Chapter Text
Dean awoke to hair in his mouth. That was … weird. He couldn’t remember going to bed with anyone last night, much less someone with long hair. He spat it out quietly, somehow awake before Sam was. He quickly scrolled through his memories of the night before. An investigation, a successful hunt, stumbling victoriously back to the motel and falling into bed. He remembered hazy pain, and he was surprised he wasn’t in more of it now. Sure, he was sore, but it was easier than he thought the morning would be. There wasn’t any reason for there to have been hair in his mouth, though, no memories to explain it.
Dean remembered hunting a coven of witches. He remembered ushering the living kids out of the basement, handing them off to Sam, making sure that they didn’t see anything too horrible. He remembered fighting some of the witches, getting slammed into some walls with magic and physical force, remembered witch-killing bullets and dirty looks and ragged breathing when it was finally done. There were small celebrations, probably some high-fives, and some taking care of bodies, but Dean couldn’t remember anything out of the ordinary for an incredibly boring hunt. There had just been dead witches, his dumbass brother, and the crappy motel room.
There hadn’t been any women, and he was certain he hadn’t taken any meds to dull the pain, too tired and ready for bed to do much of anything else. Sam might’ve turned on the television, or read for a bit in the quiet room, but Dean’s memories post-hunt were hazy at best. Something else had to be going on for there to be hair in his mouth - maybe Sam had crawled into bed with him. He did that sometimes, when he still had nightmares. Just like he had when they were kids. Neither of them ever brought it up, never spoke about the screams or the shared beds. But no, Dean was alone in the bed, he was sure of it. There wasn’t any brother-space-heater next to him, no breath down his neck.
Dean blinked around in the dim morning light. He was facing the bathroom, laying on his side. He stretched, and his feet hung over the end of the bed. What? Motel room beds weren’t huge, but that was rare for Dean. And his head was up by the headboard, he could feel the shitty wood just above the crown of his head. Dean blinked, rubbing his eyes. His hands felt weird against his face. Had he and Sam drunk last night? It would explain the weird feeling. He couldn’t remember drinking anything, not even a celebratory beer, but it would certainly explain the fuzzy memories and feeling so off in his body. So… unlike himself. Not in pain, he thought, half-bitterly. He distantly thought about how fucked it was that it was off-putting to wake up feeling even okay in his body, much less good.
Dean tried to brush it off, both the weird feeling and the thought of you shouldn’t feel okay, instead focusing on standing and walking to the bathroom. It was a short walk, the hotel room tiny and cheap and dirty (as usual).
The bathroom was grimy, but Dean was used to that. He did his best to ignore the film of crud that covered the tiles, tried not to think about the various communicable diseases that might be living in the grout - that was really more of Sam’s concern, anyway. It was gross, but Dean had lived through worse, and would again.
Dean did his thing, and after he washed his hands, he went to splash water on his face, trying to wash away the weird feeling that was covering him like a shroud. When he looked in the mirror, he nearly jumped into the ceiling, which honestly wouldn’t have been hard.
Sam’s face was staring back at Dean in the mirror.
Fuck.