happy new year too
Title: happy new year too
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warnings: incest, high levels of shmoop
Word Count: 1138
Summary: This is my Christmas present to mrs_gregsanders. She asked for Sam/Dean - New Year's Eve.
A/N: I have a soft spot for boys on the road, so as soon as I read this prompt I knew that was what it was going to be. I figure they celebrate most of their holidays on the road anyway. But yes. I hope you like it!
Holidays seem to come and go mostly unnoticed when you’re a Winchester. Half the time, Dean doesn’t even know what day of the week it is, much less the actual date. They measure time by miles and whether or not the trees still have leaves and the decorations on the front porches of the houses they pass by.
So it surprises Dean when they are driving down some dark road in the ass-end of nowhere and Sam’s voice suddenly pipes up from the passenger seat to say, “I think it’s New Year’s Eve, Dean.”
Dean glances sideways at him and cocks and eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. It sounds about right. Christmas passed them by about a week ago - another holiday they probably would have missed if it hadn’t been for Bobby calling them and making them stop by for some ham and heavily-spiked egg nog.
“What time is it?” Dean asks, and Sam is already staring at his watch before the words even make it all the way out of his mouth.
“It’s 11:13.” Sam is always oddly specific about time. “Do you think we should…stop at the next motel?”
This time Dean actually snorts. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Sam. I haven’t even seen headlights for miles, much less a motel.”
When he glances over, Sam looks oddly disappointed. It’s dark inside the car and Dean can only vaguely make out his expression, but a muscle in his jaw is jumping like it always does when he thinks Dean is being an idiot, and his mouth is pulled into a thin line.
“Dude. C’mon. What do you want me to do? Pull over to the side of the road in the middle of the night so we can count down to a new fucking year that’ll be exactly like the last one?”
The silence from the passenger street says everything that needs to be said.
“Oh my God. When did you become such a sap?”
And yet, when there is a break in the trees that come right up to the side of the road, Dean finds himself guiding the Impala to the side of the road and slowing to a stop. He can feel Sam’s smile, but he refuses to look over and acknowledge him. Times like this when he is reminded how much Sam has him wrapped around his finger are bad enough without Sam gloating about it as well.
“All right, princess. Get the blankets and the bottle of Jack out of the trunk.”
Two minutes later, they are situated on the hood of the Impala, leaning back against the windshield, and Sam has both blankets draped over his legs. He tried to give one to Dean, but Dean waved him off, of course. He tells himself he isn’t cold, but really his kneecaps are going numb all in the name of letting Sam and his long-ass legs have both the blankets. He can’t cover them completely with one.
Dean takes a long pull off the bottle of whiskey, and the liquid warmth helps a little bit. He passes the bottle to Sam, half expecting him to refuse it, but he accepts it gladly and takes a long drink before passing it back.
“What did we do last New Year’s Eve?” Sam asks.
“I don’t know, man,” Dean answers automatically, but then he has a sudden flashback of a dusty attic, a shotgun blast, and digging a grave with numb fingers while fireworks exploded overhead. “Poltergeist. Upstate New York. Tried to strangle you, remember?”
Sam hums thoughtfully and then chuckles. “What?” Dean asks.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” he says cryptically, and when Dean only stares at him, he continues. “What you’re doing when the New Year rolls around is what you’ll be doing all year.”
Dean snorts and then takes another drink of whiskey before dropping the bottle in his lap and rubbing his hands together briskly to try to warm them.
“Dean. Here.” Sam shifts closer, grabs the edge of one of the blankets and throws it over Dean’s legs. Dean makes a sound of protest, but by now it feels like his legs are full of razor blades and he is grateful for the added warmth of the blanket and Sam’s thigh pressed against his. He can feel the heat spreading outward already from the point of contact. Sam is like a big damn furnace.
They sit there in silence for a while, looking up at the stars and passing the bottle back and forth. Dean thinks he can hear the distance sounds of fireworks going off, but none of them are visible from where they are. There must not be any civilization for miles. Sometimes this is where Dean feels most at home though - out on the open road, no one else around but just him and Sam. It’s like they are the last two people left in the world. And Dean is perfectly okay with that feeling.
“Thirty seconds, Dean,” Sam says softly, staring down at the second hand of his wristwatch.
“Oh my God. You really are going to count down.”
Sam shoots him a quick withering look and looks back down at his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”
Dean lets his head fall back against the windshield and closes his eyes, letting Sam’s warmth flow into him, listening to his voice as he starts counting backward from ten.
“…Seven, six…”
Sam shifts away a little and Dean grunts his displeasure at the loss of his personal heater.
“…three, two, one.”
Dean feels Sam’s hand rest on his shoulder, grabbing at his jacket a little, and he opens his eyes. Sam’s smile is brilliant, wider than Dean has seen it in a long time, and Dean’s lips quirk upward reflexively in response.
“Happy New Year, Dean.”
When Sam leans in, Dean can’t help but meet him halfway. Sam has always been like gravity to him. His lips are dry and chapped from the cold, and he tastes like whiskey, but he smells like home and feels like Sam and it isn’t nearly as weird as it should be.
Eventually, Sam pulls away, but not too far. They sort of pause there for long moments, hands fisted in each other’s jackets, their breath mingling in white clouds that hang in the air between them. Slowly - oh-so-slowly - Dean feels a smile spread over his face.
“What was that you said about the thing you’re doing when the New Year rolls around will be what you do all year?”
Sam chuckles a little and shoves at Dean’s shoulder, but it’s very half-hearted. Dean only grins wider and then pulls him in for another quick kiss.
“Happy New Year, Sammy,” he murmurs against his brother’s lips, and this time he thinks it just might be true.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Warnings: incest, high levels of shmoop
Word Count: 1138
Summary: This is my Christmas present to mrs_gregsanders. She asked for Sam/Dean - New Year's Eve.
A/N: I have a soft spot for boys on the road, so as soon as I read this prompt I knew that was what it was going to be. I figure they celebrate most of their holidays on the road anyway. But yes. I hope you like it!
Holidays seem to come and go mostly unnoticed when you’re a Winchester. Half the time, Dean doesn’t even know what day of the week it is, much less the actual date. They measure time by miles and whether or not the trees still have leaves and the decorations on the front porches of the houses they pass by.
So it surprises Dean when they are driving down some dark road in the ass-end of nowhere and Sam’s voice suddenly pipes up from the passenger seat to say, “I think it’s New Year’s Eve, Dean.”
Dean glances sideways at him and cocks and eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road. It sounds about right. Christmas passed them by about a week ago - another holiday they probably would have missed if it hadn’t been for Bobby calling them and making them stop by for some ham and heavily-spiked egg nog.
“What time is it?” Dean asks, and Sam is already staring at his watch before the words even make it all the way out of his mouth.
“It’s 11:13.” Sam is always oddly specific about time. “Do you think we should…stop at the next motel?”
This time Dean actually snorts. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Sam. I haven’t even seen headlights for miles, much less a motel.”
When he glances over, Sam looks oddly disappointed. It’s dark inside the car and Dean can only vaguely make out his expression, but a muscle in his jaw is jumping like it always does when he thinks Dean is being an idiot, and his mouth is pulled into a thin line.
“Dude. C’mon. What do you want me to do? Pull over to the side of the road in the middle of the night so we can count down to a new fucking year that’ll be exactly like the last one?”
The silence from the passenger street says everything that needs to be said.
“Oh my God. When did you become such a sap?”
And yet, when there is a break in the trees that come right up to the side of the road, Dean finds himself guiding the Impala to the side of the road and slowing to a stop. He can feel Sam’s smile, but he refuses to look over and acknowledge him. Times like this when he is reminded how much Sam has him wrapped around his finger are bad enough without Sam gloating about it as well.
“All right, princess. Get the blankets and the bottle of Jack out of the trunk.”
Two minutes later, they are situated on the hood of the Impala, leaning back against the windshield, and Sam has both blankets draped over his legs. He tried to give one to Dean, but Dean waved him off, of course. He tells himself he isn’t cold, but really his kneecaps are going numb all in the name of letting Sam and his long-ass legs have both the blankets. He can’t cover them completely with one.
Dean takes a long pull off the bottle of whiskey, and the liquid warmth helps a little bit. He passes the bottle to Sam, half expecting him to refuse it, but he accepts it gladly and takes a long drink before passing it back.
“What did we do last New Year’s Eve?” Sam asks.
“I don’t know, man,” Dean answers automatically, but then he has a sudden flashback of a dusty attic, a shotgun blast, and digging a grave with numb fingers while fireworks exploded overhead. “Poltergeist. Upstate New York. Tried to strangle you, remember?”
Sam hums thoughtfully and then chuckles. “What?” Dean asks.
“I guess it’s true what they say,” he says cryptically, and when Dean only stares at him, he continues. “What you’re doing when the New Year rolls around is what you’ll be doing all year.”
Dean snorts and then takes another drink of whiskey before dropping the bottle in his lap and rubbing his hands together briskly to try to warm them.
“Dean. Here.” Sam shifts closer, grabs the edge of one of the blankets and throws it over Dean’s legs. Dean makes a sound of protest, but by now it feels like his legs are full of razor blades and he is grateful for the added warmth of the blanket and Sam’s thigh pressed against his. He can feel the heat spreading outward already from the point of contact. Sam is like a big damn furnace.
They sit there in silence for a while, looking up at the stars and passing the bottle back and forth. Dean thinks he can hear the distance sounds of fireworks going off, but none of them are visible from where they are. There must not be any civilization for miles. Sometimes this is where Dean feels most at home though - out on the open road, no one else around but just him and Sam. It’s like they are the last two people left in the world. And Dean is perfectly okay with that feeling.
“Thirty seconds, Dean,” Sam says softly, staring down at the second hand of his wristwatch.
“Oh my God. You really are going to count down.”
Sam shoots him a quick withering look and looks back down at his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”
Dean lets his head fall back against the windshield and closes his eyes, letting Sam’s warmth flow into him, listening to his voice as he starts counting backward from ten.
“…Seven, six…”
Sam shifts away a little and Dean grunts his displeasure at the loss of his personal heater.
“…three, two, one.”
Dean feels Sam’s hand rest on his shoulder, grabbing at his jacket a little, and he opens his eyes. Sam’s smile is brilliant, wider than Dean has seen it in a long time, and Dean’s lips quirk upward reflexively in response.
“Happy New Year, Dean.”
When Sam leans in, Dean can’t help but meet him halfway. Sam has always been like gravity to him. His lips are dry and chapped from the cold, and he tastes like whiskey, but he smells like home and feels like Sam and it isn’t nearly as weird as it should be.
Eventually, Sam pulls away, but not too far. They sort of pause there for long moments, hands fisted in each other’s jackets, their breath mingling in white clouds that hang in the air between them. Slowly - oh-so-slowly - Dean feels a smile spread over his face.
“What was that you said about the thing you’re doing when the New Year rolls around will be what you do all year?”
Sam chuckles a little and shoves at Dean’s shoulder, but it’s very half-hearted. Dean only grins wider and then pulls him in for another quick kiss.
“Happy New Year, Sammy,” he murmurs against his brother’s lips, and this time he thinks it just might be true.