After the fire hadn't burned down the scrub forest, and after a meal had been cooked and eaten and the fire had been safely doused and buried, the matter of sleeping arrangements came up. It was Dean, on inspecting their lodgings, who brought up the most important question.

"Why are there only two rooms in this thing?"

"Why are there only two front seats in your car?" Adam asked. "That's how they make 'em. And someone was too cheap to get a different brand."

"Well," Dean said, "there are three of us."

"Seems like a problem of math, then," Adam said.

"I'll share," Sam said, at the exact same time Adam said "I won't."

"Hey," Dean said.

"I set the damn thing up," Adam pointed out. "And Sam's being nice. Looks like it's the two of you, then."

"...hey," Dean said again, in a It's not too nice to be taking advantage of Mr. Concussion, here voice.

"Sam can take care of you in case you start going cross-eyed," Adam pointed out. "Anyway. He doesn't mind your snoring."

Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "He's concussed too, you know."

"He was wearing his seatbelt." Adam put on as near to an angelic expression as his face would support. Which was, all things considered, actually quite angelic. "We'll rock-paper-scissors tomorrow," he promised, and slipped into the tent.

"...that doesn't work with three," Sam said, but Adam was no longer listening.

"And I don't snore," Dean appended, belatedly.

"Come on." Sam patted his shoulder, and held open the tent flap. "One night. Not that bad."

Dean sighed. "Yeah."