The front door is painted purple, potted flowers on either side, porch swing swaying back and forth in the gentle breeze. It’s nothing special. They’ve seen this house a million times. Sam knows what-- who-- is in there. A grieving widow, her couch that’s always too short for his legs, the tea she serves them with shaking hands.
“Ready?” Dean’s lips are on the back of his neck, and Sam closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself imagine that they’re back at the motel, just the two of them and no one else. Then he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Checks his tie before reaching over and straightening Dean’s. Nods.
The thought of going through that purple door shouldn’t terrify him this fucking much.
:::
“More coffee?”
Dean gives a tight smile and a nod at the waitress and pretends like Sam didn’t just jump a foot in his seat.
“For both of us, thanks,” he says, cutting her off before she can even turn toward Sam. After she’s gone, Sam squishes himself further against the wall and picks at his napkin with trembling fingers.
“You gonna finish your eggs?” Dean asks, pulling the plate toward him before he can answer one way or the other. Sam won’t eat them, not like this, not when they’re around other people. Dean only orders food for him out of habit, and Sam only lets him because it draws less attention.
“Next time we’ll find a place with a McDonalds,” Dean says around a mouthful of eggs, and what he really means is a place with a drive-thru. The thought doesn’t do much to calm Sam’s racing heart. He’s dizzy again. When Dean tugs the shredded napkin from his hands, he looks up and tries to focus on familiar green eyes instead of the family behind them stabbing their pancakes violently with forks, or the waitress who gets too close, close enough to reach out and suffocate him, or the--
“You ready to get the hell out of Dodge?”
Dean’s words shove the air back into his lungs. He gasps and sucks it down greedily, nodding hard, ignoring the look Dean gives him. He waits until Dean is out of the booth before he slides out, and when Dean offers up his hand he holds on tight and doesn’t let go until they’re well out of town, miles of highway between them and civilization.
:::
“Can you tell us anything more about your son, Mr. Le Clos?” Sam asks from behind an armchair. The man shifts from foot to foot, looks at him, then at Dean, then back at Sam. If he starts pacing again, Sam’s going to have to leave the room.
“I’ve told you all I can think of,” he finally says. He moves across the room, hand outstretched, and Sam’s out the door before he can even process what’s happening.
Dean finds him by the Impala, breathing hard, one hand braced against the hood.
“Sorry,” he whispers, eyes on the ground.
“Sammy, it’s okay.”
Sam huffs out a bitter laugh and drags a hand over his face.
“It’s not okay when I run away every time someone tries to shake my hand.”
“You don’t have to do this-- we don’t have to do this yet.”
Sam finally meets his gaze, eyes full of determination.
Yes, I do.
:::
They wait in the Impala on the far side of the parking lot until a family in a minivan is done lugging their bags into their motel room, and then they wait another five minutes for good measure.
Inside their own room, Sam collapses onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. His hands won’t stop shaking, so he shoves them in his pocket and stifles a yawn into his shoulder. Dean’s hands are under his chin, lifting his face up, and then warm lips press against his.
Sam tugs Dean down until they’re both on the bed, clothes quickly disappearing, and then it’s just skin on skin and Dean doesn’t stop until he’s covering every single inch of Sam he can touch, hands fisted in hair and bodies moving as one.
Aw, that is just wonderful. Loved the snippets of Sam stressing out while Dean is just so... understanding and loving. And the end just makes me cuddly-happy (sorry that this comment is so late in the game! I just started reading this meme today).
The front door is painted purple, potted flowers on either side, porch swing swaying back and forth in the gentle breeze. It’s nothing special. They’ve seen this house a million times. Sam knows what-- who-- is in there. A grieving widow, her couch that’s always too short for his legs, the tea she serves them with shaking hands.
“Ready?” Dean’s lips are on the back of his neck, and Sam closes his eyes for a moment, lets himself imagine that they’re back at the motel, just the two of them and no one else. Then he takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Checks his tie before reaching over and straightening Dean’s. Nods.
The thought of going through that purple door shouldn’t terrify him this fucking much.
:::
“More coffee?”
Dean gives a tight smile and a nod at the waitress and pretends like Sam didn’t just jump a foot in his seat.
“For both of us, thanks,” he says, cutting her off before she can even turn toward Sam. After she’s gone, Sam squishes himself further against the wall and picks at his napkin with trembling fingers.
“You gonna finish your eggs?” Dean asks, pulling the plate toward him before he can answer one way or the other. Sam won’t eat them, not like this, not when they’re around other people. Dean only orders food for him out of habit, and Sam only lets him because it draws less attention.
“Next time we’ll find a place with a McDonalds,” Dean says around a mouthful of eggs, and what he really means is a place with a drive-thru. The thought doesn’t do much to calm Sam’s racing heart. He’s dizzy again. When Dean tugs the shredded napkin from his hands, he looks up and tries to focus on familiar green eyes instead of the family behind them stabbing their pancakes violently with forks, or the waitress who gets too close, close enough to reach out and suffocate him, or the--
“You ready to get the hell out of Dodge?”
Dean’s words shove the air back into his lungs. He gasps and sucks it down greedily, nodding hard, ignoring the look Dean gives him. He waits until Dean is out of the booth before he slides out, and when Dean offers up his hand he holds on tight and doesn’t let go until they’re well out of town, miles of highway between them and civilization.
:::
“Can you tell us anything more about your son, Mr. Le Clos?” Sam asks from behind an armchair. The man shifts from foot to foot, looks at him, then at Dean, then back at Sam. If he starts pacing again, Sam’s going to have to leave the room.
“I’ve told you all I can think of,” he finally says. He moves across the room, hand outstretched, and Sam’s out the door before he can even process what’s happening.
Dean finds him by the Impala, breathing hard, one hand braced against the hood.
“Sorry,” he whispers, eyes on the ground.
“Sammy, it’s okay.”
Sam huffs out a bitter laugh and drags a hand over his face.
“It’s not okay when I run away every time someone tries to shake my hand.”
“You don’t have to do this-- we don’t have to do this yet.”
Sam finally meets his gaze, eyes full of determination.
Yes, I do.
:::
They wait in the Impala on the far side of the parking lot until a family in a minivan is done lugging their bags into their motel room, and then they wait another five minutes for good measure.
Inside their own room, Sam collapses onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. His hands won’t stop shaking, so he shoves them in his pocket and stifles a yawn into his shoulder. Dean’s hands are under his chin, lifting his face up, and then warm lips press against his.
Sam tugs Dean down until they’re both on the bed, clothes quickly disappearing, and then it’s just skin on skin and Dean doesn’t stop until he’s covering every single inch of Sam he can touch, hands fisted in hair and bodies moving as one.
Sam closes his eyes and feels safe.
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