Christmas Ficlet Numero Dos: Dreaming of a White Christmas (and you)
Title: Dreaming of a White Christmas (and you)
Rating/Warning: NC-17/Wincest (fml)
Words: 1,700
Summary: He stands outside the elevator, watching as co-eds rush through the lobby and laugh and give him the eye. It’s a familiar look, one full of heat and liking, one he’d usually chase down and take serious consideration for. But his palms are sweaty ...
Notes: for transfixeddream; Stanford-era continuation of When We're Wounded Together, featuring always-a-girl!Sam/Dean. Ugh. I blame the wine.
Dean’s palms sweat. They haven’t in a long time. Not since he had to take an extra second before entering the Adams’ farmhouse in anticipation of a particularly troublesome spirit, one that had taken a liking to men who fit his bill.
He stands outside the elevator, watching as co-eds rush through the lobby and laugh and give him the eye. It’s a familiar look, one full of heat and liking, one he’d usually chase down and take serious consideration for.
But his palms are sweaty, no matter how many times he wipes them down his jeans.
That day at the Adams’, Dad had given him a second look. Had taken a moment to assess and nod sternly, to infuse an extra ounce of machisimo into Dean, to up his bravado, and get him on board.
His hands were damp and itchy in a way he hadn’t known before. Because Sam wasn’t behind him. There were only two Winchesters that day, and Dean, admittedly, had been nervous.
It’s the same right now. He’s on the fourth floor of some dormitory, and there’re only two Winchesters here. But Dean’s on his own when he walks around the corner, when he nears the door he’s figuring to knock on.
It swings open before he has a chance, and he’s looking down at a petite, curvy blond who takes a moment to draw her eyes up his entire length. Then she’s grinning.
Dean licks his lips and shifts, and then smiles, because he always does in the presence of a lady.
“Hey, there,” he says, a little sultry and a lot nervous.
“Hi,” she grins in return. “You new here?”
Dean chuckles, deep and hard. This whole thing is new.
“Kinda.” He looks over her head, trying to capture even one image of the room beyond her. He’s thought of it often for the last four months.
“I’ve never seen you before,” she says, hip popping to the side, leaning against the doorway.
He smiles because it gives him a better glance into the suite; he knows she misinterprets it, but he’s not about to correct her.
“You don’t live on our floor do you?”
Another chuckle, another lick over his bottom lip. “No, not at all.”
Then she’s licking over her lips, eyes sharp on him. “What’s your name?”
The name slips out like it hasn’t in ages. “Sam.” Then he clears his throat. “Is Sam here?”
Her eyes narrow, brow crinkling unattractively, and he feels how the weight of his words hang heavy on his shoulders. He rolls them to ease himself, or the moment, but neither lighten.
“Sam,” she calls over her shoulder, and Dean’s stomach burns with impatience.
“Yeah,” comes the familiar voice before Dean even sees the face, the one he’s been itching to see.
The second she comes into view, as soon as their eyes meet, Dean thinks of Dad and how furious he’ll been when he knows that Dean isn’t off chasing a tulpa of his own. That he’s here, visiting Sam. That he misses her.
It’s a long, aching moment of them just staring.
Then Dean’s mouth starts to curl and he murmurs, “Hey, Sammy.”
Her head rises, elongating her neck as she swallows hard, breathes even harder. She bites into her lower lip but doesn’t move otherwise.
His eyebrows drop as does his smile. A sharp chill drags up his spine, settles at the base of his neck. He feels wholly unwelcome.
“Everything okay?” she asks as he nears him.
Dean tucks his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket and shuffles his feet. “Yeah, everything’s good. You good?”
Sam’s roommate finally backs out of the doorway, makes room for them to have the moment, mumbling awkwardly, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Stepping into the hallway, Sam quietly tugs the door shut. “And Dad?”
Dean knows the worry and tilts his head with a small sigh. “He’s fine. Doesn’t know I’m here. Won’t know.”
Again, she bites into her lip, eyes soft and suddenly wet. And wondrous, Dean thinks. He doesn’t know what Sam really looks like when she’s full of sweet, innocent wonder, but he imagines it’d be just like this.
“Hey,” he says with a tiny nod, voice dropping with care.
She doesn’t say a word, just wraps her arms around his neck, presses her body into his, and he holds on for dear life.
--
Sam’s nearly embarrassed to tour, but he forces it. Asks about her classes and where she eats lunch (“do you get more than rabbit food in you?” he jokes) and how in the heck do people relax at a school built on a garden.
She only laughs at him. Any other time, he’d likely be insulted, but he goes with her, follows wherever she goes. Just like he did to California.
“Can’t believe you’re here,” she murmurs as they settle on a picnic bench.
Dean sits beside her, eyes intent on the sprawling green in front of them. On Frisbees and impromptu picnics that college students start up with food from local sandwich shops and drinks made in coffee houses.
“Not totally unlikely,” he smirks.
“Coming this far off the Mason Dixon. It’s a huge surprise.”
Dean huffs a laugh, nodding as he stares down at his hands, clutched together between his knees. He gives her a side-long glance. “You doing okay?”
“I’m doing fine,” she nods. “School’s good, my roommate's okay, and not a vamp in sight.”
“You doing okay?” he tries again, and he sees when Sam finally gets it.
Her face twists as her eyes coast across the park. She shuffles just a few inches but he feels it like the earth moves. Sam right next to him, like it’d been for eighteen years before she'd taken the leap.
On impulse, he wraps his arm around her back and reels her in, even when he doesn’t have to because she’s sliding right into him. Head tucked into his neck, shoulder under his. Dean kisses the top of her head, and says, “Miss ya like hell.”
“Stealing the words right from my lips.”
He smiles at her hair then nudges his nose against her. Keeps prodding until she picks her head up and he closes his eyes, meets her mouth in a soft kiss. They don’t do much more than touch, lips gentle and wet, Sam’s hand resting across his thigh as they revisit old memories.
--
Back in her dorm, after chasing away the roommate and locking two deadbolts, they collapse on the extra-long, twin mattress. Dean doesn’t go fast; he savors the length of Sam’s body under his palms. He feels the turn of her knee up to her slim thigh, up her lean hips, and over her ribcage before palming her breast, fingers soft but kneading.
Sam arches into him, murmuring pleas of everything Dean’ll happily give her.
He sucks kisses along her collarbone as his hand slips up her shirt. He softly bites into her shoulder as her fingers tug his zipper down. It seems to take forever to undress, but once they’re there, Dean wastes no time pushing into Sam, leveraging himself over her, making sure to touch but leave enough room to catch each inch of smooth skin below him. His eyes capture every turn of her hips, every rise of her chest, every clench of her throat when she whimpers.
She’s warm and delicate in a way he can’t remember. On the road, everything was a means to an end, a way to burn energy and erase tension. Here, it’s got meaning, and he can’t do anything but roll his hips into her, mouth along bare skin, lick into her mouth.
Sam arches harder than before, belly pressing into his and lessening his resolve. He gets fast, unable to hold off, patience waning because he wants to see her break, too.
He gets there first, having been egged on by Sam’s voice, lower than he remembers and groaning at his ear. He grinds into her as he comes, settling for quite a few seconds when he’s done. His breath is loud and hot against her neck as it billows back in his face before he pulls out and turns to the side to rid himself of the condom.
Dean slowly rolls back to her, hand light across her belly before creeping down, skating over her, wet and warm. She whimpers at his touch and her hips move against his hand. But not for much longer, because his fingers still know what to do for her. She sucks at the inside corner of her mouth with a hum that sounds enough like his name that his chest swells with it.
After much heavy breathing and their heartbeats return to normal, Sam pushes her hand over Dean’s head as it rests at her chest.
Her voice is quiet when she says, “I’ve got a final at 8am.”
“Sucks to be you,” he mumbles.
She flicks his ear, chuckling when he flinches. “How much longer’re you here for?”
“How long’s it take to waste a tulpa?”
“You? A few weeks.”
Dean turns and bites into flesh. She whines at him, slapping a hand at the back of his head. “I don’t miss you in the slightest.”
He kisses the blemish then rings his arm tighter around her waist. “Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t,” she insists.
But he here’s anyway, and she is, too. “You comin’ home for Christmas?”
There’s a bit of silence, and Dean’s stomach churns with it. Sam finally asks, all quiet and glum: “Home?”
“Isn’t that what you college kids do on break?”
Sam’s fingers rake through his hair, blunt nails trailing against his scalp and making him shiver. “Where’s home?” she asks, even quieter than before.
Dean rubs his cheek against her then rises to an elbow, looking down but not at her; he’s unable to meet her as he suggests, “Maybe the Dakotas. Gotta be some snow about now.”
There’s a bit of a smile to her asking, “Yeah?”
With one eyebrow rising, he chances one quick glance at her. “White Christmas?”
Sam rolls her eyes but he can’t miss how she bites her top lip, like she always did, unable to hide her true feelings. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, okay,” he replies.
Rating/Warning: NC-17/Wincest (fml)
Words: 1,700
Summary: He stands outside the elevator, watching as co-eds rush through the lobby and laugh and give him the eye. It’s a familiar look, one full of heat and liking, one he’d usually chase down and take serious consideration for. But his palms are sweaty ...
Notes: for transfixeddream; Stanford-era continuation of When We're Wounded Together, featuring always-a-girl!Sam/Dean. Ugh. I blame the wine.
Dean’s palms sweat. They haven’t in a long time. Not since he had to take an extra second before entering the Adams’ farmhouse in anticipation of a particularly troublesome spirit, one that had taken a liking to men who fit his bill.
He stands outside the elevator, watching as co-eds rush through the lobby and laugh and give him the eye. It’s a familiar look, one full of heat and liking, one he’d usually chase down and take serious consideration for.
But his palms are sweaty, no matter how many times he wipes them down his jeans.
That day at the Adams’, Dad had given him a second look. Had taken a moment to assess and nod sternly, to infuse an extra ounce of machisimo into Dean, to up his bravado, and get him on board.
His hands were damp and itchy in a way he hadn’t known before. Because Sam wasn’t behind him. There were only two Winchesters that day, and Dean, admittedly, had been nervous.
It’s the same right now. He’s on the fourth floor of some dormitory, and there’re only two Winchesters here. But Dean’s on his own when he walks around the corner, when he nears the door he’s figuring to knock on.
It swings open before he has a chance, and he’s looking down at a petite, curvy blond who takes a moment to draw her eyes up his entire length. Then she’s grinning.
Dean licks his lips and shifts, and then smiles, because he always does in the presence of a lady.
“Hey, there,” he says, a little sultry and a lot nervous.
“Hi,” she grins in return. “You new here?”
Dean chuckles, deep and hard. This whole thing is new.
“Kinda.” He looks over her head, trying to capture even one image of the room beyond her. He’s thought of it often for the last four months.
“I’ve never seen you before,” she says, hip popping to the side, leaning against the doorway.
He smiles because it gives him a better glance into the suite; he knows she misinterprets it, but he’s not about to correct her.
“You don’t live on our floor do you?”
Another chuckle, another lick over his bottom lip. “No, not at all.”
Then she’s licking over her lips, eyes sharp on him. “What’s your name?”
The name slips out like it hasn’t in ages. “Sam.” Then he clears his throat. “Is Sam here?”
Her eyes narrow, brow crinkling unattractively, and he feels how the weight of his words hang heavy on his shoulders. He rolls them to ease himself, or the moment, but neither lighten.
“Sam,” she calls over her shoulder, and Dean’s stomach burns with impatience.
“Yeah,” comes the familiar voice before Dean even sees the face, the one he’s been itching to see.
The second she comes into view, as soon as their eyes meet, Dean thinks of Dad and how furious he’ll been when he knows that Dean isn’t off chasing a tulpa of his own. That he’s here, visiting Sam. That he misses her.
It’s a long, aching moment of them just staring.
Then Dean’s mouth starts to curl and he murmurs, “Hey, Sammy.”
Her head rises, elongating her neck as she swallows hard, breathes even harder. She bites into her lower lip but doesn’t move otherwise.
His eyebrows drop as does his smile. A sharp chill drags up his spine, settles at the base of his neck. He feels wholly unwelcome.
“Everything okay?” she asks as he nears him.
Dean tucks his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket and shuffles his feet. “Yeah, everything’s good. You good?”
Sam’s roommate finally backs out of the doorway, makes room for them to have the moment, mumbling awkwardly, “I’ll leave you to it.”
Stepping into the hallway, Sam quietly tugs the door shut. “And Dad?”
Dean knows the worry and tilts his head with a small sigh. “He’s fine. Doesn’t know I’m here. Won’t know.”
Again, she bites into her lip, eyes soft and suddenly wet. And wondrous, Dean thinks. He doesn’t know what Sam really looks like when she’s full of sweet, innocent wonder, but he imagines it’d be just like this.
“Hey,” he says with a tiny nod, voice dropping with care.
She doesn’t say a word, just wraps her arms around his neck, presses her body into his, and he holds on for dear life.
--
Sam’s nearly embarrassed to tour, but he forces it. Asks about her classes and where she eats lunch (“do you get more than rabbit food in you?” he jokes) and how in the heck do people relax at a school built on a garden.
She only laughs at him. Any other time, he’d likely be insulted, but he goes with her, follows wherever she goes. Just like he did to California.
“Can’t believe you’re here,” she murmurs as they settle on a picnic bench.
Dean sits beside her, eyes intent on the sprawling green in front of them. On Frisbees and impromptu picnics that college students start up with food from local sandwich shops and drinks made in coffee houses.
“Not totally unlikely,” he smirks.
“Coming this far off the Mason Dixon. It’s a huge surprise.”
Dean huffs a laugh, nodding as he stares down at his hands, clutched together between his knees. He gives her a side-long glance. “You doing okay?”
“I’m doing fine,” she nods. “School’s good, my roommate's okay, and not a vamp in sight.”
“You doing okay?” he tries again, and he sees when Sam finally gets it.
Her face twists as her eyes coast across the park. She shuffles just a few inches but he feels it like the earth moves. Sam right next to him, like it’d been for eighteen years before she'd taken the leap.
On impulse, he wraps his arm around her back and reels her in, even when he doesn’t have to because she’s sliding right into him. Head tucked into his neck, shoulder under his. Dean kisses the top of her head, and says, “Miss ya like hell.”
“Stealing the words right from my lips.”
He smiles at her hair then nudges his nose against her. Keeps prodding until she picks her head up and he closes his eyes, meets her mouth in a soft kiss. They don’t do much more than touch, lips gentle and wet, Sam’s hand resting across his thigh as they revisit old memories.
--
Back in her dorm, after chasing away the roommate and locking two deadbolts, they collapse on the extra-long, twin mattress. Dean doesn’t go fast; he savors the length of Sam’s body under his palms. He feels the turn of her knee up to her slim thigh, up her lean hips, and over her ribcage before palming her breast, fingers soft but kneading.
Sam arches into him, murmuring pleas of everything Dean’ll happily give her.
He sucks kisses along her collarbone as his hand slips up her shirt. He softly bites into her shoulder as her fingers tug his zipper down. It seems to take forever to undress, but once they’re there, Dean wastes no time pushing into Sam, leveraging himself over her, making sure to touch but leave enough room to catch each inch of smooth skin below him. His eyes capture every turn of her hips, every rise of her chest, every clench of her throat when she whimpers.
She’s warm and delicate in a way he can’t remember. On the road, everything was a means to an end, a way to burn energy and erase tension. Here, it’s got meaning, and he can’t do anything but roll his hips into her, mouth along bare skin, lick into her mouth.
Sam arches harder than before, belly pressing into his and lessening his resolve. He gets fast, unable to hold off, patience waning because he wants to see her break, too.
He gets there first, having been egged on by Sam’s voice, lower than he remembers and groaning at his ear. He grinds into her as he comes, settling for quite a few seconds when he’s done. His breath is loud and hot against her neck as it billows back in his face before he pulls out and turns to the side to rid himself of the condom.
Dean slowly rolls back to her, hand light across her belly before creeping down, skating over her, wet and warm. She whimpers at his touch and her hips move against his hand. But not for much longer, because his fingers still know what to do for her. She sucks at the inside corner of her mouth with a hum that sounds enough like his name that his chest swells with it.
After much heavy breathing and their heartbeats return to normal, Sam pushes her hand over Dean’s head as it rests at her chest.
Her voice is quiet when she says, “I’ve got a final at 8am.”
“Sucks to be you,” he mumbles.
She flicks his ear, chuckling when he flinches. “How much longer’re you here for?”
“How long’s it take to waste a tulpa?”
“You? A few weeks.”
Dean turns and bites into flesh. She whines at him, slapping a hand at the back of his head. “I don’t miss you in the slightest.”
He kisses the blemish then rings his arm tighter around her waist. “Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t,” she insists.
But he here’s anyway, and she is, too. “You comin’ home for Christmas?”
There’s a bit of silence, and Dean’s stomach churns with it. Sam finally asks, all quiet and glum: “Home?”
“Isn’t that what you college kids do on break?”
Sam’s fingers rake through his hair, blunt nails trailing against his scalp and making him shiver. “Where’s home?” she asks, even quieter than before.
Dean rubs his cheek against her then rises to an elbow, looking down but not at her; he’s unable to meet her as he suggests, “Maybe the Dakotas. Gotta be some snow about now.”
There’s a bit of a smile to her asking, “Yeah?”
With one eyebrow rising, he chances one quick glance at her. “White Christmas?”
Sam rolls her eyes but he can’t miss how she bites her top lip, like she always did, unable to hide her true feelings. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, okay,” he replies.