ficlet: everybody's living - spn - gen
title: Everybody's Living
rating: G
summary: It's like something right out of a Meg Ryan movie.
fandom: SPN
notes: Written for the hugging challenge thing over at spnflashfic because, you know, I'm all for these boys hugging. It's mostly luzdeestrellas fault, really, but she kinda made up for it with the beta.
Sam exhales through his teeth when Dean turns his head-right in the middle of a sentence about something Sam honest to God cannot remember now-and Sam gets an all new flash of the purple blooming under his jaw, red rope burn not quite hidden by his Shaving Needs A Day Off, Sam, My Razor Is Tired stubble.
There's a second, afterwards, where Sam's still kind of reeling all over again. Where he doesn't remember endless Tuesdays, or the sounds of dogs growling. It's so much worse than that. It's six months of making hotel beds with hospital corners just for a routine and every meal alone; it's four months of searching and hoping and coming up empty. It's hard to breathe.
"Dean," Sam says, surprising himself with it in the silence. Dean just raises his eyebrows once he's finished shrugging out of his jacket, but without the collar of it, the bruise from the rope just stands out even more.
Their hotel room is pretty tiny, this time around. Sam takes about half a step (and doesn't trip over Dean's open duffle on the floor, but barely), and he's right in front of Dean, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his chin, tipping Dean's head back and bending his knees to get a better look.
"Uh," Dean says, eloquent as always, "What?"
"You're way too pale to make that look good," Sam answers decisively, like that was the point. (Just a bruise, a little rope burn. They've both seen worse, both been much worse for wear. It's not really the most comforting thought in the world.) Sam's eye twitches. His fingers twitch against Dean's jaw.
Dean snaps his teeth at Sam's thumb. "Not all of us our fans of the fake bake, Sammy. Some of us are too busy getting laid once in a while to book a spray on tanning session." He snaps his teeth again, but doesn't try to step back.
"One time, Dean, one time. For a job." Sam probably wouldn't let him have any space anyway. He only releases Dean's jaw to slide his other hand across to Dean's other shoulder, pulling him in tight. He wraps both arms around him and locks them in place. "And I still think you cheated at rock, paper, scissors."
"You looked like an Oompa Loompa," Dean says, his face kind of smashed into Sam's shoulder. "It's never going to not be funny. When I start to feel down, I pull out the pictures I took, and I laugh and laugh and laugh."
"Shut up." Sam puts his chin on top of Dean's head, and taps his fingers onetwothreefour right under his ribs where he's ticklish. Dean jumps, but he's got nowhere to go, and Sam smiles wide. "I destroyed every last one of those."
Dean huffs, pats Sam's back a little awkwardly. "If that's what you need to believe, to hold back the nightmares."
"I'm kind of tired of watching you die," Sam says, instead of the cutting comeback he had about Dean's porn stash. He taps his fingers all in a row again. "You should try something different once in a while. Prove you can teach an old dog new tricks."
"Aw, Sammy, you can admit it; we both know this is brought on by love and your ovaries. It's like something right out of a Meg Ryan movie. When you decide to let go of me, you can even go take that bubble bath you've been craving for days now." He tightens his own arms around Sam, though.
"Shut up," Sam tells him, very seriously. "I could totally squish you like a bug, right now."
"Aw, don't worry, Sammy, you're way prettier than Meg Ryan," Dean says. He doesn't let go even a little.
rating: G
summary: It's like something right out of a Meg Ryan movie.
fandom: SPN
notes: Written for the hugging challenge thing over at spnflashfic because, you know, I'm all for these boys hugging. It's mostly luzdeestrellas fault, really, but she kinda made up for it with the beta.
Sam exhales through his teeth when Dean turns his head-right in the middle of a sentence about something Sam honest to God cannot remember now-and Sam gets an all new flash of the purple blooming under his jaw, red rope burn not quite hidden by his Shaving Needs A Day Off, Sam, My Razor Is Tired stubble.
There's a second, afterwards, where Sam's still kind of reeling all over again. Where he doesn't remember endless Tuesdays, or the sounds of dogs growling. It's so much worse than that. It's six months of making hotel beds with hospital corners just for a routine and every meal alone; it's four months of searching and hoping and coming up empty. It's hard to breathe.
"Dean," Sam says, surprising himself with it in the silence. Dean just raises his eyebrows once he's finished shrugging out of his jacket, but without the collar of it, the bruise from the rope just stands out even more.
Their hotel room is pretty tiny, this time around. Sam takes about half a step (and doesn't trip over Dean's open duffle on the floor, but barely), and he's right in front of Dean, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his chin, tipping Dean's head back and bending his knees to get a better look.
"Uh," Dean says, eloquent as always, "What?"
"You're way too pale to make that look good," Sam answers decisively, like that was the point. (Just a bruise, a little rope burn. They've both seen worse, both been much worse for wear. It's not really the most comforting thought in the world.) Sam's eye twitches. His fingers twitch against Dean's jaw.
Dean snaps his teeth at Sam's thumb. "Not all of us our fans of the fake bake, Sammy. Some of us are too busy getting laid once in a while to book a spray on tanning session." He snaps his teeth again, but doesn't try to step back.
"One time, Dean, one time. For a job." Sam probably wouldn't let him have any space anyway. He only releases Dean's jaw to slide his other hand across to Dean's other shoulder, pulling him in tight. He wraps both arms around him and locks them in place. "And I still think you cheated at rock, paper, scissors."
"You looked like an Oompa Loompa," Dean says, his face kind of smashed into Sam's shoulder. "It's never going to not be funny. When I start to feel down, I pull out the pictures I took, and I laugh and laugh and laugh."
"Shut up." Sam puts his chin on top of Dean's head, and taps his fingers onetwothreefour right under his ribs where he's ticklish. Dean jumps, but he's got nowhere to go, and Sam smiles wide. "I destroyed every last one of those."
Dean huffs, pats Sam's back a little awkwardly. "If that's what you need to believe, to hold back the nightmares."
"I'm kind of tired of watching you die," Sam says, instead of the cutting comeback he had about Dean's porn stash. He taps his fingers all in a row again. "You should try something different once in a while. Prove you can teach an old dog new tricks."
"Aw, Sammy, you can admit it; we both know this is brought on by love and your ovaries. It's like something right out of a Meg Ryan movie. When you decide to let go of me, you can even go take that bubble bath you've been craving for days now." He tightens his own arms around Sam, though.
"Shut up," Sam tells him, very seriously. "I could totally squish you like a bug, right now."
"Aw, don't worry, Sammy, you're way prettier than Meg Ryan," Dean says. He doesn't let go even a little.