laurificus: (Default)
♥ ♥ ♥

Thank you so much for all the lovely gifts on my profile page! They were a lovely surprise when I woke up this morning.

And here is a gift from me. Though how welcome you find it will depend entirely on how much you appreciate Sam and Dean schmoop. :D


Hallmark Moment
by [personal profile] laurificus, 1,131 words, Sam/Dean, PG
Dean's not actually pissed off that they don't celebrate Valentine's Day. Obviously.

No spoilers. Set in some vaguely defined future of happiness and joy. Thank you to [personal profile] mollyamory for her remarkable beta skills.


Hallmark Moment

"Do you think it would be bad for business, if people knew their chances of dying a bloody, painful death were so much higher this time of year?" Sam sounds genuinely curious.

He was supposed to be buying the essentials (bandages, painkillers and doughnuts), but here he is, instead, in front of the world's most disturbing display of pink sparkly shit. He's holding a horrific fluffy heart, so big it looks normal in even his gigantor hand. Dean regrets saving the world-saving the world twice, thank you very much--just looking at it all.

"'Your heart belongs to me. Because I cut it out' does kind of lack a certain romance," Dean says, and he thinks he sounds perfectly normal.

it's not like Sam doesn't have a point. Next to Halloween and Christmas, Valentine's Day is the biggest event on the Winchester calendar. Possibly, the ghost population objects to cheesy poetry and ugly cards as much as Dean does. And Dean's not actually pissed off that they don't celebrate it. Obviously. Incest doesn't lend itself to romance anymore than bloody, painful death. It would just be nice, sometimes, if the good stuff for everyone else didn't mean them wandering about in the dark trying not to meet that painful, bloody death.

Sam laughs, though, like he's genuinely happy to be in rural Louisiana, cataloging holiday body counts. "Roses are red, but your blood is redder," he says, and a woman poking through some really impractical heart-shaped notebooks eyes them like the serial killers they so very much sound like. She does not, Dean observes, step away from the display. Dean hopes whoever she's buying for appreciates the sacrifice.

Dean glares at the heart in Sam's hands, because he can't really glare at Sam. Until he remembers that he legitimately can, and does that, too. "Aren't we supposed to be working? Yearly bloodbath to prevent, blah blah blah?" He's careful to say the last part quietly; no need to irreversibly brand themselves as dangerous psychos all the time.

Sam nods, still smiling. He hangs the heart on the rack, and trails Dean back to the more useful parts of the store. "I haven't got your doughnuts yet," he says, like maybe Dean thought he was hiding them in his hair, or something. "And they're a terrible dinner substitute, anyway."

"They're an extraordinary dinner substitute," Dean says. Sure, maybe he'd like a steak and some pie, but he's not about to complain. Not out loud, at least. "If the Farmerville Municipal Library Valentine ghost gets me tonight, I'll be perfectly happy knowing they were my last meal."

"If the Farmerville Municipal Library Valentine ghost gets you tonight, I'll mock you forever," Sam says. "And also disown you out of shame and embarrassment."

That's not what he's saying three hours later, while Dean's stitching up his thigh. Really, he's not saying much of anything, all tight-lipped and stoic. It's too late for that. Dean heard the way he screamed when the ghost came at him. Most likely, people in Texas heard him.

"It was one of your finest moments," he tells Sam now. And because there's no point in putting up with a miserable Sam if he doesn't get to make fun of him, he breaks out his best Sammy in distress voice, high-pitched and quavery. "Dean, save me! Don't let it get me!"

"Bite me," Sam says, through clenched teeth.

"Maybe later." Dean pulls the needle through one last time, ties the thread off and steps back to take in his work. It'll scar, but Sam's had worse. If Dean looks at the neat, methodical line of stitches long enough, he'll forget about the messy slick of Sam's blood, the awkward, horribly still sprawl of Sam in it when Dean got to him.

"Hey," Sam says, touching his wrist. "Your melodramatic side is showing up again."

"Like you can talk," Dean says, because, seriously, only the other week Sam shot a dead harpy three times just because it got a little close to Dean's throat. He lets Sam tug him in all the same, until he's standing in the open v of Sam's legs. Better to look at Sam's face, Sam's stupid, alive, smiling face.

"I'm all right with my hypocritical inconsistency," Sam says, as if that's news to Dean. But then his mouth is warm against Dean's, tasting of whiskey and comfort and maybe one of Dean's doughnuts, though Dean might be imagining that part. Dean leans into him, wrapping a hand in Sam's hair as Sam's arm curls around his neck.

"Thanks for not letting me bleed to death," Sam says, his mouth tracing the line of Dean's jaw. He seems very intent on it, and Dean certainly isn't complaining, but then Sam stops, typically so he can talk a bit more. "Tomorrow, maybe you can have some sort of steak dinner as a reward."

"And pie," Dean says, too busy trying to tip Sam's head back so he can get at his throat to pretend not to be happy about a real dinner, maybe somewhere nice and upmarket so that they won't fit in at all. "I have earned my pie."

"You have," Sam says, leaning back and pulling Dean down onto the bed with him. "And maybe a few other things." His hands are already fumbling at Dean's jeans; they're strong and warm when they close around Dean's dick and draw it out. Dean grins into the curve of Sam's shoulder. Maybe the day isn't going to be a total bust, after all.

Later, Dean's drowsing when a warm washcloth smacks him in the chest. Sam's standing above him. In the glow of the bedside lamp, Dean can see that he's smiling. He drops something else onto Dean; it bounces off and lands on the mattress beside him. Dean fumbles sleepily for it, squints down at it in growing horror.

"You hang it on the mirror," Sam says, completely unnecessarily.

The obnoxiously pink heart twinkles up at him, like a tiny monument to all that's wrong in the world. Certainly to all that's wrong with Sam. "You're not getting in my baby for a month for even suggesting that," Dean says. He drops it on the nightstand, wipes his hand with the washcloth before cleaning the rest of himself up. Then he rolls over, feeling the bed dip and settle as Sam climbs in behind him. He throws an arm over Dean, casually possessive like he always is.

"I'm beginning to rethink whether you deserve me," Sam says, and Dean kicks him, hard, as much to prove he still can as anything else. An embarrassingly contented feeling has made itself at home in his chest. Dean puts it down to really good sex and nothing to do with Sam and his terrible presents.

Still, the stupid heart is the last thing he sees as he closes his eyes.

Mood:: 'happy' happy


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