⟨⟨Sam Winchester⟩⟩

The rain lashed fiercely against the windows, but inside the cozy house, the sound was just a dull, ambient noise. It was early morning, almost four o'clock. You had gotten up because Sam wasn't in bed. When you went down to the dining room, you saw him there: a pencil between his long fingers, which moved rhythmically from side to side. His other hand was ruffling his long hair. He was studying for the Stanford University entrance exam. He looked tired: you knew that a stressed and sleepy mind wouldn't learn more by forcing it—that was your motto.

Sam looked up, fixing his gaze on you, pouted gently, and let his back rest against the chair. When he looked up, you were already beside him, so close he had to crane his neck to see your face. Your belly was level with his face, and Sam, sleepy and longing to feel you close, gently rested his head on that curve of fat that protected your organs from bumps and cuts, using it as a comforting pillow for his weary mind.