SPN fic: Christmas in the Suburbs
Title: Christmas in the Suburbs
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: G.
Genre: Ficlet. Schmoop.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Warnings: This fic is so sweet it will rot your teeth and put you in a diabetic coma. It includes Christmas, puppies, small children, domesticated boys, happy endings and kissing. You've been warned. Oh yeah, and incest.
Wordcount: Around 1000.
Summary: "Sam, we can't have a dog."
A/N: After reading a horrible, tragic fic, jewels667 was horribly upset. In order to try to make her feel a little better, I penned this. It is disgustingly schmoopy. And it makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over.
†
Christmas eve is a quiet night at home, watching Charlie Brown and Dean falling asleep in front of the TV, leaning in against him. It's weird, a break from the strange routine of juggling jobs with work, trying to pay the electric bill and their rent while financing their hunts, keeping up the stocks of rock salt and silver.
It's a combination of fraud and honest work that gets them by. And it's weird to admit it, but Sam's comfortable. They know their neighbours, and they're nice, even if they think it's Winters instead of Winchester. Nice enough to keep an eye on Dean's Christmas present until morning.
"C'mon, man," Sam nudges Dean, sparing a glance for the snow outside the window. White Christmas. "Let's get to bed."
Dean grumbles, sitting up, and he rubs at his eyes before looking at Sam. "Was sleeping," he pouts sullenly, although there's a light in his eyes that says he's exaggerating. When Sam leans in to kiss him, he smiles, then shoves him away. "Alright, big boy," he says, unfolding off the couch, "let's go."
†
By morning it's stopped snowing.
Kelsie comes to the door at eleven, just as Dean's putting away the dishes from breakfast. Sam answers, looking down at the nine-year-old girl in her winter coat and hair done up in pigtails, a bundle held tight against her chest. She says, quietly, smiling up at him, "I hope your brother likes him," she says. "What're you gonna name him?"
Sam reaches down to take the small black bundle out of her arms, the puppy wriggling to look up at him. He smiles. "I don't know, honey. Dean's gonna name him. I'll tell you what he picks, okay?"
She beams up at him. "Okay!" Funny how easy it is to make little girls happy.
The puppy's just a little thing, nine weeks old, a wriggling mass of black fur with a wet, black nose and warm brown eyes. When Sam comes back inside, Dean glances over at him without noticing what he's carrying. "Who was at the door?" He's up to his elbows in dishwater, washing their breakfast plates in the sink.
"Kelsie," Sam says. "I asked Carrie and Michael to keep an eye on your Christmas present for me. Kels brought it over for me." He moves to stand near Dean, peering over his shoulder into the sudsy water.
"Oh. Yeah, alright." Dean tries off the last fork and sets it aside before towelling off his hands. "Wait. Christmas present?" He turns around then, looking up at Sam with that adorable quirk in his brow. Sam grins, gently pushing the pup into Dean's arms.
"Merry Christmas," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Dean's cheek, mainly because he knows this one time Dean won't wrinkle his noise and reach up to rub at his face with his sleeve. He's looking down in wonder at the furry black lab in his arms.
Dean bites his lip, then looks up at Sam. "Sam," he murmurs, awe in his voice, and - and a hint of a tone Sam really doesn't want to hear. "Sam, we can't have a dog." There's a quaver in his tone, something that says all at once you shouldn't have and we can't and I want this.
"Yeah, Dean, we can." He's reaches out, wresting his hands on Dean's hips as his brother stares down at the dog in his arms. "We can."
Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. We're hunting - we're not stable. We can't - we can't keep a dog in the Impala, and with the job, and moving around all the time, motels, and... we'd need a house and..."
Sam squeezes Dean's hips, shaking his head. "Dean, listen to me."
"We can't," Dean says again, and the fact that he keeps saying it is proof of how much Dean wants this, how much Dean wants to keep him. "With our life, there's no -"
"Dean," he cuts him off. "Where do you buy the groceries?"
"The Kroger down the street."
Sam leans in, kisses Dean quickly on the mouth. "What are our neighbours' names?"
"Uh, there's Kelsie and Carrie and Michael next door," he mumbles, glancing down at the puppy as it nuzzles against his chest. "And Jack and Rob across the street. And Liz on the other side."
Another quick kiss, and Sam asks, "What about the name of the bartender at that bar we hang out at sometimes?"
"Old Tom," Dean answers automatically, and Sam rewards him with another kiss.
He asks, voice quiet, "How much would we owe on this house, if we decide to buy it?"
"Around a hundred thousand dollars," Dean says, then stops. "Oh," he says. "Oh."
Dean looks down at his dog, then up at Sam. Sam smiles, murmuring, "We've got a house, Dean. And a yard. And neighbours who'll look after him when we're out of town. You said six months ago that you wanted a dog. There's no reason you can't keep him, Dean."
Dean looks back down at him, and it leans up, licking his chin. Dean's face splits into a broad grin, and he looks up at Sam, obviously amazed. "What're we gonna name him?"
"Whatever you want, Dean."
Dean swallows, looking down at him. He says, slowly, after a long pause, "What about Zappa?"
"As in Frank Zappa?" Dean nods, and Sam grins. "Like I said, Dean. Whatever you want."
"Zappa," Dean murmurs. He glances up at Sam, then, and there's a bright grin on his face as he leans in for a kiss. "Jesus, Sammy," he murmurs. "Can't believe you..."
This time it's not just a quick touch of lips. This time it's slow, Zappa nestled close between them as they kiss, open-mouthed, Sam reaching down to hook his fingers in Dean's belt-loops. Dean's mouth is wet, sweet and bitter, a combination of spit, maple syrup and hazelnut Christmas coffee. The puppy wriggles between them, then stills, and Dean moans low in this throat, tongue sliding warmly along Sam's. He bites gently at Sam's lip, tugging with his teeth before pressing back into Sam's mouth, and Sam tugs him that little bit closer so that their hips fit together.
When they break apart, it's hesitant, and only because Zappa is pawing at Dean's chest. Dean murmurs, quiet, "I can't believe you got me a dog." He laughs, something a little self-deprecating in his grin. "Man, all I got you was a watch and a set of throwing knives."
"I like my watch," Sam says. "Merry Christmas."
(P.S. And they lived happily ever after. The end!)
Author: D. (namegoeshere)
Rating: G.
Genre: Ficlet. Schmoop.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Warnings: This fic is so sweet it will rot your teeth and put you in a diabetic coma. It includes Christmas, puppies, small children, domesticated boys, happy endings and kissing. You've been warned. Oh yeah, and incest.
Wordcount: Around 1000.
Summary: "Sam, we can't have a dog."
A/N: After reading a horrible, tragic fic, jewels667 was horribly upset. In order to try to make her feel a little better, I penned this. It is disgustingly schmoopy. And it makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over.
†
Christmas eve is a quiet night at home, watching Charlie Brown and Dean falling asleep in front of the TV, leaning in against him. It's weird, a break from the strange routine of juggling jobs with work, trying to pay the electric bill and their rent while financing their hunts, keeping up the stocks of rock salt and silver.
It's a combination of fraud and honest work that gets them by. And it's weird to admit it, but Sam's comfortable. They know their neighbours, and they're nice, even if they think it's Winters instead of Winchester. Nice enough to keep an eye on Dean's Christmas present until morning.
"C'mon, man," Sam nudges Dean, sparing a glance for the snow outside the window. White Christmas. "Let's get to bed."
Dean grumbles, sitting up, and he rubs at his eyes before looking at Sam. "Was sleeping," he pouts sullenly, although there's a light in his eyes that says he's exaggerating. When Sam leans in to kiss him, he smiles, then shoves him away. "Alright, big boy," he says, unfolding off the couch, "let's go."
†
By morning it's stopped snowing.
Kelsie comes to the door at eleven, just as Dean's putting away the dishes from breakfast. Sam answers, looking down at the nine-year-old girl in her winter coat and hair done up in pigtails, a bundle held tight against her chest. She says, quietly, smiling up at him, "I hope your brother likes him," she says. "What're you gonna name him?"
Sam reaches down to take the small black bundle out of her arms, the puppy wriggling to look up at him. He smiles. "I don't know, honey. Dean's gonna name him. I'll tell you what he picks, okay?"
She beams up at him. "Okay!" Funny how easy it is to make little girls happy.
The puppy's just a little thing, nine weeks old, a wriggling mass of black fur with a wet, black nose and warm brown eyes. When Sam comes back inside, Dean glances over at him without noticing what he's carrying. "Who was at the door?" He's up to his elbows in dishwater, washing their breakfast plates in the sink.
"Kelsie," Sam says. "I asked Carrie and Michael to keep an eye on your Christmas present for me. Kels brought it over for me." He moves to stand near Dean, peering over his shoulder into the sudsy water.
"Oh. Yeah, alright." Dean tries off the last fork and sets it aside before towelling off his hands. "Wait. Christmas present?" He turns around then, looking up at Sam with that adorable quirk in his brow. Sam grins, gently pushing the pup into Dean's arms.
"Merry Christmas," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Dean's cheek, mainly because he knows this one time Dean won't wrinkle his noise and reach up to rub at his face with his sleeve. He's looking down in wonder at the furry black lab in his arms.
Dean bites his lip, then looks up at Sam. "Sam," he murmurs, awe in his voice, and - and a hint of a tone Sam really doesn't want to hear. "Sam, we can't have a dog." There's a quaver in his tone, something that says all at once you shouldn't have and we can't and I want this.
"Yeah, Dean, we can." He's reaches out, wresting his hands on Dean's hips as his brother stares down at the dog in his arms. "We can."
Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. We're hunting - we're not stable. We can't - we can't keep a dog in the Impala, and with the job, and moving around all the time, motels, and... we'd need a house and..."
Sam squeezes Dean's hips, shaking his head. "Dean, listen to me."
"We can't," Dean says again, and the fact that he keeps saying it is proof of how much Dean wants this, how much Dean wants to keep him. "With our life, there's no -"
"Dean," he cuts him off. "Where do you buy the groceries?"
"The Kroger down the street."
Sam leans in, kisses Dean quickly on the mouth. "What are our neighbours' names?"
"Uh, there's Kelsie and Carrie and Michael next door," he mumbles, glancing down at the puppy as it nuzzles against his chest. "And Jack and Rob across the street. And Liz on the other side."
Another quick kiss, and Sam asks, "What about the name of the bartender at that bar we hang out at sometimes?"
"Old Tom," Dean answers automatically, and Sam rewards him with another kiss.
He asks, voice quiet, "How much would we owe on this house, if we decide to buy it?"
"Around a hundred thousand dollars," Dean says, then stops. "Oh," he says. "Oh."
Dean looks down at his dog, then up at Sam. Sam smiles, murmuring, "We've got a house, Dean. And a yard. And neighbours who'll look after him when we're out of town. You said six months ago that you wanted a dog. There's no reason you can't keep him, Dean."
Dean looks back down at him, and it leans up, licking his chin. Dean's face splits into a broad grin, and he looks up at Sam, obviously amazed. "What're we gonna name him?"
"Whatever you want, Dean."
Dean swallows, looking down at him. He says, slowly, after a long pause, "What about Zappa?"
"As in Frank Zappa?" Dean nods, and Sam grins. "Like I said, Dean. Whatever you want."
"Zappa," Dean murmurs. He glances up at Sam, then, and there's a bright grin on his face as he leans in for a kiss. "Jesus, Sammy," he murmurs. "Can't believe you..."
This time it's not just a quick touch of lips. This time it's slow, Zappa nestled close between them as they kiss, open-mouthed, Sam reaching down to hook his fingers in Dean's belt-loops. Dean's mouth is wet, sweet and bitter, a combination of spit, maple syrup and hazelnut Christmas coffee. The puppy wriggles between them, then stills, and Dean moans low in this throat, tongue sliding warmly along Sam's. He bites gently at Sam's lip, tugging with his teeth before pressing back into Sam's mouth, and Sam tugs him that little bit closer so that their hips fit together.
When they break apart, it's hesitant, and only because Zappa is pawing at Dean's chest. Dean murmurs, quiet, "I can't believe you got me a dog." He laughs, something a little self-deprecating in his grin. "Man, all I got you was a watch and a set of throwing knives."
"I like my watch," Sam says. "Merry Christmas."
(P.S. And they lived happily ever after. The end!)