He hunted for a clean glass from an overhead cupboard as he waited for the tap to run cool.
Unscathed, Sam reached the kitchen, his focus, however cloudy, zeroed in on the sink. Even if Dean was away for a few days and there was no one around to laugh at him for sleepy clumsiness, Sam’s ideal was not waking with his cheek on the cold hallway floor after tripping over himself in the middle of the night. Upon nearly tripping over them, Sam tugged up the legs of his flannel pajama pants by the waistband. The younger Winchester hummed absently as he walked through the bunker, labyrinthine with the lights low and Sam’s brain slow. With a grunt, Sam pushed off his bed and stood, shuffling toward his door and out into the hall. Falling back asleep would be easier if he didn’t rid the sleep from his eyes. He dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead to brush his messy chestnut hair back, blearily chiding his hand when it reached to rub his eyes. Sam sat up with a groan, able only to coax his eyes open enough to squint through his lashes as he swung his legs over the side of his bed.
He didn’t need to know the time his body could tell with certain confidence that its REM cycle had been disrupted, and all his brain could register from that confidence was the loud sentiment of early, dark, and thirsty. His mind was too foggy to have read the time on his phone, which didn’t matter so much after he’d reached for the device and knocked it blindly off his nightstand. Thus, the only Winchester occupying the bunker had no idea what time it was when he groggily opened his eyes.
Pajama sam 1 kitchen windows#
The subterranean lair, unsurprisingly, had no windows or other points of entry for natural light, leaving the Winchesters to have enviable faith in their phone and watch batteries (as well as future vitamin D deficiencies). It was nearly impossible to guess what time it was in the bunker at any time of day.
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