Supernatural ficlet: "hold me like a newborn"
hold me like a newborn [Supernatural, Dean & Sam, schmoopy gen, PG-13 for language, 842 words. Written for the Hugs, Cuddles and Kisses challenge, prompt word 'crib' - this is the full version that was too long for the challenge. Thanks to tvm for the super fast beta.]
Four years, but everything is still familiar. The purr of the Impala, the damp leather smell of Dean's jacket, eyes sore and tired from research, crashing late at night in crappy motels, belly full of grease and carbs. He even likes some of it, not that he'll admit that to Dean.
The words in the journal aren't familiar though. Dad always kept close hold of it, and it scares Sam a little that he's relinquished it now. He feels it means something, something big, though he's not sure what.
He'd thought it would be all about the hunt, nothing else, so it's a shock when he sprawls out on his bed and starts to read it. It's full of memories, family memories, everything Dad went through when Mom died, and Sam feels a lump in his throat just reading them. And then-then he has to smile, because dude, this is blackmail material par excellence.
He looks up at Dean, and can't keep the grin off his face.
Dean seems to sense the look, because he turns around, gun and rag in hand and raises his eyebrow. "What?" he says testily. "I got something on my face?"
"Nothing," Sam says, and turns back to the journal. He reads on a little more, but can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him. He hears Dean huff and looks up to find Dean glaring at him. Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't even smile exactly, but he's sure his lips are quirking upwards without him even trying.
"Little fucker," Dean mutters, and wraps up the cleaned gun, putting it away carefully.
Sam tries to keep silent, store up his new-found knowledge for some time it would really count, but he can't help himself. "Need a cuddle?" he asks.
Dean looks up. "Christo."
Sam laughs. "I'm not possessed, I just thought a hug might make you feel better," he offers in his most sincere voice. "You seem kinda cranky, so I'm being a good brother and offering to hug you better."
"Since when would you think such a load of crap? This isn't Stanford, and I'm not Jess. No touchy-feely stuff here, ever." The sheer horror on Dean's face is glorious.
"Since I learned that you used to sleep in my crib with me. Every night. Curled up around me. You couldn't sleep without me." Sam shakes his head. "No use putting on your I'm Dean Winchester and nothing scares me face - I'm onto you."
And Dean-Dean is actually blushing. So Sam puts the diary down, gets up and goes for it, grabs Dean in a bear hug.
"Gerroff me," Dean growls into Sam's chest, and he's fighting like a girl, all flailing arms and misaimed kicks, which is a good thing because Sam's never been good at fighting and laughing at the same time. They roll off Dean's bed and onto the floor, and he might have surprised Dean the other night by using his extra inches and pulling a winning move, but Dean soon gets the upper hand this time, so Sam ends up face smashed into the rug and arm twisted up behind his back.
"Say uncle," Dean says into his ear, digging his knee into the small of Sam's back for emphasis.
"It's kinda cute, really," Sam says, even though he's practically eating the rug trying to talk, and even though he knows Dean will just twist his arm that little bit more with every word.
"I was a kid, you were just as whiny a baby as you are now, and it wasn't cuddling. It was-it was just-being there," Dean finishes, triumphant at finding an excuse. "Subject closed."
Sam would hold out longer, but his arm hurts and he's going to have rug burn on his face if he's not careful, never mind that he can see all the dirt under the beds from here and he's gotten used to cleaner places after living with Jess the last year. "Okay, I give."
Dean gets up off him, one last none-too-gentle boot to the thigh as he's doing so.
Sam says nothing more about it, not even when he sees Dean reading the journal that evening, propped up on his side so Sam can't see what page he's on. When Sam gets up to take a piss, he sneaks a look, and, sure enough, Dean's reading the December 1983 entries, and there's a look on his face that Sam understands. And when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night to find Dean standing over him, watching him, he doesn't say a word, just scoots over and lets Dean crawl in behind him.
Dean's gone in the morning, out for coffee no doubt, but there's still a warm indent in the pillow beside Sam, and a warm feeling inside him. It's only a few days, one hunt and then he's back to Stanford, but he's missed this, missed his brother, missed the thrill of the hunt even.
He won't stay out of touch so long next time.
*
Title from Newborn by Elbow.
Four years, but everything is still familiar. The purr of the Impala, the damp leather smell of Dean's jacket, eyes sore and tired from research, crashing late at night in crappy motels, belly full of grease and carbs. He even likes some of it, not that he'll admit that to Dean.
The words in the journal aren't familiar though. Dad always kept close hold of it, and it scares Sam a little that he's relinquished it now. He feels it means something, something big, though he's not sure what.
He'd thought it would be all about the hunt, nothing else, so it's a shock when he sprawls out on his bed and starts to read it. It's full of memories, family memories, everything Dad went through when Mom died, and Sam feels a lump in his throat just reading them. And then-then he has to smile, because dude, this is blackmail material par excellence.
He looks up at Dean, and can't keep the grin off his face.
Dean seems to sense the look, because he turns around, gun and rag in hand and raises his eyebrow. "What?" he says testily. "I got something on my face?"
"Nothing," Sam says, and turns back to the journal. He reads on a little more, but can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him. He hears Dean huff and looks up to find Dean glaring at him. Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't even smile exactly, but he's sure his lips are quirking upwards without him even trying.
"Little fucker," Dean mutters, and wraps up the cleaned gun, putting it away carefully.
Sam tries to keep silent, store up his new-found knowledge for some time it would really count, but he can't help himself. "Need a cuddle?" he asks.
Dean looks up. "Christo."
Sam laughs. "I'm not possessed, I just thought a hug might make you feel better," he offers in his most sincere voice. "You seem kinda cranky, so I'm being a good brother and offering to hug you better."
"Since when would you think such a load of crap? This isn't Stanford, and I'm not Jess. No touchy-feely stuff here, ever." The sheer horror on Dean's face is glorious.
"Since I learned that you used to sleep in my crib with me. Every night. Curled up around me. You couldn't sleep without me." Sam shakes his head. "No use putting on your I'm Dean Winchester and nothing scares me face - I'm onto you."
And Dean-Dean is actually blushing. So Sam puts the diary down, gets up and goes for it, grabs Dean in a bear hug.
"Gerroff me," Dean growls into Sam's chest, and he's fighting like a girl, all flailing arms and misaimed kicks, which is a good thing because Sam's never been good at fighting and laughing at the same time. They roll off Dean's bed and onto the floor, and he might have surprised Dean the other night by using his extra inches and pulling a winning move, but Dean soon gets the upper hand this time, so Sam ends up face smashed into the rug and arm twisted up behind his back.
"Say uncle," Dean says into his ear, digging his knee into the small of Sam's back for emphasis.
"It's kinda cute, really," Sam says, even though he's practically eating the rug trying to talk, and even though he knows Dean will just twist his arm that little bit more with every word.
"I was a kid, you were just as whiny a baby as you are now, and it wasn't cuddling. It was-it was just-being there," Dean finishes, triumphant at finding an excuse. "Subject closed."
Sam would hold out longer, but his arm hurts and he's going to have rug burn on his face if he's not careful, never mind that he can see all the dirt under the beds from here and he's gotten used to cleaner places after living with Jess the last year. "Okay, I give."
Dean gets up off him, one last none-too-gentle boot to the thigh as he's doing so.
Sam says nothing more about it, not even when he sees Dean reading the journal that evening, propped up on his side so Sam can't see what page he's on. When Sam gets up to take a piss, he sneaks a look, and, sure enough, Dean's reading the December 1983 entries, and there's a look on his face that Sam understands. And when Sam wakes up in the middle of the night to find Dean standing over him, watching him, he doesn't say a word, just scoots over and lets Dean crawl in behind him.
Dean's gone in the morning, out for coffee no doubt, but there's still a warm indent in the pillow beside Sam, and a warm feeling inside him. It's only a few days, one hunt and then he's back to Stanford, but he's missed this, missed his brother, missed the thrill of the hunt even.
He won't stay out of touch so long next time.
*
Title from Newborn by Elbow.