Ficlet - Sam/Dean - What Christmas is really about - PG-13

Dec 28, 2006 22:35

Title: What Christmas is really about
Author: benitle
Rating: PG-13-ish
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: Wincest, fluff, Pre-series (Sam is 16)
Summary: It’s Christmas and Sam and Dean wait for their Dad to come back from a hunt.
Word count: Ca. 1,500
Notes: Written for shay_renoylds and the spn_holidays challenge. She requested:Fic - wincest (Sam/Dean) or gen - Christmas angst, growing up fic, fluff, hurt comfort. I hope you had something like that in mind. Many thanks to both frayen and poisontaster for their help, suggestions and encouragement. What would I do without you, girls? Feedback is love. :)

“What if he’s not coming back? What if something bad happened? Maybe…maybe something went wrong.” Sam anxiously paces up and down the living room.

“Sammy, Dad’s not even late, okay? Calm down. He said he wouldn’t be back before Christmas. He still has a few hours.”

Dean steps towards his little brother - who at the age of sixteen is no longer that little anymore and, after a few growth spurts, is even taller than Dean - and lays a soothing hand on the small of his back.

“I know. It’s just…” Sam doesn’t finish his sentence as he turns around to look out of the window, facing away from Dean.

They moved north a few weeks ago so that the thick layers of snow and ice, covering the cold, frozen earth are nothing unusual for Christmas time. They’ve been here long enough for Sam to memorize the names of his teachers and all of his classmates. Usually, that is something he doesn’t even bother anymore thanks to the constant moving around, changing schools like others change their underwear. It’s not worth the effort most of the time.

“Stop worrying, Sam,” Dean reassures once more, stepping behind Sam, “It’s only a small hunt, Dad said, remember?”

Yeah, Sam remembers. A small hunt, nothing more than a few stupid bones that needed to be found, salted and burned. That was the reason why John insisted on not taking them with him in the first place. It’s nothing big, nothing I can’t hunt alone, he had said. But still. He should be home by now.

He should be with them. His boys. His family.

Sam feels Dean press against him from behind while Sam keeps staring out of the window, peeking from behind the thick curtains. Ms. Wheaverly, the old lady living with her daughter Claudia across the street, is shoveling the snow from the sidewalk. Her iron snow shovel scrapes dully over the ground. When Sam looks up and down the street he sees the front gardens dusted with snow, glittering and shimmering baby blue-white in the faint light of the late afternoon. Compared to the neighbors’, the Winchester house looks naked and pale, lacking electric lights and plastic Santa Clauses or reindeer to tell the world it’s almost Christmas.

At least this time there is some faint taste of Christmas outside to go with the snow and the lights, unlike last year, spent in a cheap motel somewhere in New Mexico (or was it California? Sam doesn’t even remember) without snow, without Christmas lights. Without…well, Christmas. Or that one time when they were in Florida when Sam was 8 and Dad insisted on hunting on Christmas morning, leaving the boys alone to celebrate and unwrap their gifts on their own.

Slowly, two hands find their way around Sam’s slim waist before they pull him back against Dean’s strong body. For a brief moment, Sam lets himself enjoy the touch, the feeling of his brother against him, holding him. Dean strokes Sam gently, his thumbs rubbing firm, little circles over Sam’s waist that soon become a tangled mass of patterns. This is something the Winchesters hardly ever do.

“We don’t even have a Christmas tree,” Sam states.

“Hm…” Dean hums before he bends forward to nibble at Sam’s earlobe. He takes little bites, moving further down until he reaches Sam’s neck to mouth at the soft skin. Dean stimulates and teases each of the spots that never fail to drive Sam mad.

“Dean…Dean, stop.”

And that’s something Sam Winchester never says to his brother. Well, not in situations like these anyway, when they’re home alone with all the time in the world to do whatever they want.

“What? Why?”

Dean’s sounds genuinely confused by Sam’s reaction. And judging from his expression he probably has a rough idea where all this is going. Sam is aware that this could lead easily to a heated discussion.

He turns around to look straight into Dean’s eyes. Dean’s eyes are a rich green, warm and soft and if Sam had a melancholic, sappy moment, he might even call them loving. One of Dean’s hands moves up to caress over Sam’s boyish cheek, leaving a trail of heat where it touches. Dean watches him closely and Sam’s cheeks begin to burn under Dean’s steady gaze.

“What is it, Sammy?” Dean asks.

Dean’s breath is hot on his skin, the bitter scent of coffee that Dean had just a few minutes ago is heavy in the air between them. When Dean bends forward to softly kiss Sam’s lips, Sam tastes the lingering flavor of oatmeal cookie. Sam closes his eyes and lets himself be kissed, losing himself in the sensation of home and love and want, lets everything wash over him that Dean can never say with words but instead says with soft lips, a swirl of tongue and that almost chaste moan.

But eventually he breaks the kiss - right after Dean’s hands stroke down Sam’s back until they rested on his butt - and gazes at his brother.

“I mean…this…what we have…this whole Christmas thing…I…” Sam gives up.

Is it so hard to say that he wants to sit in the living room with his family and unwrap presents while enjoying a good, self-cooked meal? Is it so hard to say that he wants their Dad home with them instead of having to worry whether he’ll make it in time to spend a holiday with them and whether he’s safe? Is it really so hard to say that all he wants for the Winchesters to be like a normal family at least one time a year?

Apparently it is.

Sam decides to shut up and to let it go. Christmas may not be about having to worry, but neither is it about fighting or yelling. And fighting and yelling with Dean is the last thing Sam wants right now, especially when he can just see how the fight will end with Dean’s views and opinions that sometimes are so different from his own.

“Come on, Sammy. Spill,” Dean mumbles as he nuzzles at Sam throat. Dean licks carefully at Sam’s sensitive skin before taking little bites, nipping at the soft, exposed flesh, all the while holding Sam firmly in place. Sam feels himself weakening.

“Dean,” Sam whines but a stern look from Dean is all it takes to convince him to finally spit it out. After all, Dean asked for it.

“Dean, why can we never have a normal Christmas like other people?” Sam pauses but when Dean doesn’t even take a breath to say something, he goes on, “I mean, look, we don’t have a tree, we don’t have gifts - don’t give me that look, Dean! Gun oil is not a suitable Christmas gift for children - and usually we don’t even live in a proper home. Why…why can’t we have a normal Christmas just for once?”

When he finishes his little tirade, Sam feels stupid, just waiting for Dean to give some snarky remarks back or to make some stupid joke to avoid the subject which will then lead to the annual Christmas fight.

But Dean doesn’t.

Instead Dean holds his gaze for a long and slightly uncomfortable moment before he kisses Sam on the lips. Again, Dean strokes a careful hand over Sam’s back, using just the right amount of pressure to make Sam want to purr.

When he breaks the kiss, Dean smiles, “But you know, Sammy…isn’t Christmas about being with the ones you care about? The people that mean something to you?”

If someone had told Sam a few minutes ago that it is possible to feel even more stupid than after his sort-of-outburst, he would have laughed out loud. But as he stands face to face with Dean, and after Dean - yes, Dean Winchester, Mr. Let’s-Not-Get-Too-Girly-here - hit the nail on the spot so precisely, Sam feels so stupid and shallow like he never had in life before.

“You’re right,” Sam admits, because seriously, he can’t deny it. This is what it’s all about, not about the meters of lights strung up in your front garden or the number of colorful packages underneath your tree, even where you celebrate in the first place, as long as you spend the days in the right company. And if Sam believed that his face couldn’t become even redder, then he was wrong about that too.

Dean only laughs heartily and pulls Sam into another tight embrace. After a split second, when there are no ’I told you so’s or ’Admit that I was right’s, (because with Dean you never know) Sam simply smiles and leans into Dean’s hug, enjoying that the Christmas time must have bemused his brother too and that it turned him a little more affectionate than usual.

And when Dean kisses Sam’s throat, just to lick a wet trail up to the shell of his ear the next moment, he whispers seductively, “Besides, Sammy, it’s quite a good thing that Dad’s not here yet.”

Dean takes Sam’s hand and brings it to his crotch, all the while grinning sheepishly. Sam feels that Dean’s already half-hard. When he bends closer to whisper into Dean’s ear, “Yeah, it’s good,” he can’t help but grin either.

-fandom: spnfpf, sam winchester, -word count: 1001 - 2500, -genre: slash, -warning: angst, -warning: wincest, -rating: pg-13, dean winchester, -challenge: spn_holidays

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