SPN - Winchester-Grimm Tales
Title: Winchester-Grimm Tales
Fandom: SPN
By: bythedamned
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2,143
Warnings: Fluff, heavy references to Wincest
Spoilers: developments up to s4
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it, all characters belong to Kripke and the CW.
A/N: This is just a little siclet ficlet written for my beta, elveys_stuff, when she was in dire need of some cough meds and cuddling.
Summary: Instead of lazy morning sex, Sam finds himself entertaining a sick and cranky Dean.
Sunday mornings are Sam’s favorites. Not because there’s actually less work to do - the things that go bump in the night are actually equal-opportunity bumpers and have declared Sunday mornings a-okay by them. They are just as willing to take advantage of the empty houses left unlocked by trusting churchgoers as the oblivious Sigma Chi snoring off a wicked hangover. Except, Sam’s not gonna think about that, because he doesn’t have to. Not yet. There’s still a few more hours of Sunday morning left first.
Everyone knows Sundays are for relaxing. It’s true because it’s always been true, dating back generations and generations to, well, the Bible, if Sam actually thinks about it. Guess God had one good idea before he fucked off to god-knows-where. Har. Even up-with-the-sun Dean, just like Dad taught us, Sammy Dean, seems to understand the respect commanded by lazy mornings in bed on this holiest day of the week.
That means sleeping in, means big fluffy comforters pulled up to his chin and stretching his toes one by one up against Dean’s calf, because it’s not his fault the beds are too short, and if he’s lucky it means a blow job. He usually has to blow Dean first, because the guy has a thing about incentive to put dick in his mouth, but he gives in more often than not.
And speaking of… Sam rolls his shoulders, taking inventory of all his muscles and limbs, and rolls up and away from the drool spot on his pillow so he can take full stock of Dean’s parts, too, one in particular. So he slides backwards across the scratchy sheets in a sort of jellyfish motion, expecting to feel Dean’s happy morning wood, or at least his knees, but instead he gets a back full of… back. Hot back, burning back, and this is so many exits from the path his Sunday morning was supposed to take, he doesn’t know where to start.
So he flips over, making sure this really is Dean he’s shoulder-humping here, but it’s not the Dean he fell asleep with. This Dean looks like shit. He’s curled on his side, tucked up into the tightest ball he can manage on his half of the bed - more a crescent moon than a tight, round one, really - and his teeth are chattering against the pillow.
“Dean?”
“Fuck… off,” Dean manages between shivers, and Sam takes that as a good sign. At least he’s not incapacitated.
Another touch to Dean’s back, and then wrapping his long fingers around Dean’s forehead confirms that, yep, he’s burning up. The first thing to do, then, is check his feet, because the little fucker they were chasing last night likes to infect between the toes. It’s only reluctantly that Sam slips out of bed because fuck it’s cold, and the radiator isn’t making that clunking nose that worked its way into Sam’s dream that convinced him a really slow pirate with a club foot was after him, so they’re shit outta luck on getting the room warmed up any time soon.
When he flips the bottom of the blanket up Dean’s toes try to curl, his legs try to shrink up like the Wicked Witch’s into the safety and comfort of the bed, but instead they just sort of twitch. Even when Sam prods at them, which is more of a bad sign than Sam was hoping for. Dean’s ticklish, like, four year old in a giggle fit ticklish, and the way they lay there like dead fish isn’t inspiring any confidence.
Okay, Sam amends with a muted sigh, somewhat incapacitated.
Dean’s toes look fine though, no puncture wounds and no poison-rot. Not even a hangnail, which can only mean one thing.
Sam slides back in behind Dean. “You’re sick.”
Dean gives his best effort to insult Sam’s intelligence, he really does because he just wouldn’t be himself otherwise, but all Sam can make out are the words Stanford and cougar. Huh.
Sam can stitch a knife wound with one hand, can re-locate a shoulder in under thirty seconds, and can exorcise the crap out of anything that dares cross his path. He’s got kits of gauze and thread and butterfly bandages and rosaries and everything he could ever need to kill and not be killed.
The common cold, though…
He pushes up against Dean’s feverish skin, mapping himself into the negative space behind Dean’s body, and aims for that old sleeping bag trick to warm Dean up. At least, that’s his excuse if Dean demands to know. The shivering subsides when Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s broad chest, and for once his squirms are completely ineffectual.
Sam rubs a hand in tight, warm circles across Dean’s chest, just like Jess used to do for him with that Vick’s Vapor rub stuff ‘cause her mom used to do it for her, except it hadn’t taken either of them long to realize it was just the touch that did it. The steady, soothing contact, telling your solar plexus to just relax, take it easy, I’m here works on a level that’s impossible to ignore.
Of course, Dean has to bitch about it, and Sam’s close enough now that he can actually make out his mumbled barbs.
“Can’t sleep with you manhandling me, Sammy.”
Sam hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and he can feel, here up against Dean’s neck, the waves of heat he’s generating. It’s ludicrous that Dean thinks he’s cold, but Sam’s well aware that that’s just the nature of the beast. And by beast, he means non-beast, because those he could’ve killed nine ways to Sunday by now.
“Can’t sleep with your teeth knocking around in your skull, either.”
Dean moves a shoulder forward and groans like even that hurt. “Gonna get you sick.”
“No, because I’m not the one who went trudging after a swamp gnome in a t-shirt.”
Sam pulls back, though, because he doesn’t actually mean to torture Dean when he feels like chewing gum stuck to a fat kid’s shoe. Except, it only takes one stuffy breath from Dean before he’s shivering again, and Sam decides that the real torture would be giving Dean what he wants.
Funny, the thoughts his brain just won’t stay away from.
So Dean can’t sleep, and for as much as he loves him, Sam’s in no mood to stare at the wall in silence while Dean sweats the sick out, so he flicks through his memories and pulls out an old favorite. They’d spent too many years - probably literally, if you added all their hours on the road so far together in one lump sum - with their asses stuck to vinyl to not have games that don’t require moving a muscle.
Sam shifts into the most comfortable position he can, back to rubbing one splayed hand lightly across Dean’s chest and curling the other arm up above their heads, and launches into a nostalgic rendition of a Winchester Classic.
“There once was a girl named Little Red Riding Hood.”
To his credit, Dean manages a real groan. He takes until Sam gets to the possessed grandmother’s huge-ass dark eyes before he actually tell Sam to shut the fuck up, though.
Sam could, but he won’t. Dean can hiss all he wants, this was a back-seat favorite and besides, the good part’s just coming up.
“What big teeth you have, Grandmother.” And Sam describes them, long and sharp, catching the glint of the afternoon sun and dropping down past puffy lips in a lethal grin.
Dean grunts, and Sam pauses on a breath, waiting. He could just be gathering the strength to tell Sam off again, but Sam’s held his attention too well to really be worried.
“More teeth.”
It is supposed to be interactive, after all.
“The teeth were so long, he could snap little Red in half, bite straight through her neck without even noticing.”
Another grunt. “More.”
“But that was only the first row. Behind those, the creature had another row of teeth, needle thin, all crooked and overlapping like a shark’s. As the little girl watched in horror, the demon opened its mouth and let his child-gnawing teeth descend.”
Dean gives yet another grunt, but it’s softer, more subdued, and Sam has a feeling Dean approves.
Dean’s breaths are steadily pushing against Sam’s hand, firm and moist, and when Sam takes a moment to rewet his lips Dean shifts his head back to rest on Sam’s collarbone.
Without jostling the rest of his body, Sam wiggles the fingers of his raised hand slowly downward, through the greasy spikes of Dean’s hair. Sam’s nails are blunt, have to be, but he has just enough to run over Dean’s scalp once, twice, and then three times before the bow of Dean’s shoulders straightens out, eases, no longer a curled, aching figure.
Sam knows Dean’s weak spots, knows how tired he has to be before he telegraphs his punches, knows that he doesn’t think anything’d dare mess with the Impala, and knows that head-scratches turn Dean to puddles, but only if he’ll allow them.
Slowly, he lets his fingers weave patterns through Dean’s hair, scratching lightly while his other hand keeps up a steady, reassuring presence over Dean’s chestbone.
If Dean could only see himself now, he’d gape. He’s scowl and accuse Sam of filthy, vile things, like snuggling. But apparently viruses can manage something that hellhounds could not, and from the tiny, rumbling hums in the back of Dean’s throat, he seems content in the protective wrap of Sam’s arms.
Sam’s caught up in the freckles that nearly fade behind Dean’s ear, in the curve of his lobe just above that strong jawbone, when Dean says yet again, “More.”
In the same low, peaceful voice, Sam continues to tell of the two hunters that showed up to save the girl. Of how prepared they were, of how they whisked the dumb little girl to safety - because, honestly, Grandma had unhinged her jaw with an extra set of teeth, why hadn’t she run for the hills already? - and how they’d stepped right up to the creature and said, We know what you are.
And how the creature and stared right back and said, Yeah, well, same to you, Winchesters.
I just gotta ask one thing, the shorter-
“Hotter.”
“-louder one said.”
You here for upstairs or down?
Please, I’m my own demon.
Alright then.
You even gotta ask?
Just wanna know which knife to keep handy.
And then the older one twirled a bright, clean weapon - way cleaner than any knife should ever be in a war - that looked like Picasso had gotten to one of the Ninja Turtle’s daggers. He stuck it in his jacket for safe keeping and shifted to reveal what was in his other hand.
This knife was much more jagged, felt more solid in his hand, and the hunter held it up.
You know what this says?
The demon blinked.
It’s Latin. Roughly translated, it means you’re fucked--
Sam’s unfolding action sequence is cut short by a snore, louder and rougher than anything else that Dean had managed to get out of his mouth this morning, and Sam lets the story fall short.
Okay, so, the Winchester-Grimm tales had undergone some revision since their early days - updated to include the heavenly realm, for one - but if Dean’s comfortable enough to fall back asleep, Sam puts a tally in the success column.
He doesn’t dare move, stays plastered to Dean’s back like his own personal thermal wear, lest the chills hit again. After about ten minutes of playing blanket Sam feels Dean shift, and tries to clamp down on the disappointment of the easy lounging coming to an end.
Instead of rolling away, though, Dean wrestles his body around towards Sam. It lookes awkward and uncomfortable, like doing a ten-point turn in a narrow alley, but Dean’s eventually rewarded with a firm chest to lay his head on, and a sturdy arm across his back.
He hadn’t even opened his eyes.
Sam has enough fodder to tease Dean for a week, Dean would never hear the end of it, but Sam thinks maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just keep this moment, just for him, and remember it the next time Dean works himself up into a man-tizzy over the dreaded c-word. Cuddling.
But now his baking body is tucked up against Sam’s, mouth open and fingers curled into Sam’s skin. Dean’s long eyelashes rest against his cheeks with such peace, child-like almost, that Sam wants to stop the tick of time and let him rest right here, forever.
Sam’s original plan had included more sex and less - drool? Is that drool on his chest? He won’t check - but the truth is, he doesn’t mind. Because this, this right here, is his favorite part of Sunday mornings.
Fandom: SPN
By: bythedamned
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2,143
Warnings: Fluff, heavy references to Wincest
Spoilers: developments up to s4
Disclaimer: Not mine, none of it, all characters belong to Kripke and the CW.
A/N: This is just a little siclet ficlet written for my beta, elveys_stuff, when she was in dire need of some cough meds and cuddling.
Summary: Instead of lazy morning sex, Sam finds himself entertaining a sick and cranky Dean.
Sunday mornings are Sam’s favorites. Not because there’s actually less work to do - the things that go bump in the night are actually equal-opportunity bumpers and have declared Sunday mornings a-okay by them. They are just as willing to take advantage of the empty houses left unlocked by trusting churchgoers as the oblivious Sigma Chi snoring off a wicked hangover. Except, Sam’s not gonna think about that, because he doesn’t have to. Not yet. There’s still a few more hours of Sunday morning left first.
Everyone knows Sundays are for relaxing. It’s true because it’s always been true, dating back generations and generations to, well, the Bible, if Sam actually thinks about it. Guess God had one good idea before he fucked off to god-knows-where. Har. Even up-with-the-sun Dean, just like Dad taught us, Sammy Dean, seems to understand the respect commanded by lazy mornings in bed on this holiest day of the week.
That means sleeping in, means big fluffy comforters pulled up to his chin and stretching his toes one by one up against Dean’s calf, because it’s not his fault the beds are too short, and if he’s lucky it means a blow job. He usually has to blow Dean first, because the guy has a thing about incentive to put dick in his mouth, but he gives in more often than not.
And speaking of… Sam rolls his shoulders, taking inventory of all his muscles and limbs, and rolls up and away from the drool spot on his pillow so he can take full stock of Dean’s parts, too, one in particular. So he slides backwards across the scratchy sheets in a sort of jellyfish motion, expecting to feel Dean’s happy morning wood, or at least his knees, but instead he gets a back full of… back. Hot back, burning back, and this is so many exits from the path his Sunday morning was supposed to take, he doesn’t know where to start.
So he flips over, making sure this really is Dean he’s shoulder-humping here, but it’s not the Dean he fell asleep with. This Dean looks like shit. He’s curled on his side, tucked up into the tightest ball he can manage on his half of the bed - more a crescent moon than a tight, round one, really - and his teeth are chattering against the pillow.
“Dean?”
“Fuck… off,” Dean manages between shivers, and Sam takes that as a good sign. At least he’s not incapacitated.
Another touch to Dean’s back, and then wrapping his long fingers around Dean’s forehead confirms that, yep, he’s burning up. The first thing to do, then, is check his feet, because the little fucker they were chasing last night likes to infect between the toes. It’s only reluctantly that Sam slips out of bed because fuck it’s cold, and the radiator isn’t making that clunking nose that worked its way into Sam’s dream that convinced him a really slow pirate with a club foot was after him, so they’re shit outta luck on getting the room warmed up any time soon.
When he flips the bottom of the blanket up Dean’s toes try to curl, his legs try to shrink up like the Wicked Witch’s into the safety and comfort of the bed, but instead they just sort of twitch. Even when Sam prods at them, which is more of a bad sign than Sam was hoping for. Dean’s ticklish, like, four year old in a giggle fit ticklish, and the way they lay there like dead fish isn’t inspiring any confidence.
Okay, Sam amends with a muted sigh, somewhat incapacitated.
Dean’s toes look fine though, no puncture wounds and no poison-rot. Not even a hangnail, which can only mean one thing.
Sam slides back in behind Dean. “You’re sick.”
Dean gives his best effort to insult Sam’s intelligence, he really does because he just wouldn’t be himself otherwise, but all Sam can make out are the words Stanford and cougar. Huh.
Sam can stitch a knife wound with one hand, can re-locate a shoulder in under thirty seconds, and can exorcise the crap out of anything that dares cross his path. He’s got kits of gauze and thread and butterfly bandages and rosaries and everything he could ever need to kill and not be killed.
The common cold, though…
He pushes up against Dean’s feverish skin, mapping himself into the negative space behind Dean’s body, and aims for that old sleeping bag trick to warm Dean up. At least, that’s his excuse if Dean demands to know. The shivering subsides when Sam wraps his arms around Dean’s broad chest, and for once his squirms are completely ineffectual.
Sam rubs a hand in tight, warm circles across Dean’s chest, just like Jess used to do for him with that Vick’s Vapor rub stuff ‘cause her mom used to do it for her, except it hadn’t taken either of them long to realize it was just the touch that did it. The steady, soothing contact, telling your solar plexus to just relax, take it easy, I’m here works on a level that’s impossible to ignore.
Of course, Dean has to bitch about it, and Sam’s close enough now that he can actually make out his mumbled barbs.
“Can’t sleep with you manhandling me, Sammy.”
Sam hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and he can feel, here up against Dean’s neck, the waves of heat he’s generating. It’s ludicrous that Dean thinks he’s cold, but Sam’s well aware that that’s just the nature of the beast. And by beast, he means non-beast, because those he could’ve killed nine ways to Sunday by now.
“Can’t sleep with your teeth knocking around in your skull, either.”
Dean moves a shoulder forward and groans like even that hurt. “Gonna get you sick.”
“No, because I’m not the one who went trudging after a swamp gnome in a t-shirt.”
Sam pulls back, though, because he doesn’t actually mean to torture Dean when he feels like chewing gum stuck to a fat kid’s shoe. Except, it only takes one stuffy breath from Dean before he’s shivering again, and Sam decides that the real torture would be giving Dean what he wants.
Funny, the thoughts his brain just won’t stay away from.
So Dean can’t sleep, and for as much as he loves him, Sam’s in no mood to stare at the wall in silence while Dean sweats the sick out, so he flicks through his memories and pulls out an old favorite. They’d spent too many years - probably literally, if you added all their hours on the road so far together in one lump sum - with their asses stuck to vinyl to not have games that don’t require moving a muscle.
Sam shifts into the most comfortable position he can, back to rubbing one splayed hand lightly across Dean’s chest and curling the other arm up above their heads, and launches into a nostalgic rendition of a Winchester Classic.
“There once was a girl named Little Red Riding Hood.”
To his credit, Dean manages a real groan. He takes until Sam gets to the possessed grandmother’s huge-ass dark eyes before he actually tell Sam to shut the fuck up, though.
Sam could, but he won’t. Dean can hiss all he wants, this was a back-seat favorite and besides, the good part’s just coming up.
“What big teeth you have, Grandmother.” And Sam describes them, long and sharp, catching the glint of the afternoon sun and dropping down past puffy lips in a lethal grin.
Dean grunts, and Sam pauses on a breath, waiting. He could just be gathering the strength to tell Sam off again, but Sam’s held his attention too well to really be worried.
“More teeth.”
It is supposed to be interactive, after all.
“The teeth were so long, he could snap little Red in half, bite straight through her neck without even noticing.”
Another grunt. “More.”
“But that was only the first row. Behind those, the creature had another row of teeth, needle thin, all crooked and overlapping like a shark’s. As the little girl watched in horror, the demon opened its mouth and let his child-gnawing teeth descend.”
Dean gives yet another grunt, but it’s softer, more subdued, and Sam has a feeling Dean approves.
Dean’s breaths are steadily pushing against Sam’s hand, firm and moist, and when Sam takes a moment to rewet his lips Dean shifts his head back to rest on Sam’s collarbone.
Without jostling the rest of his body, Sam wiggles the fingers of his raised hand slowly downward, through the greasy spikes of Dean’s hair. Sam’s nails are blunt, have to be, but he has just enough to run over Dean’s scalp once, twice, and then three times before the bow of Dean’s shoulders straightens out, eases, no longer a curled, aching figure.
Sam knows Dean’s weak spots, knows how tired he has to be before he telegraphs his punches, knows that he doesn’t think anything’d dare mess with the Impala, and knows that head-scratches turn Dean to puddles, but only if he’ll allow them.
Slowly, he lets his fingers weave patterns through Dean’s hair, scratching lightly while his other hand keeps up a steady, reassuring presence over Dean’s chestbone.
If Dean could only see himself now, he’d gape. He’s scowl and accuse Sam of filthy, vile things, like snuggling. But apparently viruses can manage something that hellhounds could not, and from the tiny, rumbling hums in the back of Dean’s throat, he seems content in the protective wrap of Sam’s arms.
Sam’s caught up in the freckles that nearly fade behind Dean’s ear, in the curve of his lobe just above that strong jawbone, when Dean says yet again, “More.”
In the same low, peaceful voice, Sam continues to tell of the two hunters that showed up to save the girl. Of how prepared they were, of how they whisked the dumb little girl to safety - because, honestly, Grandma had unhinged her jaw with an extra set of teeth, why hadn’t she run for the hills already? - and how they’d stepped right up to the creature and said, We know what you are.
And how the creature and stared right back and said, Yeah, well, same to you, Winchesters.
I just gotta ask one thing, the shorter-
“Hotter.”
“-louder one said.”
You here for upstairs or down?
Please, I’m my own demon.
Alright then.
You even gotta ask?
Just wanna know which knife to keep handy.
And then the older one twirled a bright, clean weapon - way cleaner than any knife should ever be in a war - that looked like Picasso had gotten to one of the Ninja Turtle’s daggers. He stuck it in his jacket for safe keeping and shifted to reveal what was in his other hand.
This knife was much more jagged, felt more solid in his hand, and the hunter held it up.
You know what this says?
The demon blinked.
It’s Latin. Roughly translated, it means you’re fucked--
Sam’s unfolding action sequence is cut short by a snore, louder and rougher than anything else that Dean had managed to get out of his mouth this morning, and Sam lets the story fall short.
Okay, so, the Winchester-Grimm tales had undergone some revision since their early days - updated to include the heavenly realm, for one - but if Dean’s comfortable enough to fall back asleep, Sam puts a tally in the success column.
He doesn’t dare move, stays plastered to Dean’s back like his own personal thermal wear, lest the chills hit again. After about ten minutes of playing blanket Sam feels Dean shift, and tries to clamp down on the disappointment of the easy lounging coming to an end.
Instead of rolling away, though, Dean wrestles his body around towards Sam. It lookes awkward and uncomfortable, like doing a ten-point turn in a narrow alley, but Dean’s eventually rewarded with a firm chest to lay his head on, and a sturdy arm across his back.
He hadn’t even opened his eyes.
Sam has enough fodder to tease Dean for a week, Dean would never hear the end of it, but Sam thinks maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just keep this moment, just for him, and remember it the next time Dean works himself up into a man-tizzy over the dreaded c-word. Cuddling.
But now his baking body is tucked up against Sam’s, mouth open and fingers curled into Sam’s skin. Dean’s long eyelashes rest against his cheeks with such peace, child-like almost, that Sam wants to stop the tick of time and let him rest right here, forever.
Sam’s original plan had included more sex and less - drool? Is that drool on his chest? He won’t check - but the truth is, he doesn’t mind. Because this, this right here, is his favorite part of Sunday mornings.