Sam hadn’t slept in three days and it was starting to become a problem.
Of course, his lack of rest felt like nothing compared to the much more glaring issue at hand, but he wasn’t so far gone that he thought killing himself before they could stop the Apocalypse was a good idea.
But if that was the case, then why couldn’t he sleep?
Over the counter medicine predictably did nothing, any remedy he or Dean could think of proved to be a waste of time and energy, and no amount of thin, scratchy comforters stacked on top of him made him feel cozy enough to get even a wink of shut-eye. Sam was almost convinced that it was some kind of demonic influence keeping him awake until he finally caved and begged for Lucifer to take over his body. He wouldn’t have the energy to fight back, that was for sure.
He was lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the opposite wall while Dean snored behind him. Sam was jealous that he could manage a few hours every few nights even with the end of the world creeping ever closer. His mind was becoming fuzzy, unreliable, and absolutely infuriating.
Sam shifted again, tossing his legs around and craning himself onto his other side, burying himself deeper in the covers like that would help.
“I didn’t know you were still awake.”
Sam thought his heart had finally decided to give out, but it began to beat again when he realized it was just Cas. He sat up and found him still perched at the table next to the kitchenette, hands on his knees and legs together like a private school boy. Sam smiled at Cas, bracing himself wholly on the heels of his palms.
“I haven’t slept in seventy-two hours, but I don’t think that’s anything compared to you.”
Cas narrowed his eyes slightly, like he was trying to work it out in his head how many hours he had existed without ever needing to so much as rest his eyes. Lucky bastard.
“No, it’s not. But you need to sleep; I can help you.”
He walked over to Sam’s bedside and lingered a moment, waiting for Sam’s approval. When he nodded, Cas climbed into bed with him and lay stiff at his side.
“You didn’t get enough practice in 1978?” Sam was lying precariously close to the edge of the bed, his shoulder jamming into the nightstand, but he still felt more comfortable like this than he had in an empty bed.
“What?”
“Nevermind,” Sam yawned, his eyes widening for a moment as he realized just how quickly he was falling.
While Cas was not the type to ever look proud of himself, Sam wouldn’t have blamed him in that moment. The effect was instantaneous: his eyes started to burn with fatigue, he yawned and hunkered down under the sheets. His other arm brushed against Cas’s and the friction of his coat’s sleeve felt like fire lapping at his skin. Sam was amazed.
He glanced at Cas for a moment before his eyelids slid closed, unsure what he’d done to make Sam fall asleep so readily but prepared to ask Cas into bed every night if that was what it took to knock him out.