Sam's still in bed when Dean comes back with two paper cups full of coffee and a dozen munchins. He tried not to make much noise, setting the cups down on the desk and kicking off his shoes by the door, but Sam is already stirring, rubbing his eyes and murmuring Dean's name in a sleep-rough, quiet voice.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean whispers, coming to perch on the edge of the bed, "it's me."

Sam pushes closer to him, one hand venturing out from under the covers to catch Dean's fingers. "Where'd you go?" he asks. The pad of his thumb catches on one of Dean's knuckles, a slow drag-bump that sends a shiver up Dean's spine.

"Just to the donut shop." The covers rustle, Sam's knees drawing close to his chest so he can lever himself up against the headboard. Dean leans in and brushes his mouth over his brother's, careful and slow because that split in the middle of Sam's lower lip still hasn't fully healed. "I got you some of those stupid popems you like."

Sam huffs out a laugh, nose cold and dry against Dean's cheek. "You're the best big brother ever," he says. "Now give me my munchkins."