Sam woke up as the tasty filling in a super-soldier sandwich, a thing he would have been more into if the super-soldiers in question weren't Steven Rogers and James Barnes. Like, he super loved the dudes and all, but there would be ice skating in hell before Mrs Wilson's son was dumb enough to get his dick within ten feet of either of those crazy assholes.
Also Bucky clung like a limpet and Steve specialized in spreading out into every available micrometer of space, and a few that weren't available, and that meant that Sam, in the middle, was suffocating. Sam wondered groggily if it was just Steve finally taking up all the space he couldn't before the serum or if Steve had always been a fucking bedhog. Considering the way Bucky was riding the edge of the bed like a champ, he was inclined to think the latter was correct. Which was kind of cute when you thought about it. Little Steve Rogers spreading out like the Blob on their narrow bed while Bucky lay half on top of him to warm him up and protect the few precious centimeters of space Steve let him have.
Now, though, Steve was big enough to back up his claim to the bed and Sam was having a hard time getting a clear breath. He pushed at Steve until Steve shifted a grudging centimeter and pulled the blanket over himself.
He flailed an arm out from beneath Steve's giant bicep and groped blindly over to the bedside table. Bucky was out so hard he didn't even flinch when Sam brushed his metal shoulder reaching for his phone. It was almost noon, and he had like fifteen missed texts and five missed call alerts from his mother and oldest sister.
He didn't remember much of the night before, but he had a vague memory of Steve and Bucky sitting him down in a half lit bar and bringing him shots of whiskey grimly, like he was about to go through surgery without anesthetic or something. His eyes were still full of dried crumbs, so he probably cried all over one of them too.
"God damn it," said Sam. "God fucking shit fuck damn hell. Fuck."
Bucky didn't stir, but Steve lifted his massive paw and tried to pet Sam. He thumped him a couple times soothingly and mumbled, "Go back sleep, better inna mornin'."
"That's my line," said Bucky, very clearly, and cuddled down into Sam's favorite pillow.
Sam really had to piss, his arm was falling asleep again under Steve's stupid log of an arm, and he was sweating like hell from their combined body heat. "It is morning," he said. He wasn't even really hungover, which was almost worse. He wished he was. He wished he had a headache and was puking his guts up, instead of lying squished between Steve and Bucky, safe and protected and without Riley god fucking dammit.
"Better inna nother mornin'," said Steve. "Night." Then the asshole had the balls to reach out across Sam and pat around until he found Bucky, and grab Bucky's hand to entwine their fingers together over Sam's torso.
He could wriggle his way out of bed, go take a piss, call his family back and tell them he was okay. He could make coffee and pretend today was a normal day. He could go to work, or at least get something done around the house.
Bucky shifted like he was falling back into deeper sleep, but he turned his back toward Steve and Sam and faced toward the door and the window, keeping closer watch even in his dreams. Steve's arm laid heavily across Sam, stretching out to keep hold of Bucky. Sam remembered this feeling of safety, of being denned up with someone you knew like the breath in your lungs.
His eyes burned and he scrubbed them roughly with the hand holding his phone. Fuck it. Just, fuck it. He didn't want to be with his family today. He didn't really want to be with Steve and Bucky either, but at least they understood.
He sent a mass text to his family and the friends and other vets who had texted him. Holing up today, but doing okay. He turned off the phone. Then he reached over across Bucky and set it back on the nightstand and huddled into the warm space between Bucky and Steve.
They were on watch. He could be vulnerable for now.
Sam closed his eyes.