laurificus: (sam)
Extenuating Circumstances
by [personal profile] laurificus, 828 words, Sam/Dean
While Sam was out, Dean was worrying about him, and possibly having epiphanies.

For [personal profile] de_nugis, who had a birthday this week, and is generally awesome. You should all blame her for the uptick in schmoop around here this month.

**

Extenuating Circumstances

There are bodies piling up in Suffolk, Virginia, ones with inexplicable claw marks and even more inexplicable burns. Dean's money's on either a lion with a blowtorch or an actual dragon--a real one, like in The Hobbit. He doesn't know which it is, though, because Sam went out something like six weeks ago to do research, and Dean has spent the time since then doing very important things of his own. And now that Sam's actually back, rain-soaked and wind-swept, Dean finds that he doesn't really care what the research turned up.

"You're drunk," Sam says. He knows how to wield disapproval like he invented it, but Dean ignores him. This is no time to get sidetracked.

"I am," he says, because he is. Getting drunk was one of the important things he had to do. "I got you some, too. Beer and Tequila and--" he shrugs. "something else." Probably whiskey, but he can't entirely remember. Sam doesn't look impressed, though Dean's sprawled on the bed with his head hanging over the side; it's hard to get a good read on his face when he's sort of looking at him upside down. Luckily, Sam has always believed in telegraphing his moods in every possible way. Right now, he's throwing his backpack to the ground, and then his jacket, all quick, angry motions.

"There was a series of mysterious deaths fifty years ago," he says, like he thinks Dean might be responsible for them. "I discovered that while I was out working."

"mmm." While Sam was out, Dean was worrying about him, and possibly having epiphanies. He stands up, now, and the room spins like it would very much like for Dean to fall right back down. That's all right. Sam's still at the centre of it. Or not, really, what with how he's only a few steps from the doorway, but Dean's worked harder to get to him, and Sam's always the centre, anyway.

"I thought you weren't doing this anymore," Sam says, not unreasonably. Sam needed Dean to do better, months ago, when Dean was the only thing standing between Lucifer and him. And Sam was about the only thing Dean could do better for, so he'd promised, and he's mostly kept his word. But still. These are extenuating circumstances.

So Dean says, "Do you know how many times you've died and come back?" He grabs Sam's shoulder. His collar is damp, probably because the ends of his stupid hair are dripping all over it. "3 times, I think. It could be more, if we count the time with the wishing well. And I feel like the soulless thing is kind of a grey area."

"Dean," Sam says. That's his serious voice; it's possible Dean's plans are about to be derailed by speeches. "I'm not dead now. I'm right here."

As speeches go, Dean kinda likes that one. "I know," he says. Of course he knows that. "I'm saying, Sammy. It's not exactly normal. Most people, that doesn't happen even once."

"No," Sam says. He looks at Dean's hand, still on his shoulder, fingers edging up into his hair. "Dean, I--"

"i think maybe that makes it okay," Dean says, leaning in. "I think--I think maybe I don't care if it doesn't." All the same, his first attempt is tentative, just a brush of his lips against Sam's, and only at the corner of Sam's mouth, at that. He gets a fleeting taste of ChapStick, a brief feel of cold and stubble, and then he pulls back, and he breathes, and he waits.

Sam can push him away if he wants to; Dean won't mind. Except for how he totally will. He'll get over it, is what he means. But Sam doesn't push him away; Sam grabs on, holds Dean in place with his disturbingly gigantor arms and his disturbingly gigantor hands. Dean very definitely does not feel safe, or steadied or any other god-awful thing like that.

"Dean, did you get drunk so we could make out?" Sam asks, the happiness in his voice making him sound almost like a stranger. "It's just like the romance I've always dreamed of." Dean tries to kiss him properly this time, but Sam's a difficult son of a bitch, always has been. He says, "I'm kinda worried you might forget in the morning," And there's seriousness there now, lurking not very stealthily beneath the mockery.

"Sleeping with my brother? If I do, we're probably doing it wrong," Dean says. "Specifically, you're probably doing it wrong."

And then he says, "Sammy," because he can. Because Sam will look at him and recognise him and maybe not see the devil anywhere at all, and Dean will get to kiss whatever stupid comeback he's planning right out of his mouth. And Sam does look at him so Dean does get to kiss him--enthusiastically this time, with a lot of tongue--and if the world or the country or maybe just this town still needs saving, then it's not going to happen tonight. Dean figures they've earned that.

***
Mood:: 'sleepy' sleepy

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