"I'll pull your tongue out and shove it up your nose," he told him, shifting around on the bed to make the pillows a little more comfortable. Once he figured they felt right, he settled down on the sheets. Stiles said he wasn't one of those people who made noise and Derek made an amused sound at that. "Just don't wake me up suddenly," he warned him, resting down against the pillows and shuffling around a bit more until he considered the bed comfortable.
His brain wouldn't shut off and he lay on his side, back to the rest of the room. He was surprised by how comfortable things between he and Stiles were becoming, but he supposed they had a few things in common when they weren't dealing with something horrific or dramatic. They could talk, properly, about things like life and poetry and sometimes movies, which was a thing Derek hadn't realised he could do with Stiles until they were stuck together with no one else for company. He was definitely keeping these thoughts to himself, though.
It took a few minutes for him to relax and another few for him to actually fall asleep, and soon he was sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, his face mostly pressed into the pillows. He stayed like that for a while, until it got hard to breathe and his subconscious told him to move, which he then found a position on his back, arms crossing his stomach, face contorted into a frown because of God only knew what he was actually dreaming about.