling move. Inamongst the melee of flying limbs and duckdown, no-one heard the agonised groans and creaks of the ancient and fragile bed until finally there came a sudden splintering crack as the legs of the bed gave way under the violent fracas and it crashed to the equally ancient and unstable floor.
Both brothers froze, swaying briefly as the wreckage of the bed lurched; the tortured floorboards grinding and cracking before, with a ripping, splintering crash, the fractured bed and it's two shocked occupants plummeted through the floor, dragging the bedside table with it and landed with a deafening smash in a swirling cloud of dust, termites and duckdown in the foyer below them.
Kneeling, paralysed with shock, on the scattered wreckage of the bed, Dean still gripped a fistful of Sam's T shirt, Sam's arm hovered, frozen in mid-punch.
Two pairs of wide eyes glazed in bewilderment stared at the stunned little old lady behind the reception desk, and blinked in unison; Sam shook a small festival of plasterdust and woodlice out of his hair. Dean spat out a feather and plastered on his best shitfaced 'we-are-screwed-to-hell' grin.
Clambering shakily off the bed, they backed sheepishly away towards the door, thanking their ancient landlady for such a lovely, comfortable night's stay and sprinted wildly out to the Impala, Dean grabbed her keys from the wreckage of the bedside cabinet on the way out.
Her tyres squealed as Dean floored the accelerator and she found herself out on the open road again.
"Let's get the hell out of here and find somewhere to stay in Pike's Pass," gasped Dean, gripping the wheel with white knuckled ferocity. Sam looked across at him; "have you considered how we're gonna pay for this theoretical accommodation? Our wallets are back in what's left of the room, along with our jackets and our duffels."
Dean glanced back at him, "we'll work somethin' out, we've paid for more with less," he smirked.
The Impala roared along the deserted highway. Inside her, Sam slumped as he suddenly realised he was still only dressed in his T shirt and boxers. "More to the point," he added, "we've left our duffels behind, and that means our clothes. How're we gonna explain why we're walkin' into a hotel an' checkin' in in just our underwear?"
Dean glanced down at himself, respendent in black boxers and nothing else, and groaned; "oh man, they're never gonna believe we're brothers now …"