Ficlet: Snowfall (Sam/Dean; PG-13)
Title: Snowfall
Author: nemo_88, but you can call me Nemo
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Character: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1100
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Spoilers up till 3x08.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This story is not meant to infringe upon anyone's rights, only to entertain.
Summary: Coda to "A Very Supernatural Christmas".
Author’s Note: For godamnarmsrace. Maybe that birthday gift I owe you? ;) Hope you like, baby.
A huge thank you to my talented betas malcolm_stjay and bigmamag who fixed this up for me. ♥
They’re sitting in silence after the game ends. Instead of bulky players, the screen is filled with the obnoxious host of some game show and neither Dean nor Sam is really paying attention.
Sam is fiddling with the brown paper bags Dean used to wrap up his presents. He presses the paper over his knee, flattening every crinkle with utmost concentration before folding the pieces neatly and stacking them on top of his skin mags. He’s nervous. Sam is not sure why, but he is. There’s something in the air this evening, something that makes his skin prickle with anticipation and his heart jump nervously in his chest.
Dean is sipping his eggnog. “Your finger okay?” he asks, suddenly.
Sam looks up, shrugs, waving his hand in the air and showing Dean the band-aid that covers his now nail-less index finger. “Yeah, sure. My hand’s pounding like I got my heart in my palm, but it’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Dean nods. “It might not grow back, you know? From now on you’ll be the freak with squishy fingers.”
Sam smiles, half amused. “Shut up.”
“Nah, but you did good tonight, Sammy.” Dean clears his throat, gestures around the room at the little Christmas tree with the wunderbaums hanging off every branch and the last-minute Christmas decorations Sam picked up at the local gas station. “Thanks. I mean it.”
“Yeah?” Sam says, and he can’t help that the corners of his mouth are tugging his face into a grin. He ducks his head. “Got everything you asked for?”
Dean finds his eyes then, catches him with such an open look that Sam doesn’t know what to make of it. Usually, he reads Dean like he reads the morning paper, all big letters and headlines; they’re brothers and he’s learned Dean’s quirks over the years. Tonight, Sam finds something there he hasn’t seen before. It's hidden and untouched, and Sam feels like he's just now learned how to read between the lines.
“Just about everything, yeah,” Dean says, and their eyes are still locked. Sam feels himself flush, comforting warmth is spreading through his body, and he wants to blame the eggnog, but there’s something in Dean’s look that says he can’t.
Dean breaks the tension there, laughs nervously and adds, “But you know, Lindsay Lohan hasn’t come knocking on my door yet, so…”
“Ah.” Sam smiles. “’Course.” He nods a few times to himself as they fall into another silence.
Dean stretches across the table to turn off the TV, but hasn’t actually reached it when his plastic cup is turned over.
“Aw, fuck.” Dean exclaims. He’s spilled eggnog all over his lap. He’s got a half-empty glass in one hand, and the other hand is shaking the yellowy liquid off his fingers.
Sam laughs heartily. “Had a little too much, Dean?” They both rise to their feet to clean up the mess, and Sam finds a dirty t-shirt and hands it over with a, “Here, use this.”
Dean shrugs out of his leather jacket and takes the old shirt to wipe himself off. “Shit, I should get changed.”
“Yeah.”
Sam is not sure what does it. It might be the fact that Dean doesn’t move immediately, as if he’s waiting for something, hesitating. It might be because Dean’s so different tonight, genuinely happy and relaxed. Or maybe there’s something else entirely that wordlessly gives him permission.
They’re standing face to face, closer than comfortable, and it’s so easy for Sam to lean in and carefully place his lips on Dean’s. For a moment or two he just holds his lips there, adding the barest of pressure.
When Sam pulls back, Dean’s eyes are staring at him heavily.
“What did you do that for?” Dean says and his voice is rough and changed; there’s a hint of a whine there, something begging. Sam is not sure if it’s asking him to stop or continue.
Sam’s jaw is working; his mouth opens and closes, but there’s no words coming out. He’s not sure what he can say. “Uh, merry Christmas?” he offers lamely.
Dean spits out a mess of words, curses and what sounds like the filthiest filth, all tumbling over each other. “Merry Christmas?” Dean asks incredulously. “Merry Christmas? Did you hit your head back there? What the fuck, Sam?”
Sam’s eyes are glued to the floor. He feels like if he keeps staring, he might burn a hole in the ground that will let him sink through the floor. The heat on his face is not at all pleasant this time.
“I, uh… I’m sorry.”
Sam can hear Dean sigh. In his mind, he’s picturing Dean’s expression; that slightly furrowed forehead, the disturbed and worried look in Dean’s eyes.
“Sam…” Dean begins, and Sam has no idea what he means by that.
“Forget it, okay?” Sam says. “Jesus.”
And there it is again. When Sam looks up, that hesitation is written all over Dean’s face. The standing still when Sam expects him to move.
Dean grips Sam’s upper arm, gently squeezing Sam’s bicep, and if it’s to keep Sam from running or to steady himself, Sam doesn’t know. But it’s all the invitation Sam will get.
Sam’s hand is shaking when he reaches up toward Dean’s face, strokes Dean’s cheek, just to make sure his brother is prepared this time. Seconds later, they’re meeting in a kiss, fiercer than before, and Sam can feel Dean give in underneath his fingertips.
Sam falls back onto the tiny green couch, and Dean follows him, settles on his knees, one of Sam’s thighs between his own.
They’re kissing slowly. Sam can sense Dean’s lingering hesitation, and he gently prods Dean’s mouth open with his tongue to make Dean invite him inside. They both taste strongly of eggnog, but Sam thinks Dean tastes like what he always imagined Christmas to be; warm, sweet, homey and with that added spice of their drink.
When they pull apart to catch their breath, Dean is looking at him quizzically.
“Are we…?”
“Yeah…” Sam laughs a little breathlessly. “I think we are.”
They’re watching each other with amusement, neither sure what’s so funny or what they’ve just agreed upon. But Dean’s smile turns into a devilish grin when he dives back down to catch Sam’s lips and both have forgotten all about Dean’s stained clothes.
Outside, a light snowfall is like a blessing from above, painting even the most sullied ground in innocent white.
The End.
Author: nemo_88, but you can call me Nemo
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/Character: Sam/Dean
Word Count: ~1100
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Spoilers up till 3x08.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This story is not meant to infringe upon anyone's rights, only to entertain.
Summary: Coda to "A Very Supernatural Christmas".
Author’s Note: For godamnarmsrace. Maybe that birthday gift I owe you? ;) Hope you like, baby.
A huge thank you to my talented betas malcolm_stjay and bigmamag who fixed this up for me. ♥
They’re sitting in silence after the game ends. Instead of bulky players, the screen is filled with the obnoxious host of some game show and neither Dean nor Sam is really paying attention.
Sam is fiddling with the brown paper bags Dean used to wrap up his presents. He presses the paper over his knee, flattening every crinkle with utmost concentration before folding the pieces neatly and stacking them on top of his skin mags. He’s nervous. Sam is not sure why, but he is. There’s something in the air this evening, something that makes his skin prickle with anticipation and his heart jump nervously in his chest.
Dean is sipping his eggnog. “Your finger okay?” he asks, suddenly.
Sam looks up, shrugs, waving his hand in the air and showing Dean the band-aid that covers his now nail-less index finger. “Yeah, sure. My hand’s pounding like I got my heart in my palm, but it’ll be fine.”
“Good.” Dean nods. “It might not grow back, you know? From now on you’ll be the freak with squishy fingers.”
Sam smiles, half amused. “Shut up.”
“Nah, but you did good tonight, Sammy.” Dean clears his throat, gestures around the room at the little Christmas tree with the wunderbaums hanging off every branch and the last-minute Christmas decorations Sam picked up at the local gas station. “Thanks. I mean it.”
“Yeah?” Sam says, and he can’t help that the corners of his mouth are tugging his face into a grin. He ducks his head. “Got everything you asked for?”
Dean finds his eyes then, catches him with such an open look that Sam doesn’t know what to make of it. Usually, he reads Dean like he reads the morning paper, all big letters and headlines; they’re brothers and he’s learned Dean’s quirks over the years. Tonight, Sam finds something there he hasn’t seen before. It's hidden and untouched, and Sam feels like he's just now learned how to read between the lines.
“Just about everything, yeah,” Dean says, and their eyes are still locked. Sam feels himself flush, comforting warmth is spreading through his body, and he wants to blame the eggnog, but there’s something in Dean’s look that says he can’t.
Dean breaks the tension there, laughs nervously and adds, “But you know, Lindsay Lohan hasn’t come knocking on my door yet, so…”
“Ah.” Sam smiles. “’Course.” He nods a few times to himself as they fall into another silence.
Dean stretches across the table to turn off the TV, but hasn’t actually reached it when his plastic cup is turned over.
“Aw, fuck.” Dean exclaims. He’s spilled eggnog all over his lap. He’s got a half-empty glass in one hand, and the other hand is shaking the yellowy liquid off his fingers.
Sam laughs heartily. “Had a little too much, Dean?” They both rise to their feet to clean up the mess, and Sam finds a dirty t-shirt and hands it over with a, “Here, use this.”
Dean shrugs out of his leather jacket and takes the old shirt to wipe himself off. “Shit, I should get changed.”
“Yeah.”
Sam is not sure what does it. It might be the fact that Dean doesn’t move immediately, as if he’s waiting for something, hesitating. It might be because Dean’s so different tonight, genuinely happy and relaxed. Or maybe there’s something else entirely that wordlessly gives him permission.
They’re standing face to face, closer than comfortable, and it’s so easy for Sam to lean in and carefully place his lips on Dean’s. For a moment or two he just holds his lips there, adding the barest of pressure.
When Sam pulls back, Dean’s eyes are staring at him heavily.
“What did you do that for?” Dean says and his voice is rough and changed; there’s a hint of a whine there, something begging. Sam is not sure if it’s asking him to stop or continue.
Sam’s jaw is working; his mouth opens and closes, but there’s no words coming out. He’s not sure what he can say. “Uh, merry Christmas?” he offers lamely.
Dean spits out a mess of words, curses and what sounds like the filthiest filth, all tumbling over each other. “Merry Christmas?” Dean asks incredulously. “Merry Christmas? Did you hit your head back there? What the fuck, Sam?”
Sam’s eyes are glued to the floor. He feels like if he keeps staring, he might burn a hole in the ground that will let him sink through the floor. The heat on his face is not at all pleasant this time.
“I, uh… I’m sorry.”
Sam can hear Dean sigh. In his mind, he’s picturing Dean’s expression; that slightly furrowed forehead, the disturbed and worried look in Dean’s eyes.
“Sam…” Dean begins, and Sam has no idea what he means by that.
“Forget it, okay?” Sam says. “Jesus.”
And there it is again. When Sam looks up, that hesitation is written all over Dean’s face. The standing still when Sam expects him to move.
Dean grips Sam’s upper arm, gently squeezing Sam’s bicep, and if it’s to keep Sam from running or to steady himself, Sam doesn’t know. But it’s all the invitation Sam will get.
Sam’s hand is shaking when he reaches up toward Dean’s face, strokes Dean’s cheek, just to make sure his brother is prepared this time. Seconds later, they’re meeting in a kiss, fiercer than before, and Sam can feel Dean give in underneath his fingertips.
Sam falls back onto the tiny green couch, and Dean follows him, settles on his knees, one of Sam’s thighs between his own.
They’re kissing slowly. Sam can sense Dean’s lingering hesitation, and he gently prods Dean’s mouth open with his tongue to make Dean invite him inside. They both taste strongly of eggnog, but Sam thinks Dean tastes like what he always imagined Christmas to be; warm, sweet, homey and with that added spice of their drink.
When they pull apart to catch their breath, Dean is looking at him quizzically.
“Are we…?”
“Yeah…” Sam laughs a little breathlessly. “I think we are.”
They’re watching each other with amusement, neither sure what’s so funny or what they’ve just agreed upon. But Dean’s smile turns into a devilish grin when he dives back down to catch Sam’s lips and both have forgotten all about Dean’s stained clothes.
Outside, a light snowfall is like a blessing from above, painting even the most sullied ground in innocent white.
The End.