Sam had made the pasta dish hundreds of times before, but never had his neck exploded into Goosebumps at the closeness of his audience. Dean hovered over Sam’s shoulder, and when he breathed in the smell of the tomato and basil sauce, Sam’s hair stood on end, and he shivered.
“You cold?” Dean asked.
The steam was rising into Sam’s face, and he was sweating under his T-shirt, but he couldn’t deny the pimples on his arms, or the shivers that rattled his frame every time Dean came close. He shrugged, and hoped it was enough of an answer.
Dean studied him intently, not satisfied with Sam’s shoulder shuffle.
“You could be coming down with something.”
Sam froze when Dean pressed his palm to his forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever…”
He eased Dean’s hand away. “I’m fine, you can cancel
