(no subject)
So you know what I felt the world needed? Christmas fic. IN JULY.
Dean gives Sam a house for Christmas. THIS IS ALL THE SUMMARY YOU NEED.
(But just in case you need more summary, this fic includes a) a werewolf b) Chicago c) handyman!Dean d) total girl!Sam e) a lot of sex f) CHRISTMAS g) pancakes and bacon.)
smangosbubbles is a bad influence but a lovely beta. :>
Long Lay The World, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 5300 words.
Long Lay The World
Dean hates Montana.
There are never any motels in Montana - not that there’s fucking anything in Montana - so inevitably, when Dean’s too tired to drive anymore, they end up parked on the side of a dirt road. This time is vaguely reminiscent of all the other times he’s been to Montana, with three major differences.
One, Sam’s down for the count with the cold from hell. Dean’s pretty sure the reason they haven’t caught anything is because you can hear him coming a mile away, but the more pressing concern is that Sam’s so miserable Dean can barely put up with him. Sure, not being able to breathe sucks, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s suffering more, because Sam is a whiny bitch.
Two, it’s fucking November. Enough said.
Three, while Sam’s busy passing out in a Nyquil induced haze in the back of the car, the motherfucking loup garou they’ve been tracking all week walks through the half of the salt circle Dean hasn’t laid down yet, climbs in the open car door, and fucking bites Sam.
Dean fucking hates Montana.
He puts four silver bullets into its brain - probably overkill, but he’s pissed off - one of which goes through the floor of the Impala. Then he throws an entire canteen of holy water on Sam, who’s screaming at the top of his lungs.
Then he climbs over the front seat, pulls out the nearest knife, and cuts his way through Sam’s jeans to pour the remains of the canteen and the nearest Dunkin Donuts cup stash onto his leg. It doesn’t smoke, and upon further examination, Dean is forced to conclude that the skin isn’t even broken, at which point he gets out of the car, walks thirty feet into a cattle pasture, and throws up breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Neither of them is particularly thrilled with werewolves, and Dean feels it’s totally worth pointing out - again - that he hates this goddamned state.
Sam’s pale and soaked by the time he gets back to the car, just staring at the carcass, which Dean hauls out and torches. He gets in, drives ten miles without saying anything, and then parks, climbs in the back seat, and wraps himself around Sam, the heat going full blast.
“Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs, and Sam comes out of it and grabs on tight, taking huge, gasping gulps of air, like he hasn’t been breathing since it happened.
“Oh, god,” Sam says, and Dean strips him out of his wet clothes and ruined jeans and just stays close, letting Sam hold on, but he’s not thrilled with how cold he is, how hard he’s shaking.
Sam really doesn’t like werewolves.
“I’m not - I’m not- ” Sam says, shivering all over, and Dean thinks about kicking the door in, he’s that angry.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay,” and wraps them both up in a blanket, doses Sam with some more Nyquil, then eases him down to sleep with slow, gentle touches along his spine. Dean stays on top of him, a comforting weight he knows Sam’s in no condition to give up, and leaves the car running. Fuck the gas.
He doesn’t sleep all night, and by morning, he’s reached at least seven conclusions, one of which is that they’re done. So fucking done.
Someone other than Sam - his Sam, who’s still holding on to his shirt like his life depends on it - can get killed by demons and attacked by ghosts and bitten by werewolves.
The problem is, Dean knows Sam, from every corner, every angle, and he knows the stubborn streak that runs a mile long in him. If Sam thinks Dean’s quitting for him, he won’t do it.
The truth is, Dean’s known Sam wasn’t made for this since day one, but the past year, between Sam dying and finding a way out of an airtight contract, has been one of the worst of his life, up there with leaving Sam at Stanford and the year his mother died, when his father decided revenge was a practical way of life.
He’s always known Sam was going to walk; it’s only lately that he’s starting to think he might follow him.
Dean wants to keep him safe at night, wants the only danger to be from broken water mains and fender benders. They’ve seen what’s out there, and Dean doesn’t want to see it anymore. He wants Sam, wants them, and he sure as hell knows they’re not invincible.
It would be so stupid to go out like this - a ghost or a werewolf, now that the demon’s gone, and the worst part is, he knows it could happen. He’s gotten Sam through every inch of this so far, first words and heartbreak and even death, and he’s not fucking willing to lose his brother to a garden variety poltergeist because Dean’s too stubborn to know when to quit.
He’s done with close calls involving Sam, needs Sam to be done with all this, and he knows, now, that Sam would take it as an act of betrayal if Dean left him - so Dean has to be done too. The idea of cutting ties isn’t as hard to come to terms with as he thought it would be.
Sam wakes up a little past seven, rubbing his face into the collar of Dean’s jacket, and Dean just stays awhile, stretched out in the back seat, with Sam pressed up close, safe against the seat.
“Morning,” he says, brushing Sam’s hair out of his face a little, and Sam gets in closer.
“’s it okay, Dean?” he murmurs.
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, reassuring him, like he has since Sam was three and old enough to understand what in the hell was going on. “We’re fine.”
Sam falls asleep again, but he grabs for a sleeve when Dean goes up front, so Dean covers him up with his jacket and drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding Sam’s on top of the seat. It’s a little hard on his shoulder, but he doesn’t really mind, and Sam wakes up for real when Dean stops to get gas.
He crawls in, slides over, and leans hard against Dean, eyes closed.
“I’ll move in a minute,” he says. “I just need - I’m sorry, I just need - ”
“Don’t you dare fucking apologize,” Dean says, and gets an arm around his shoulders while pretending to reach for a coffee cup.
He leaves it there, and Sam falls asleep again, against his side. It’s a good way to drive, Dean thinks, and he doesn’t even care that it’s a little girly - Sam’s safe, and he’s making Sam feel safe, and that’s all that matters.
Sam eases up in South Dakota, lets Dean go long enough that Dean can order a pizza and run across the street while Sam’s in the shower to buy a six pack at the grocery store and a couple packages of t-shirts at a Target, plus a new pair of jeans for Sam.
Dean does research on the laptop while Sam wolfs down half the pizza and watches the movie beside him, relaxing slowly. Sam’s still a little too shaken to be fucked with - Dean knows the signs - so he doesn’t try anything, just lets Sam fall asleep beside him in the soft TV light.
After four hours of google searches, Dean finally decides where he wants them to live. Chicago’s a bitch in winter, but two of the top 10 law schools in the country are there, rental prices are reasonable - especially closer to the South Side, and after what Dean’s seen, well, he sure as hell isn’t afraid of a little bit of gang violence - and it’s got a bunch of art museums. Sam loves shit like that. The Cubs aren’t that great, but Dean figures maybe things will turn around, and hey - there’s always football.
Sam’s back to himself the next morning, which he proves with a truly ridiculous wrestling match in the backseat of the car that Dean definitely wins, even if Sam was on top.
They get into Chicago two days later. Dean says it’s high time they took a break, and Sam promptly makes a list of every remotely cultural feature in Chicago. Dean goes to The Field Museum, but he draws the line at anything related to art painted by old dead guys, and leaves Sam to poke at galleries while he starts house hunting.
Dean’s pretty sure he’d almost rather be hunting ghosts after the twentieth godawful rental he tours, but three days later - with one afternoon inside, watching movies with Sam because it’s too fucking cold to go out - he finds something perfect.
It’s brick, with a front porch, not too big and not too small, and Dean pokes the EMF reader in every corner of the house and gets absolutely nothing. There’s a backyard with plenty of trees, two bedrooms, and a decent kitchen - Dean has spent the past twenty years dreaming about real food. There’s an office for Sam, and the rent’s low enough that he can make it, easy. It needs paint and a little bit of work, and there isn’t any furniture, but it’s not a motel room and it’s close enough to the El that Sam can get to any goddamned art museum he wants. Dean puts down the first and last months of rent right there, on the condition that he’s allowed to do repairs and paint the place.
The paint department at Home Depot saves him from any agonies of mismatched wall colors, and he spends a couple days painting, then a weekend with Sam, because something’s obviously bugging him. He doesn’t say, though, and Dean decides not to press it - maybe he’s withdrawn and sullen from too much exposure to museums. Dean’s never trusted those things.
“I could go with you tomorrow,” Sam says, at ten on Sunday night when Dean’s about ready to crash. “You know - whatever you’re doing.”
“That’s okay,” Dean says, with a yawn into his pillow, because it’s a surprise and tomorrow he’s picking up a couch he found on Craigslist.
Dean leaves Sam the car and takes the El over to meet the people with the pickup, but has to get his neighbor - fucking hot, but unfortunately married - to help him move the sofa inside. There’s a set of mattresses the next day - a king for one room, a queen for the other - but Dean manages the rest of it. There’s a dining room table and chairs, a desk and bookshelves for Sam, plus all the other spare furniture he can find on the internet and at IKEA to keep the house from looking empty. He even manages to find books to stock the shelves with at a library sale. Dean doesn’t know what’s good, but he asks the volunteer to help him pick out a couple bags worth, and they look good on the shelves in Sam’s office.
Dean doesn’t actually know what to do with Sam, though. Sam actually stops speaking to him, and Dean gives up and ignores him, because he has no fucking clue what he’s done.
The night he gets the last of the furniture in, he doesn’t get back until after seven, and on the train ride home, he realizes he’s missed a couple calls from Sam. He thinks about calling back, but he’s almost back to the hotel anyway - he grabs a couple of hot dogs as a peace offering, and comes back to find Sam climbing the walls.
“Sorry,” Dean says, holding out a hot dog. “I get awful service here, I didn’t hear it ring.”
“If you’re going to leave me,” Sam bursts out, and Dean suddenly notices the bedside lamp is levitating, “would you just fucking get it over with?”
“Sammy,” he says, soft, low, because he’s gotten hit with enough exploding electrical fixtures in his life.
“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam yells. “If you’re going to fucking - go off, with some girl - ”
Now Dean’s really confused, because the last girl he even thought about fucking was a month ago, and Sam’s never cared before.
“Girl?” he offers, cautiously, and it’s definitely the wrong thing to say because every single item in the room comes up about four inches and then slams down again.
“I’m not stupid,” Sam says, breathing hard, “I know where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing - I saw you together - ”
Dean has no fucking idea what Sam’s talking about.
“Sammy,” he tries again, and oh, shit, that’s the lamp. Dean ducks.
“I SAW YOU MOVING FURNITURE!” Sam yells. “I saw you - ”
Dean realizes, kind of abruptly, that number one, Sam’s been following him, and number two, probably more important to the situation at hand, Sam’s crying, hot, angry tears that definitely didn’t start with this outburst, because his eyes are red and swollen.
“Sam,” he says, and ducks when Sam swings to grab him, hard, pull him in close. “Sammy.”
“Stop fucking saying my name,” Sam says, violent, and tries to get free to try to punch Dean again, “because I know I deserve it, if you - if you leave me, but I - ”
He’s crying for real now, huge, gasping sobs that shake his whole body. “If you leave me - ” he says, and kisses Dean.
Dean’s brain takes a good ten seconds to catch up, and by that time Sam’s pulled back, crying harder now. Dean inhales - slow, easy - and pulls Sam in against his chest, gets a hand up against the back of his head, to pull him down a little.
“Sammy,” he murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He figures he can deal with the kissing thing - and what the feeling of kissed by Sam did to his stomach - in a minute, two minutes, so he just keeps Sam up against him, holding him tight, and lets him cry it out.
Dean knows Sam, and he knows what this is, that he has to be overtired and scared as hell, because there’s not much that makes Sam break down, but when he does, he can’t let go after. Dean knows what that’s about, too, because for all that Dean looks out for Sam, Sam’s been looking out for other people his whole life, big and there and even, and sometimes he just can’t hold it together anymore.
Sam doesn’t scare easily, but he can’t handle fear, doesn’t know how to deal with loss, and Dean figures maybe it’s the two of them, except the only thing he’s ever been afraid of losing is Sam.
“Come on,” he says, when Sam’s stopped crying and is just hanging on, “let’s pack up,” and Dean puts clothes in his bag without looking, keeping an eye on Sam as he puts things together.
This last year - it’s been too hard on both of them, too much to handle, and he knows Sam’s running on empty and has been for awhile. He’s too thin around the edges, keeping too close, and maybe Dean is too, because he’s pretty sure what they both need is a home.
Sam’s quiet in the car, but he lets go and starts breathing again.
“Sorry I lost my temper,” he manages, finally, and Dean snorts.
“Throw another lamp at me and I’m taking you down,” Dean says, grinning, and Sam starts to laugh.
“What the fuck are we doing out here, anyway?” Sam says, a couple minutes later, tired out and sprawled over the passenger side of the car, but he sounds kind of happy.
“Settling down with imaginary women,” Dean says, totally deadpan, and Sam whacks him as he parks the car.
“If you’re bringing me here just to humiliate me,” he begins, flushed, with his shoulders hunched in, and Dean hauls him out of the car to punch him in the arm.
“Come and meet my girlfriend, you dumbass,” he says, and Christ, Sam might actually be taking him seriously, because he’s starting to look miserable again, so Dean punches him again and hauls him up the stairs to the front porch, fumbles the door open with his key, and turns on the lights.
“We can’t just barge into someone’s house!” Sam hisses, and Dean rolls his eyes and goes over to turn on the Christmas tree.
It’s a little lopsided, one of the last ones of the season, but it’s still a totally valid Christmas decoration, and he knows Sam’s always wanted one. And stockings. There are definitely stockings.
“Merry Christmas, bitch,” Dean says, with a sigh, and shoves his hands in his pockets, not entirely sure of what to do when Sam’s staring at him like that.
“There’s not… actually a girl?” Sam says, sounding kind of uncertain, and Dean is forced to fling himself on the sofa at Sam’s total oblivion. “It’s - you’ve been working on a house?”
“If you want me to take you to prom, Sammy,” he says, teasing, sprawling out on the couch with a sigh, “all you’ve got to do is ask.”
Sam goes red all over, flushed all the way down into his collar, and oh, god, Dean thinks, because he didn’t actually mean to hit home with that, but Sam kissed him earlier, meant to kiss him.
“Yeah,” Sam says, hanging by the door, so quiet Dean can barely hear him, “yeah, I’d like that.”
“Come here,” Dean says, finally, and Sam crosses the room, a little tentative, kneels down next to the couch when Dean tugs.
Dean shifts, a little, onto his side, and leans up, closing his fingers in the collar of Sam’s shirt.
“I’m not buying you a corsage,” he murmurs, with a grin, and pulls Sam down for a kiss, warm and open in the dim glow of the Christmas lights.
Sam makes a soft, startled noise against his mouth, and leans in, close. Dean watches his eyes flutter closed, and catches the moment when Sam realizes what’s happening. He pulls back to take a deep, shaky breath, watching Dean, and waits a couple seconds.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, and Sam pulls it together and leans in to kiss him again, hot and slow. Dean lets his eyes close, too, and as Sam slides a hand against Dean’s jaw to tilt his face up, he realizes what he’s been missing all along, because he’s pretty sure this one kiss is better than the best sex he’s ever had.
It goes deep fast, though, and for all that Dean hasn’t thought about this, oh, god is it hot, Sam licking into his mouth, sliding down on top of him, all steady weight and warmth. Turns out maybe he does put out on the first date, after all.
Dean’s got his hands up under Sam’s shirt, stroking up his back as they kiss, when Sam goes for his belt, breathing hard. Without entirely thinking about it, Dean nudges him away.
It’s not that he doesn’t want this - god does he want this - but it’s Sam. Dean wants better for him, because Sam’s the type of person who would’ve married the first person he slept with, would rather go without entirely than have a one night stand. Dean’s actually lost track of the number of women he’s slept with, but Sam’s got it covered with substantially less than one hand, and Dean loves him too much to do this tonight.
“We should - ” Dean manages, and gets a hand against Sam’s face to keep him from pulling away. “Uh,” he says, breathing still kind of uneven. “Do you want to see the house?”
“You mean the bedroom?” Sam says, voice kind of low and amused, and Dean has to get out from underneath him, fast, because it’s not like he has a lot of practice saying no to sex, and he’s pretty sure there are limits to what he can take with Sam on top of him and asking for it.
Sam catches him before Dean can shut himself in the bathroom or escape to the porch for five minutes, spreading his hand against the small of Dean’s back.
“Hey,” he says, sounding kind of unsure, and seriously, Dean is fucked here. “I thought you - wanted.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and gives into it, leans back against him a little. “But we could wait.”
Sam nudges his nose just beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket and stays there, breath warm against his skin. “Are you trying to take this slow for me, Dean?” he says, definitely amused now.
“Maybe,” Dean says, and Sam just kind of slides a hand up underneath his shirt and spreads it across his stomach, and Dean kind of can’t breathe, which is totally fucking not cool.
“Are you planning on running off on me?” Sam murmurs, against his ear.
“No!” Dean says, and jerks a little to try to turn around, because it’s important, but Sam’s got him held tight, and is laughing a little.
“Then Dean,” Sam says, and pulls Dean tight back against him, breathing a little uneven, “I appreciate it, but - ” oh, god, he’s got his hips pressed tight against Dean’s ass, and like that’s not obvious, “I’ve gotten laid once in the past three years, can we just fucking do it already?”
“Yeah,” Dean manages, and then Sam turns him around and slams him up against the wall.
Dean’s pretty sure no one’s tried that one on him before, but it turns him on so much that Sam manages to get his jacket and shirt off without Dean actually noticing, and they’re halfway up the stairs before Dean pulls himself together enough to start undressing Sam.
He pulls Sam’s t-shirt over his head and spreads a hand out over his back, keeping him in close as Sam manages to get them the rest of the way up the stairs.
“Second door on the left,” Dean pants, and Sam almost shoves him down onto the bed.
“Slow down, cowgirl,” he says, laughing, and Sam grins for a second, but then he’s got Dean’s boots and jeans off, and his own jeans and boxers.
He follows Dean down, stretching out, and sometimes Dean forgets how big Sam is, but god, it feels good to be underneath him, Sam’s hips fitting up just right against his.
“Hey,” he manages, fingers going tight in the sheets at the way Sam’s looking at him.
“Hi,” Sam says, and then, fuck, Dean arches up just a little, and he can see the moment where Sam loses control.
Sam pins him to the bed, close and heavy, and pulls his wrists up above his head, closes a hand around them, breathing hard, and leans down to kiss Dean, hot and wet and god, filthy, then lines their hips up again and thrusts down, all friction and rough heat.
“God, yeah, Dean,” Sam all but moans into his mouth, and Dean knows he’s making noise, a lot of it, but he just can’t bring himself to care.
It’s all of thirty seconds before Dean’s rubbing up against Sam’s stomach, and Sam comes all over him pretty much immediately after, which Dean shouldn’t find hot but oh fuck does he ever, and then Sam kisses him, hard, and Dean follows him over the edge.
Sam rolls off him a couple minutes later, lying on his back still catching his breath, and Dean starts to laugh when he realizes they didn’t even manage to get a light on.
“Fuck,” Sam says, and laughs too, then goes quiet for a minute, staring up at the ceiling, stretched out and totally boneless.
“Want to do that again?” he says, just when Dean’s starting to wonder what he’s thinking.
“Oh fuck yes,” Dean says, and rolls on top of him to start all over again.
Sam’s really happy the next morning.
“I told you so,” Dean says, while he’s in the shower and Sam’s shaving. “I told you so.”
“Shut up,” Sam says, but he scrounges around in their new cupboards, decides on a run to the store while Dean makes coffee, then makes pancakes and bacon. He crawls up on the sofa half way through A Charlie Brown Christmas - Dean fucking loves A Charlie Brown Christmas - and goes down on him, which is disturbing on a couple of levels but maybe the best thing ever by Dean’s standards. It’s messy and, yeah, he’s pretty sure Sam hasn’t done this before, but seriously, who the fuck cares, because it’s a blowjob and it’s Sam.
He goes upstairs later to find Sam napping and climbs in with him, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been so happy in his life.
When Sam wakes up a couple hours later, he’s warm and pliable and they just make out for awhile, slow and building, which is pretty much Dean’s favorite thing ever - he never gets to just make out, and Sam’s still a little drowsy, happier than Dean’s seen him in years.
Dean actually can’t even bring himself to care when it starts to go further, because fuck it, it’s Christmas Eve, and he’s having sex with the person he loves best in the entire world. It’s warm and fantastic underneath the blankets, with Sam’s hands all over him and soft, nudging, affectionate kisses.
“So, are we flipping for it?” Sam says, teasing a little, and nips his earlobe.
“Nah,” Dean says, because seriously, fuck it, and stretches out on his stomach.
It’s not that he’s thrilled with the idea of any of it - he’s definitely not being Sam’s bitch, here - but like this, there’s no way that Sam can get hurt, and Dean got pancakes and bacon for breakfast. He’s feeling pretty generous.
The look on Sam’s face is totally worth it.
He nudges all the tension out of Dean’s back with these slow, deep touches that Dean’s pretty sure he’s never actually going to get enough of, and by the time he goes for the bedside table, Dean’s pretty much on a side of boneless he’s never been in bed.
“That wasn’t there this morning,” he teases, and Sam blushes, which is kind of great, considering.
“Shut up,” Sam mumbles, but it’s not like Dean really cares if Sam’s been planning this, and oh, hey, Dean realizes, Sam’s been planning this.
If he wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.
Sam kisses down Dean’s back while he’s working his fingers into him, and given, it’s a little weird, especially because it’s Sam, but it’s also a little hot.
“You sure you haven’t done this before?” Dean teases, and god damn it, Sam goes really red. Really red.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, pressing a little deeper in a way that makes Dean’s stomach drop and his muscles go kind of liquid, it feels so good.
Dean’s pretty sure he’d know if Sam had been messing around with guys, so that leaves the fact that Sam’s definitely had kinkier sex than him, which is really unfair.
“Just once or twice,” Sam says, finally, “and this is - a lot better,” which makes Dean feel kind of warm all over. Maybe the kinkier sex thing is okay, just this once. Maybe.
Sam finally decides Dean’s ready enough, and nudges him up onto his hands and knees. Dean can hear him, which is way hotter than it should be, and by the time Sam slides into him - slow and almost a little hesitant - Dean wants him there.
“God, Sammy,” he says, because even if it hurts a little, it’s good, it’s so good, and it’s Sam, which Dean’s discovering makes everything about a thousand times better.
Sam’s holding still, though Dean can feel him shaking with it, giving him time to adjust, sliding a palm up and down his side. “Yeah, Dean,” he says, voice a level Dean’s never heard it at before, so turned on.
“Just - ” he says, and shifts back a little, and Sam moans, low, and thrusts in, finding a rhythm. It’s not perfect, and Dean’s kind of thinking about how it might feel the other way around when Sam hits his stride, pushes deep, and Dean feels pretty much every nerve in his body wake up.
“Oh, fuck,” he manages, and then Sam slides a hand down to wrap around his erection.
Dean comes first, arching back into Sam’s weight on top of him, and Sam follows three or four thrusts later, then almost knocks Dean down onto the bed when he goes lax.
Dean doesn’t really mind, though, because even if he’s going to be sore later, he feels good right now.
“Oops,” Sam says, a couple minutes later, still settled against Dean’s back, and Dean lifts his head to see what’s wrong. Sam’s pretty flushed, which is kind of hot, so it takes Dean a minute to notice that everything in the room has moved about four inches to the left, and there’s a box of books lying on the floor that definitely wasn’t there before.
“Losing control of your powers again, Wonder Woman?” Dean says, straight-faced, and Sam groans before he tackles Dean down onto the bed again.
Sam makes dinner, actual meatloaf with mashed potatoes and some green beans, and Dean decides this house idea was literally the best he’s ever had. Sam falls asleep with his feet in Dean’s lap, watching Christmas movies, and Dean tops out at 27 pieces of popcorn balanced on his face before he wakes up, which is a new record.
He sneaks down again after Sam falls asleep to put out his presents - carefully wrapped, because Sam actually notices these things - and doesn’t even complain when Sam throws an arm across him in his sleep.
Sam wakes him up the next morning with another blowjob, which officially makes this the best Christmas on record, as far as Dean is concerned. Not that Dean would ever admit it to Sam, but the downside to one night stands is that all the foreplay is pretty one-sided. He can’t actually remember the last time somebody went down on him, but Sam seems pretty thrilled about it, so by the time they finally get out of bed, Dean’s feeling so goddamned happy he actually forgets about the presents, which turns out to be kind of a mistake, considering there are definitely more under the tree than he left there.
Dean’s pretty happy with his new winter jacket, but it’s definitely not as great as the expression on Sam’s face when he opens the box with a black lace thong.
“I think you should wear it every night, baby,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face, but he kind of loses it when Sam picks it up and flings it at Dean’s head.
“No regifting, bitch!” Dean yells, and chases him around the house with it, which is way more satisfying than chasing him around a motel room, because there are stairs involved, and Sam screams like a girl when Dean corners him in the second bedroom and tackles.
Later, lying on the bed, Sam’s still laughing beside him when Dean rolls over onto his side and leans in to kiss him, warm and sweet.
“Good Christmas?” he murmurs, against Sam’s mouth, and Sam pulls him down for another kiss.
“Yeah,” he says, softly, “yeah, the best,” and smiles up at him.
Dean’s pretty sure it’s the sort of smile he wants to keep there for the rest of their lives, and the best thing, the best present this Christmas, is that he knows he can do it.
Dean gives Sam a house for Christmas. THIS IS ALL THE SUMMARY YOU NEED.
(But just in case you need more summary, this fic includes a) a werewolf b) Chicago c) handyman!Dean d) total girl!Sam e) a lot of sex f) CHRISTMAS g) pancakes and bacon.)
smangosbubbles is a bad influence but a lovely beta. :>
Long Lay The World, Sam/Dean, NC-17, 5300 words.
Long Lay The World
Dean hates Montana.
There are never any motels in Montana - not that there’s fucking anything in Montana - so inevitably, when Dean’s too tired to drive anymore, they end up parked on the side of a dirt road. This time is vaguely reminiscent of all the other times he’s been to Montana, with three major differences.
One, Sam’s down for the count with the cold from hell. Dean’s pretty sure the reason they haven’t caught anything is because you can hear him coming a mile away, but the more pressing concern is that Sam’s so miserable Dean can barely put up with him. Sure, not being able to breathe sucks, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s suffering more, because Sam is a whiny bitch.
Two, it’s fucking November. Enough said.
Three, while Sam’s busy passing out in a Nyquil induced haze in the back of the car, the motherfucking loup garou they’ve been tracking all week walks through the half of the salt circle Dean hasn’t laid down yet, climbs in the open car door, and fucking bites Sam.
Dean fucking hates Montana.
He puts four silver bullets into its brain - probably overkill, but he’s pissed off - one of which goes through the floor of the Impala. Then he throws an entire canteen of holy water on Sam, who’s screaming at the top of his lungs.
Then he climbs over the front seat, pulls out the nearest knife, and cuts his way through Sam’s jeans to pour the remains of the canteen and the nearest Dunkin Donuts cup stash onto his leg. It doesn’t smoke, and upon further examination, Dean is forced to conclude that the skin isn’t even broken, at which point he gets out of the car, walks thirty feet into a cattle pasture, and throws up breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Neither of them is particularly thrilled with werewolves, and Dean feels it’s totally worth pointing out - again - that he hates this goddamned state.
Sam’s pale and soaked by the time he gets back to the car, just staring at the carcass, which Dean hauls out and torches. He gets in, drives ten miles without saying anything, and then parks, climbs in the back seat, and wraps himself around Sam, the heat going full blast.
“Hey, Sammy,” he murmurs, and Sam comes out of it and grabs on tight, taking huge, gasping gulps of air, like he hasn’t been breathing since it happened.
“Oh, god,” Sam says, and Dean strips him out of his wet clothes and ruined jeans and just stays close, letting Sam hold on, but he’s not thrilled with how cold he is, how hard he’s shaking.
Sam really doesn’t like werewolves.
“I’m not - I’m not- ” Sam says, shivering all over, and Dean thinks about kicking the door in, he’s that angry.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, “it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay,” and wraps them both up in a blanket, doses Sam with some more Nyquil, then eases him down to sleep with slow, gentle touches along his spine. Dean stays on top of him, a comforting weight he knows Sam’s in no condition to give up, and leaves the car running. Fuck the gas.
He doesn’t sleep all night, and by morning, he’s reached at least seven conclusions, one of which is that they’re done. So fucking done.
Someone other than Sam - his Sam, who’s still holding on to his shirt like his life depends on it - can get killed by demons and attacked by ghosts and bitten by werewolves.
The problem is, Dean knows Sam, from every corner, every angle, and he knows the stubborn streak that runs a mile long in him. If Sam thinks Dean’s quitting for him, he won’t do it.
The truth is, Dean’s known Sam wasn’t made for this since day one, but the past year, between Sam dying and finding a way out of an airtight contract, has been one of the worst of his life, up there with leaving Sam at Stanford and the year his mother died, when his father decided revenge was a practical way of life.
He’s always known Sam was going to walk; it’s only lately that he’s starting to think he might follow him.
Dean wants to keep him safe at night, wants the only danger to be from broken water mains and fender benders. They’ve seen what’s out there, and Dean doesn’t want to see it anymore. He wants Sam, wants them, and he sure as hell knows they’re not invincible.
It would be so stupid to go out like this - a ghost or a werewolf, now that the demon’s gone, and the worst part is, he knows it could happen. He’s gotten Sam through every inch of this so far, first words and heartbreak and even death, and he’s not fucking willing to lose his brother to a garden variety poltergeist because Dean’s too stubborn to know when to quit.
He’s done with close calls involving Sam, needs Sam to be done with all this, and he knows, now, that Sam would take it as an act of betrayal if Dean left him - so Dean has to be done too. The idea of cutting ties isn’t as hard to come to terms with as he thought it would be.
Sam wakes up a little past seven, rubbing his face into the collar of Dean’s jacket, and Dean just stays awhile, stretched out in the back seat, with Sam pressed up close, safe against the seat.
“Morning,” he says, brushing Sam’s hair out of his face a little, and Sam gets in closer.
“’s it okay, Dean?” he murmurs.
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, reassuring him, like he has since Sam was three and old enough to understand what in the hell was going on. “We’re fine.”
Sam falls asleep again, but he grabs for a sleeve when Dean goes up front, so Dean covers him up with his jacket and drives with one hand on the wheel, the other holding Sam’s on top of the seat. It’s a little hard on his shoulder, but he doesn’t really mind, and Sam wakes up for real when Dean stops to get gas.
He crawls in, slides over, and leans hard against Dean, eyes closed.
“I’ll move in a minute,” he says. “I just need - I’m sorry, I just need - ”
“Don’t you dare fucking apologize,” Dean says, and gets an arm around his shoulders while pretending to reach for a coffee cup.
He leaves it there, and Sam falls asleep again, against his side. It’s a good way to drive, Dean thinks, and he doesn’t even care that it’s a little girly - Sam’s safe, and he’s making Sam feel safe, and that’s all that matters.
Sam eases up in South Dakota, lets Dean go long enough that Dean can order a pizza and run across the street while Sam’s in the shower to buy a six pack at the grocery store and a couple packages of t-shirts at a Target, plus a new pair of jeans for Sam.
Dean does research on the laptop while Sam wolfs down half the pizza and watches the movie beside him, relaxing slowly. Sam’s still a little too shaken to be fucked with - Dean knows the signs - so he doesn’t try anything, just lets Sam fall asleep beside him in the soft TV light.
After four hours of google searches, Dean finally decides where he wants them to live. Chicago’s a bitch in winter, but two of the top 10 law schools in the country are there, rental prices are reasonable - especially closer to the South Side, and after what Dean’s seen, well, he sure as hell isn’t afraid of a little bit of gang violence - and it’s got a bunch of art museums. Sam loves shit like that. The Cubs aren’t that great, but Dean figures maybe things will turn around, and hey - there’s always football.
Sam’s back to himself the next morning, which he proves with a truly ridiculous wrestling match in the backseat of the car that Dean definitely wins, even if Sam was on top.
They get into Chicago two days later. Dean says it’s high time they took a break, and Sam promptly makes a list of every remotely cultural feature in Chicago. Dean goes to The Field Museum, but he draws the line at anything related to art painted by old dead guys, and leaves Sam to poke at galleries while he starts house hunting.
Dean’s pretty sure he’d almost rather be hunting ghosts after the twentieth godawful rental he tours, but three days later - with one afternoon inside, watching movies with Sam because it’s too fucking cold to go out - he finds something perfect.
It’s brick, with a front porch, not too big and not too small, and Dean pokes the EMF reader in every corner of the house and gets absolutely nothing. There’s a backyard with plenty of trees, two bedrooms, and a decent kitchen - Dean has spent the past twenty years dreaming about real food. There’s an office for Sam, and the rent’s low enough that he can make it, easy. It needs paint and a little bit of work, and there isn’t any furniture, but it’s not a motel room and it’s close enough to the El that Sam can get to any goddamned art museum he wants. Dean puts down the first and last months of rent right there, on the condition that he’s allowed to do repairs and paint the place.
The paint department at Home Depot saves him from any agonies of mismatched wall colors, and he spends a couple days painting, then a weekend with Sam, because something’s obviously bugging him. He doesn’t say, though, and Dean decides not to press it - maybe he’s withdrawn and sullen from too much exposure to museums. Dean’s never trusted those things.
“I could go with you tomorrow,” Sam says, at ten on Sunday night when Dean’s about ready to crash. “You know - whatever you’re doing.”
“That’s okay,” Dean says, with a yawn into his pillow, because it’s a surprise and tomorrow he’s picking up a couch he found on Craigslist.
Dean leaves Sam the car and takes the El over to meet the people with the pickup, but has to get his neighbor - fucking hot, but unfortunately married - to help him move the sofa inside. There’s a set of mattresses the next day - a king for one room, a queen for the other - but Dean manages the rest of it. There’s a dining room table and chairs, a desk and bookshelves for Sam, plus all the other spare furniture he can find on the internet and at IKEA to keep the house from looking empty. He even manages to find books to stock the shelves with at a library sale. Dean doesn’t know what’s good, but he asks the volunteer to help him pick out a couple bags worth, and they look good on the shelves in Sam’s office.
Dean doesn’t actually know what to do with Sam, though. Sam actually stops speaking to him, and Dean gives up and ignores him, because he has no fucking clue what he’s done.
The night he gets the last of the furniture in, he doesn’t get back until after seven, and on the train ride home, he realizes he’s missed a couple calls from Sam. He thinks about calling back, but he’s almost back to the hotel anyway - he grabs a couple of hot dogs as a peace offering, and comes back to find Sam climbing the walls.
“Sorry,” Dean says, holding out a hot dog. “I get awful service here, I didn’t hear it ring.”
“If you’re going to leave me,” Sam bursts out, and Dean suddenly notices the bedside lamp is levitating, “would you just fucking get it over with?”
“Sammy,” he says, soft, low, because he’s gotten hit with enough exploding electrical fixtures in his life.
“I’m serious, Dean,” Sam yells. “If you’re going to fucking - go off, with some girl - ”
Now Dean’s really confused, because the last girl he even thought about fucking was a month ago, and Sam’s never cared before.
“Girl?” he offers, cautiously, and it’s definitely the wrong thing to say because every single item in the room comes up about four inches and then slams down again.
“I’m not stupid,” Sam says, breathing hard, “I know where you’ve been, what you’ve been doing - I saw you together - ”
Dean has no fucking idea what Sam’s talking about.
“Sammy,” he tries again, and oh, shit, that’s the lamp. Dean ducks.
“I SAW YOU MOVING FURNITURE!” Sam yells. “I saw you - ”
Dean realizes, kind of abruptly, that number one, Sam’s been following him, and number two, probably more important to the situation at hand, Sam’s crying, hot, angry tears that definitely didn’t start with this outburst, because his eyes are red and swollen.
“Sam,” he says, and ducks when Sam swings to grab him, hard, pull him in close. “Sammy.”
“Stop fucking saying my name,” Sam says, violent, and tries to get free to try to punch Dean again, “because I know I deserve it, if you - if you leave me, but I - ”
He’s crying for real now, huge, gasping sobs that shake his whole body. “If you leave me - ” he says, and kisses Dean.
Dean’s brain takes a good ten seconds to catch up, and by that time Sam’s pulled back, crying harder now. Dean inhales - slow, easy - and pulls Sam in against his chest, gets a hand up against the back of his head, to pull him down a little.
“Sammy,” he murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.”
He figures he can deal with the kissing thing - and what the feeling of kissed by Sam did to his stomach - in a minute, two minutes, so he just keeps Sam up against him, holding him tight, and lets him cry it out.
Dean knows Sam, and he knows what this is, that he has to be overtired and scared as hell, because there’s not much that makes Sam break down, but when he does, he can’t let go after. Dean knows what that’s about, too, because for all that Dean looks out for Sam, Sam’s been looking out for other people his whole life, big and there and even, and sometimes he just can’t hold it together anymore.
Sam doesn’t scare easily, but he can’t handle fear, doesn’t know how to deal with loss, and Dean figures maybe it’s the two of them, except the only thing he’s ever been afraid of losing is Sam.
“Come on,” he says, when Sam’s stopped crying and is just hanging on, “let’s pack up,” and Dean puts clothes in his bag without looking, keeping an eye on Sam as he puts things together.
This last year - it’s been too hard on both of them, too much to handle, and he knows Sam’s running on empty and has been for awhile. He’s too thin around the edges, keeping too close, and maybe Dean is too, because he’s pretty sure what they both need is a home.
Sam’s quiet in the car, but he lets go and starts breathing again.
“Sorry I lost my temper,” he manages, finally, and Dean snorts.
“Throw another lamp at me and I’m taking you down,” Dean says, grinning, and Sam starts to laugh.
“What the fuck are we doing out here, anyway?” Sam says, a couple minutes later, tired out and sprawled over the passenger side of the car, but he sounds kind of happy.
“Settling down with imaginary women,” Dean says, totally deadpan, and Sam whacks him as he parks the car.
“If you’re bringing me here just to humiliate me,” he begins, flushed, with his shoulders hunched in, and Dean hauls him out of the car to punch him in the arm.
“Come and meet my girlfriend, you dumbass,” he says, and Christ, Sam might actually be taking him seriously, because he’s starting to look miserable again, so Dean punches him again and hauls him up the stairs to the front porch, fumbles the door open with his key, and turns on the lights.
“We can’t just barge into someone’s house!” Sam hisses, and Dean rolls his eyes and goes over to turn on the Christmas tree.
It’s a little lopsided, one of the last ones of the season, but it’s still a totally valid Christmas decoration, and he knows Sam’s always wanted one. And stockings. There are definitely stockings.
“Merry Christmas, bitch,” Dean says, with a sigh, and shoves his hands in his pockets, not entirely sure of what to do when Sam’s staring at him like that.
“There’s not… actually a girl?” Sam says, sounding kind of uncertain, and Dean is forced to fling himself on the sofa at Sam’s total oblivion. “It’s - you’ve been working on a house?”
“If you want me to take you to prom, Sammy,” he says, teasing, sprawling out on the couch with a sigh, “all you’ve got to do is ask.”
Sam goes red all over, flushed all the way down into his collar, and oh, god, Dean thinks, because he didn’t actually mean to hit home with that, but Sam kissed him earlier, meant to kiss him.
“Yeah,” Sam says, hanging by the door, so quiet Dean can barely hear him, “yeah, I’d like that.”
“Come here,” Dean says, finally, and Sam crosses the room, a little tentative, kneels down next to the couch when Dean tugs.
Dean shifts, a little, onto his side, and leans up, closing his fingers in the collar of Sam’s shirt.
“I’m not buying you a corsage,” he murmurs, with a grin, and pulls Sam down for a kiss, warm and open in the dim glow of the Christmas lights.
Sam makes a soft, startled noise against his mouth, and leans in, close. Dean watches his eyes flutter closed, and catches the moment when Sam realizes what’s happening. He pulls back to take a deep, shaky breath, watching Dean, and waits a couple seconds.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, and Sam pulls it together and leans in to kiss him again, hot and slow. Dean lets his eyes close, too, and as Sam slides a hand against Dean’s jaw to tilt his face up, he realizes what he’s been missing all along, because he’s pretty sure this one kiss is better than the best sex he’s ever had.
It goes deep fast, though, and for all that Dean hasn’t thought about this, oh, god is it hot, Sam licking into his mouth, sliding down on top of him, all steady weight and warmth. Turns out maybe he does put out on the first date, after all.
Dean’s got his hands up under Sam’s shirt, stroking up his back as they kiss, when Sam goes for his belt, breathing hard. Without entirely thinking about it, Dean nudges him away.
It’s not that he doesn’t want this - god does he want this - but it’s Sam. Dean wants better for him, because Sam’s the type of person who would’ve married the first person he slept with, would rather go without entirely than have a one night stand. Dean’s actually lost track of the number of women he’s slept with, but Sam’s got it covered with substantially less than one hand, and Dean loves him too much to do this tonight.
“We should - ” Dean manages, and gets a hand against Sam’s face to keep him from pulling away. “Uh,” he says, breathing still kind of uneven. “Do you want to see the house?”
“You mean the bedroom?” Sam says, voice kind of low and amused, and Dean has to get out from underneath him, fast, because it’s not like he has a lot of practice saying no to sex, and he’s pretty sure there are limits to what he can take with Sam on top of him and asking for it.
Sam catches him before Dean can shut himself in the bathroom or escape to the porch for five minutes, spreading his hand against the small of Dean’s back.
“Hey,” he says, sounding kind of unsure, and seriously, Dean is fucked here. “I thought you - wanted.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and gives into it, leans back against him a little. “But we could wait.”
Sam nudges his nose just beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket and stays there, breath warm against his skin. “Are you trying to take this slow for me, Dean?” he says, definitely amused now.
“Maybe,” Dean says, and Sam just kind of slides a hand up underneath his shirt and spreads it across his stomach, and Dean kind of can’t breathe, which is totally fucking not cool.
“Are you planning on running off on me?” Sam murmurs, against his ear.
“No!” Dean says, and jerks a little to try to turn around, because it’s important, but Sam’s got him held tight, and is laughing a little.
“Then Dean,” Sam says, and pulls Dean tight back against him, breathing a little uneven, “I appreciate it, but - ” oh, god, he’s got his hips pressed tight against Dean’s ass, and like that’s not obvious, “I’ve gotten laid once in the past three years, can we just fucking do it already?”
“Yeah,” Dean manages, and then Sam turns him around and slams him up against the wall.
Dean’s pretty sure no one’s tried that one on him before, but it turns him on so much that Sam manages to get his jacket and shirt off without Dean actually noticing, and they’re halfway up the stairs before Dean pulls himself together enough to start undressing Sam.
He pulls Sam’s t-shirt over his head and spreads a hand out over his back, keeping him in close as Sam manages to get them the rest of the way up the stairs.
“Second door on the left,” Dean pants, and Sam almost shoves him down onto the bed.
“Slow down, cowgirl,” he says, laughing, and Sam grins for a second, but then he’s got Dean’s boots and jeans off, and his own jeans and boxers.
He follows Dean down, stretching out, and sometimes Dean forgets how big Sam is, but god, it feels good to be underneath him, Sam’s hips fitting up just right against his.
“Hey,” he manages, fingers going tight in the sheets at the way Sam’s looking at him.
“Hi,” Sam says, and then, fuck, Dean arches up just a little, and he can see the moment where Sam loses control.
Sam pins him to the bed, close and heavy, and pulls his wrists up above his head, closes a hand around them, breathing hard, and leans down to kiss Dean, hot and wet and god, filthy, then lines their hips up again and thrusts down, all friction and rough heat.
“God, yeah, Dean,” Sam all but moans into his mouth, and Dean knows he’s making noise, a lot of it, but he just can’t bring himself to care.
It’s all of thirty seconds before Dean’s rubbing up against Sam’s stomach, and Sam comes all over him pretty much immediately after, which Dean shouldn’t find hot but oh fuck does he ever, and then Sam kisses him, hard, and Dean follows him over the edge.
Sam rolls off him a couple minutes later, lying on his back still catching his breath, and Dean starts to laugh when he realizes they didn’t even manage to get a light on.
“Fuck,” Sam says, and laughs too, then goes quiet for a minute, staring up at the ceiling, stretched out and totally boneless.
“Want to do that again?” he says, just when Dean’s starting to wonder what he’s thinking.
“Oh fuck yes,” Dean says, and rolls on top of him to start all over again.
Sam’s really happy the next morning.
“I told you so,” Dean says, while he’s in the shower and Sam’s shaving. “I told you so.”
“Shut up,” Sam says, but he scrounges around in their new cupboards, decides on a run to the store while Dean makes coffee, then makes pancakes and bacon. He crawls up on the sofa half way through A Charlie Brown Christmas - Dean fucking loves A Charlie Brown Christmas - and goes down on him, which is disturbing on a couple of levels but maybe the best thing ever by Dean’s standards. It’s messy and, yeah, he’s pretty sure Sam hasn’t done this before, but seriously, who the fuck cares, because it’s a blowjob and it’s Sam.
He goes upstairs later to find Sam napping and climbs in with him, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been so happy in his life.
When Sam wakes up a couple hours later, he’s warm and pliable and they just make out for awhile, slow and building, which is pretty much Dean’s favorite thing ever - he never gets to just make out, and Sam’s still a little drowsy, happier than Dean’s seen him in years.
Dean actually can’t even bring himself to care when it starts to go further, because fuck it, it’s Christmas Eve, and he’s having sex with the person he loves best in the entire world. It’s warm and fantastic underneath the blankets, with Sam’s hands all over him and soft, nudging, affectionate kisses.
“So, are we flipping for it?” Sam says, teasing a little, and nips his earlobe.
“Nah,” Dean says, because seriously, fuck it, and stretches out on his stomach.
It’s not that he’s thrilled with the idea of any of it - he’s definitely not being Sam’s bitch, here - but like this, there’s no way that Sam can get hurt, and Dean got pancakes and bacon for breakfast. He’s feeling pretty generous.
The look on Sam’s face is totally worth it.
He nudges all the tension out of Dean’s back with these slow, deep touches that Dean’s pretty sure he’s never actually going to get enough of, and by the time he goes for the bedside table, Dean’s pretty much on a side of boneless he’s never been in bed.
“That wasn’t there this morning,” he teases, and Sam blushes, which is kind of great, considering.
“Shut up,” Sam mumbles, but it’s not like Dean really cares if Sam’s been planning this, and oh, hey, Dean realizes, Sam’s been planning this.
If he wasn’t hard before, he definitely is now.
Sam kisses down Dean’s back while he’s working his fingers into him, and given, it’s a little weird, especially because it’s Sam, but it’s also a little hot.
“You sure you haven’t done this before?” Dean teases, and god damn it, Sam goes really red. Really red.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, pressing a little deeper in a way that makes Dean’s stomach drop and his muscles go kind of liquid, it feels so good.
Dean’s pretty sure he’d know if Sam had been messing around with guys, so that leaves the fact that Sam’s definitely had kinkier sex than him, which is really unfair.
“Just once or twice,” Sam says, finally, “and this is - a lot better,” which makes Dean feel kind of warm all over. Maybe the kinkier sex thing is okay, just this once. Maybe.
Sam finally decides Dean’s ready enough, and nudges him up onto his hands and knees. Dean can hear him, which is way hotter than it should be, and by the time Sam slides into him - slow and almost a little hesitant - Dean wants him there.
“God, Sammy,” he says, because even if it hurts a little, it’s good, it’s so good, and it’s Sam, which Dean’s discovering makes everything about a thousand times better.
Sam’s holding still, though Dean can feel him shaking with it, giving him time to adjust, sliding a palm up and down his side. “Yeah, Dean,” he says, voice a level Dean’s never heard it at before, so turned on.
“Just - ” he says, and shifts back a little, and Sam moans, low, and thrusts in, finding a rhythm. It’s not perfect, and Dean’s kind of thinking about how it might feel the other way around when Sam hits his stride, pushes deep, and Dean feels pretty much every nerve in his body wake up.
“Oh, fuck,” he manages, and then Sam slides a hand down to wrap around his erection.
Dean comes first, arching back into Sam’s weight on top of him, and Sam follows three or four thrusts later, then almost knocks Dean down onto the bed when he goes lax.
Dean doesn’t really mind, though, because even if he’s going to be sore later, he feels good right now.
“Oops,” Sam says, a couple minutes later, still settled against Dean’s back, and Dean lifts his head to see what’s wrong. Sam’s pretty flushed, which is kind of hot, so it takes Dean a minute to notice that everything in the room has moved about four inches to the left, and there’s a box of books lying on the floor that definitely wasn’t there before.
“Losing control of your powers again, Wonder Woman?” Dean says, straight-faced, and Sam groans before he tackles Dean down onto the bed again.
Sam makes dinner, actual meatloaf with mashed potatoes and some green beans, and Dean decides this house idea was literally the best he’s ever had. Sam falls asleep with his feet in Dean’s lap, watching Christmas movies, and Dean tops out at 27 pieces of popcorn balanced on his face before he wakes up, which is a new record.
He sneaks down again after Sam falls asleep to put out his presents - carefully wrapped, because Sam actually notices these things - and doesn’t even complain when Sam throws an arm across him in his sleep.
Sam wakes him up the next morning with another blowjob, which officially makes this the best Christmas on record, as far as Dean is concerned. Not that Dean would ever admit it to Sam, but the downside to one night stands is that all the foreplay is pretty one-sided. He can’t actually remember the last time somebody went down on him, but Sam seems pretty thrilled about it, so by the time they finally get out of bed, Dean’s feeling so goddamned happy he actually forgets about the presents, which turns out to be kind of a mistake, considering there are definitely more under the tree than he left there.
Dean’s pretty happy with his new winter jacket, but it’s definitely not as great as the expression on Sam’s face when he opens the box with a black lace thong.
“I think you should wear it every night, baby,” Dean says, trying to keep a straight face, but he kind of loses it when Sam picks it up and flings it at Dean’s head.
“No regifting, bitch!” Dean yells, and chases him around the house with it, which is way more satisfying than chasing him around a motel room, because there are stairs involved, and Sam screams like a girl when Dean corners him in the second bedroom and tackles.
Later, lying on the bed, Sam’s still laughing beside him when Dean rolls over onto his side and leans in to kiss him, warm and sweet.
“Good Christmas?” he murmurs, against Sam’s mouth, and Sam pulls him down for another kiss.
“Yeah,” he says, softly, “yeah, the best,” and smiles up at him.
Dean’s pretty sure it’s the sort of smile he wants to keep there for the rest of their lives, and the best thing, the best present this Christmas, is that he knows he can do it.