Sam sighed. He had been looking up to Dean for a long, long time, and when Dean told him to do something, he usually went through two stages: first, he bitched about it, then he shut up and did it. Having effectively (if briefly) bitched about it, it was time for him to do what Dean said. So he shut up, closed his eyes, and leaned back.
And Dean was right, he had gotten himself really wound up. “'S no problem,” he murmured at Dean's semi-apology. (It was, after all, about as apologetic as Dean got.) When the hand touched his chest, he let out a rush of air, and clenched his fist to stop himself from shooting up out of the bed.