Love is Not a Victory March
Title: Love is Not a Victory March
Type: fandom
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: R
Author’s Note: This was originally written for this prompt on spn_kinkmeme: Remember how Sam said “I put on my own socks, the whole nine.” Well, lets say that one day Sam is having a bad day-the wall is cracked more then normal-and he can’t seem to put his socks and shoes on by himself. He is uncoordinated and frustrated and on the verge of tears. With that, enter Dean who is an awesome big brother. He helps Sammy put his socks and shoes on. Of course, you can add more-I’m just looking for a really sweet brother moment between Sam and Dean. Maybe Dean tickles Sam’s foot to make him laugh and smile, like when he was a kid. Or maybe he just helps Sammy put his shoes on then gives him a hug to cheer Sam up. I don’t know-I’ll leave it up to you. Just looking for some cuteness and schoop between the brothers. Thanks!
Warnings: spoilers up to 7x01, incest, vague and brief mentions of torture, PTSD resulting in sporadic disabilities of varying degrees
Summary: Dean has been to Hell and back. Literal, capital letter ‘H’, Hell. You’d think that’s what his nightmares would be about.
Dean has been to Hell and back. Literal, capital letter ‘H’, Hell. You’d think that’s what his nightmares would be about. Certainly his time in Hell was enough to fuel his nightmares for a couple hundred years at least.
And he does dream of Hell, but it isn’t his trip that has him jumping awake every night, body dampened with a thin sheen of cold sweat, mouth parted on a shout that never quite makes it out of his throat. Dean’s Hell is permeated by scorching heat, the burn of his body being sliced open, the boiling sear of his own blood coating his skin.
Instead, icicles jamb beneath his fingernails; his teeth chatter so hard they crack and crumble. His blood runs so slow that he’s suffocating, taking in big, gulping gasps of air but not getting enough, never getting enough.
The Devil runs cold.
Dean lurches up, gasping, covered in sweat, and he knows something is wrong because the dream hadn’t even gotten to the part where Sam starts screaming and never, ever stops.
His hand is already curled around the gun beneath his pillow, but his eyes dart to Sam first, because his eyes have always darted to Sam first, and he sees what woke him up before he starts shooting at the closed bedroom door--and thank fuck, because Bobby is going to kill him if he keeps doing that, if only so he doesn’t kill Bobby first one of these mornings.
But it’s just Sam. Sam, who’s sitting on his own bed, half-dressed and now staring at Dean with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, stuttering over the word like it’s unfamiliar, like it’s the first thing he’s said in a long time, but even on his worst days, Sam says he’s sorry more than almost anything else.
Dean can see the tight line of Sam’s shoulders in the grey early morning light, can just barely make out the downward tilt of his mouth and the tight twist of his fists in his bed’s sheets.
Dean sighs and scrubs is hand through his hair because it’s going to be a bad day. He yawns as he pushes his covers off and slides out of his own bed only to sit next to Sam in his. Dean is careful not to touch him, though, because he’s not sure if it’s one of those bad days yet, and he’s been through enough of those to know it’s better to be safe than sorry. “It’s ass o’clock in the morning, Sammy. What are you doing?”
Sam doesn’t look at him, just curls his fists a little tighter. Dean glances down at them, just to make sure he’s not digging his nails into his palms again, and notices that he’s clutching a balled up pair of socks along with the sheets. He’s shaking, Dean notices, but that’s almost not worth mentioning. Sam is always shaking.
“Are we having flashbacks that involve socks now? Because that’s a new one, even for us,” Dean jokes lightly, because the tension is so thick he feels like he can cut it with a knife, and Dean has never been good at dealing with tension.
Sam drops his head a little.
Dean’s stomach falls. “Sam--”
“No,” Sam says, quiet and ashamed. It sounds like a halted start, like there should be more to the sentence but Sam just can’t get it out. Dean’s grown used to that sound, knows that it means exactly what it sounds like.
“No, you didn’t have any weird sock flashbacks?” Dean asks.
Sam drops his head again, nodding once.
“Okay,” Dean says, his smile weak. “No sock flashbacks. I can work with that.” He reaches out his hand, moving for the back of Sam’s neck to squeeze reassurance there like he’s done so many times before--and then abruptly stops himself when he remembers, letting it fall back to the bed.
Sam leans toward him, an invitation, and he says, “Dean.”
Dean lets himself lean into Sam then, his arm wrapping around Sam’s shoulders, his hand burying into Sam’s hair as he pulls Sam in just a little bit closer, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Even on his worst days, Sam has always been able to say 'Dean'.
Dean is still waiting for the day when Sam looks at him and doesn’t remember who he is, but at least today isn’t that day. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he mumbles against Sam’s temple. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“Dean,” Sam says again, and if he sounds a little more broken, a little waterier, Dean doesn’t point it out.
“It’s okay,” Dean repeats, a mantra that he clings to in his most desperate times, when he doesn’t know what to do, just that he’s got to do something. He takes a deep breath, regaining his composure for a minute before he finally pulls back a little, clears his throat and says, “Okay, Sammy. Let’s figure out the problem here.”
He gives Sam a once over, takes note of just how sloppily his clothes have been put on. Sam’s t-shirt’s neckline is off-center. His jeans are pulled on, if only barely, and they aren’t zipped and buttoned. Probably too shaky this morning.
It clicks then. Dean adds together the shakiness, the socks in Sam’s hand and Sam’s bare feet pressed to the cold wooden floor, and he huffs a laugh, ruffling Sam’s hair a little. “That all?”
Sam looks up at him, and Dean looks away because he doesn’t know if he can deal with the embarrassment he’s going to find there.
He gently pries Sam’s socks out of his fingers and kneels on the floor in front of him.
“You know, I used to do this all the time for you when you were a kid,” Dean says, gently lifting Sam’s foot onto his thigh and rolling a sock on. “You used to throw a fit if the seam wasn’t right on top of your toes. Said it didn’t feel right or some bullshit and wouldn’t get up unless I fixed it.” The seam lands right across Sam’s toes, right where they’re supposed to. Dean runs his thumb over them just to check.
“I used to call you a girl over it,” Dean continues as he places Sam’s other foot on his thigh and rolls the sock on perfectly, checks the seam. “But you didn’t care. Just wanted your prissy little feet taken care of, like the big girl that you are.” Dean smiles, then forces himself to frown, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at Sam. “If this is some ploy to make me look like your servant boy, I’m going to kick your ass.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth tilt up a fraction.
Dean counts it as a win. Sometimes, you just take what you can get. “Where are your shoes?”
Sam tilts his head toward the end of his bed, and Dean checks beneath it, dragging out Sam’s duffel. He pulls out Sam’s brown and white nikes, then returns to his spot in front of Sam as he loosens the laces. “Seriously though. I don’t care if you’re sick, I’ll kick your ass if this is just to make me look--”
“Dean.” Sam’s hand touches Dean’s shoulder, still shaking like a leaf. Dean looks up at Sam and wishes for the millionth time that he didn’t know intimately what that haunted look actually means. “Dean,” he says again. He swallows, takes a breath like he’s building up to something, then, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Dean says, shaking his head, lowering his gaze back down to Sam’s shoe. “I was just playing, Sam. I know.” He doesn’t really know what he knows. ‘I know you wouldn’t do that?’ ‘I know you’d do this yourself if you could?’ ‘I know you hate this just as much as I do?’
Dean just doesn’t know. But he pushes Sam’s shoes onto his feet, laces him up nice and tight like Sam likes, then pats him on his knee as he stands up. “There you go, kid. You cold?” He pauses like Sam is actually going to answer. “Course you are. It’s ass o’clock in the morning in South Dakota.”
He grabs Sam’s jacket off the bedroom door’s knob and uses it as an excuse to straighten Sam’s shirt when he pulls the jacket over Sam’s arms.
Dean sighs and rolls his shoulders, readying himself for the next part. “Okay, Sam. Lean back. Don’t want to catch anything important.”
Sam slowly leans back on his elbows, his eyes averted.
Dean slides his palm into Sam’s jeans and tries not to think of a time when he’d be doing the same thing for completely different reasons. He uses his hand as a guard against the zipper as he pulls it closed, then buttons the jeans up.
“There you go, Sam,” Dean says as he slides his palm back out of Sam’s pants, calm as you please. “All wrapped up like a Christmas present.”
It takes Sam a little while, but he eventually straightens himself back up on the bed, then looks at Dean again. His mouth is trembling, and so is his hand when he raises it, fists it in the t-shirt Dean slept in. “Dean.”
Five Deans in one morning. It’s amazing how good your own name can sound when you think that one day you might never hear it again. “Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam tugs on Dean’s shirt, and Dean knows what he wants because Dean knows Sam and because Dean wants it too.
He leans down, presses a soft, sweet kiss to Sam’s trembling mouth. Sam’s lips still beneath his, the only part of Sam’s body that isn’t shaking, and Dean thinks, absurdly, desperately, I wish the rest of you was as easy to fix.
Sam’s hands slowly edge up to Dean’s face, his fingertips practically vibrating against Dean’s cheeks, and that’s when Dean breaks the kiss, folding his hands over Sam’s own. He touches his forehead to Sam’s and smiles, a little hopeful, a little broken. “Time for breakfast. How about waffles today? I bet Bobby isn’t up yet, the lazy ass, so I’ll even let your sasquatch self eat his helping. How’s that sound?”
Sam sighs, a resigned, vaguely annoyed sound that he’s made since he was ten and realized big brothers were actually annoyances, not real life superheroes.
Dean’s smile widens, and he pulls away from Sam, squeezing his hands one last time. “All right. Just let me get dressed, and I’ll make you those waffles you seem so eager about, Gigantor.”
Sam makes that noise again, says, “Dean,” with a lilt in his voice.
Dean laughs, soft and low to keep from startling Sam as he pulls on a pair of jeans. “You’re so easy, Sammy. Come on. Let’s go get breakfast started.” He extends his hand and pulls Sam up, his weight solid and sure against Dean’s side as they slowly make their way downstairs.
Type: fandom
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: R
Author’s Note: This was originally written for this prompt on spn_kinkmeme: Remember how Sam said “I put on my own socks, the whole nine.” Well, lets say that one day Sam is having a bad day-the wall is cracked more then normal-and he can’t seem to put his socks and shoes on by himself. He is uncoordinated and frustrated and on the verge of tears. With that, enter Dean who is an awesome big brother. He helps Sammy put his socks and shoes on. Of course, you can add more-I’m just looking for a really sweet brother moment between Sam and Dean. Maybe Dean tickles Sam’s foot to make him laugh and smile, like when he was a kid. Or maybe he just helps Sammy put his shoes on then gives him a hug to cheer Sam up. I don’t know-I’ll leave it up to you. Just looking for some cuteness and schoop between the brothers. Thanks!
Warnings: spoilers up to 7x01, incest, vague and brief mentions of torture, PTSD resulting in sporadic disabilities of varying degrees
Summary: Dean has been to Hell and back. Literal, capital letter ‘H’, Hell. You’d think that’s what his nightmares would be about.
Dean has been to Hell and back. Literal, capital letter ‘H’, Hell. You’d think that’s what his nightmares would be about. Certainly his time in Hell was enough to fuel his nightmares for a couple hundred years at least.
And he does dream of Hell, but it isn’t his trip that has him jumping awake every night, body dampened with a thin sheen of cold sweat, mouth parted on a shout that never quite makes it out of his throat. Dean’s Hell is permeated by scorching heat, the burn of his body being sliced open, the boiling sear of his own blood coating his skin.
Instead, icicles jamb beneath his fingernails; his teeth chatter so hard they crack and crumble. His blood runs so slow that he’s suffocating, taking in big, gulping gasps of air but not getting enough, never getting enough.
The Devil runs cold.
Dean lurches up, gasping, covered in sweat, and he knows something is wrong because the dream hadn’t even gotten to the part where Sam starts screaming and never, ever stops.
His hand is already curled around the gun beneath his pillow, but his eyes dart to Sam first, because his eyes have always darted to Sam first, and he sees what woke him up before he starts shooting at the closed bedroom door--and thank fuck, because Bobby is going to kill him if he keeps doing that, if only so he doesn’t kill Bobby first one of these mornings.
But it’s just Sam. Sam, who’s sitting on his own bed, half-dressed and now staring at Dean with wide eyes.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, stuttering over the word like it’s unfamiliar, like it’s the first thing he’s said in a long time, but even on his worst days, Sam says he’s sorry more than almost anything else.
Dean can see the tight line of Sam’s shoulders in the grey early morning light, can just barely make out the downward tilt of his mouth and the tight twist of his fists in his bed’s sheets.
Dean sighs and scrubs is hand through his hair because it’s going to be a bad day. He yawns as he pushes his covers off and slides out of his own bed only to sit next to Sam in his. Dean is careful not to touch him, though, because he’s not sure if it’s one of those bad days yet, and he’s been through enough of those to know it’s better to be safe than sorry. “It’s ass o’clock in the morning, Sammy. What are you doing?”
Sam doesn’t look at him, just curls his fists a little tighter. Dean glances down at them, just to make sure he’s not digging his nails into his palms again, and notices that he’s clutching a balled up pair of socks along with the sheets. He’s shaking, Dean notices, but that’s almost not worth mentioning. Sam is always shaking.
“Are we having flashbacks that involve socks now? Because that’s a new one, even for us,” Dean jokes lightly, because the tension is so thick he feels like he can cut it with a knife, and Dean has never been good at dealing with tension.
Sam drops his head a little.
Dean’s stomach falls. “Sam--”
“No,” Sam says, quiet and ashamed. It sounds like a halted start, like there should be more to the sentence but Sam just can’t get it out. Dean’s grown used to that sound, knows that it means exactly what it sounds like.
“No, you didn’t have any weird sock flashbacks?” Dean asks.
Sam drops his head again, nodding once.
“Okay,” Dean says, his smile weak. “No sock flashbacks. I can work with that.” He reaches out his hand, moving for the back of Sam’s neck to squeeze reassurance there like he’s done so many times before--and then abruptly stops himself when he remembers, letting it fall back to the bed.
Sam leans toward him, an invitation, and he says, “Dean.”
Dean lets himself lean into Sam then, his arm wrapping around Sam’s shoulders, his hand burying into Sam’s hair as he pulls Sam in just a little bit closer, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Even on his worst days, Sam has always been able to say 'Dean'.
Dean is still waiting for the day when Sam looks at him and doesn’t remember who he is, but at least today isn’t that day. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he mumbles against Sam’s temple. “It’s gonna be okay.”
“Dean,” Sam says again, and if he sounds a little more broken, a little waterier, Dean doesn’t point it out.
“It’s okay,” Dean repeats, a mantra that he clings to in his most desperate times, when he doesn’t know what to do, just that he’s got to do something. He takes a deep breath, regaining his composure for a minute before he finally pulls back a little, clears his throat and says, “Okay, Sammy. Let’s figure out the problem here.”
He gives Sam a once over, takes note of just how sloppily his clothes have been put on. Sam’s t-shirt’s neckline is off-center. His jeans are pulled on, if only barely, and they aren’t zipped and buttoned. Probably too shaky this morning.
It clicks then. Dean adds together the shakiness, the socks in Sam’s hand and Sam’s bare feet pressed to the cold wooden floor, and he huffs a laugh, ruffling Sam’s hair a little. “That all?”
Sam looks up at him, and Dean looks away because he doesn’t know if he can deal with the embarrassment he’s going to find there.
He gently pries Sam’s socks out of his fingers and kneels on the floor in front of him.
“You know, I used to do this all the time for you when you were a kid,” Dean says, gently lifting Sam’s foot onto his thigh and rolling a sock on. “You used to throw a fit if the seam wasn’t right on top of your toes. Said it didn’t feel right or some bullshit and wouldn’t get up unless I fixed it.” The seam lands right across Sam’s toes, right where they’re supposed to. Dean runs his thumb over them just to check.
“I used to call you a girl over it,” Dean continues as he places Sam’s other foot on his thigh and rolls the sock on perfectly, checks the seam. “But you didn’t care. Just wanted your prissy little feet taken care of, like the big girl that you are.” Dean smiles, then forces himself to frown, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at Sam. “If this is some ploy to make me look like your servant boy, I’m going to kick your ass.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth tilt up a fraction.
Dean counts it as a win. Sometimes, you just take what you can get. “Where are your shoes?”
Sam tilts his head toward the end of his bed, and Dean checks beneath it, dragging out Sam’s duffel. He pulls out Sam’s brown and white nikes, then returns to his spot in front of Sam as he loosens the laces. “Seriously though. I don’t care if you’re sick, I’ll kick your ass if this is just to make me look--”
“Dean.” Sam’s hand touches Dean’s shoulder, still shaking like a leaf. Dean looks up at Sam and wishes for the millionth time that he didn’t know intimately what that haunted look actually means. “Dean,” he says again. He swallows, takes a breath like he’s building up to something, then, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Dean says, shaking his head, lowering his gaze back down to Sam’s shoe. “I was just playing, Sam. I know.” He doesn’t really know what he knows. ‘I know you wouldn’t do that?’ ‘I know you’d do this yourself if you could?’ ‘I know you hate this just as much as I do?’
Dean just doesn’t know. But he pushes Sam’s shoes onto his feet, laces him up nice and tight like Sam likes, then pats him on his knee as he stands up. “There you go, kid. You cold?” He pauses like Sam is actually going to answer. “Course you are. It’s ass o’clock in the morning in South Dakota.”
He grabs Sam’s jacket off the bedroom door’s knob and uses it as an excuse to straighten Sam’s shirt when he pulls the jacket over Sam’s arms.
Dean sighs and rolls his shoulders, readying himself for the next part. “Okay, Sam. Lean back. Don’t want to catch anything important.”
Sam slowly leans back on his elbows, his eyes averted.
Dean slides his palm into Sam’s jeans and tries not to think of a time when he’d be doing the same thing for completely different reasons. He uses his hand as a guard against the zipper as he pulls it closed, then buttons the jeans up.
“There you go, Sam,” Dean says as he slides his palm back out of Sam’s pants, calm as you please. “All wrapped up like a Christmas present.”
It takes Sam a little while, but he eventually straightens himself back up on the bed, then looks at Dean again. His mouth is trembling, and so is his hand when he raises it, fists it in the t-shirt Dean slept in. “Dean.”
Five Deans in one morning. It’s amazing how good your own name can sound when you think that one day you might never hear it again. “Yeah, Sammy?”
Sam tugs on Dean’s shirt, and Dean knows what he wants because Dean knows Sam and because Dean wants it too.
He leans down, presses a soft, sweet kiss to Sam’s trembling mouth. Sam’s lips still beneath his, the only part of Sam’s body that isn’t shaking, and Dean thinks, absurdly, desperately, I wish the rest of you was as easy to fix.
Sam’s hands slowly edge up to Dean’s face, his fingertips practically vibrating against Dean’s cheeks, and that’s when Dean breaks the kiss, folding his hands over Sam’s own. He touches his forehead to Sam’s and smiles, a little hopeful, a little broken. “Time for breakfast. How about waffles today? I bet Bobby isn’t up yet, the lazy ass, so I’ll even let your sasquatch self eat his helping. How’s that sound?”
Sam sighs, a resigned, vaguely annoyed sound that he’s made since he was ten and realized big brothers were actually annoyances, not real life superheroes.
Dean’s smile widens, and he pulls away from Sam, squeezing his hands one last time. “All right. Just let me get dressed, and I’ll make you those waffles you seem so eager about, Gigantor.”
Sam makes that noise again, says, “Dean,” with a lilt in his voice.
Dean laughs, soft and low to keep from startling Sam as he pulls on a pair of jeans. “You’re so easy, Sammy. Come on. Let’s go get breakfast started.” He extends his hand and pulls Sam up, his weight solid and sure against Dean’s side as they slowly make their way downstairs.