Fic: Reassurance
Title: Reassurance
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Written for the prompt: ‘Dean wearing Sam’s hoodie.’
A/N: Written for xpeythegleek - happy birthday, you! Have a great day and I hope you like this as much as I like you!
A/N 2: Thank you to radioprecious for reading this over for me! You’re awesome.
Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, Dean leaned back against the headboard and looked around the latest motel room that they had checked into. It wasn’t all that different from the last - same sheets covered in old stains, same view out over a parking lot - except that it was totally different because, this time, he wasn’t going to die, he wasn’t sitting watching Sam search desperately for some sort of a cure.
He looked down at his hand, his fingers entwined with Sam’s. His brother was sleeping, the sheets tangled around his legs, and he seemed, for once, to be getting a good rest. It made a change; for the last week, Dean had woken to find Sam sitting watching him. As creepy as that had been, he could understand the reason why - it was the same reason he had refused to leave Sam on his own for days after Jess had been killed, the same reason his Dad had spent over twenty years trying to find the thing that killed their Mom.
After easing his hand out of Sam’s and stretching his arms up above his head, Dean glanced towards the clock and started. It was late morning, much later than they usually slept in, and they had been meant to hit the road hours ago. He shrugged; Sam was actually getting some decent sleep for once, he wasn’t going to be the one to wake him up if he didn’t absolutely have to.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled his duffel bag up next to him, then opened it as quietly as he could manage and began to take clothes out of it, trying to find something clean to wear. He paused as his hand connected with his Dad’s journal and placed it on the bed next to him before going back to rifling through his stuff, scowling. They still hadn’t heard from him, even though Sam had called to tell him that Dean was dying, even though he himself had called him from the hospital and told him that he was scared. It meant his Dad was hurt, or in some bad situation that meant he couldn’t leave where he was; it had to mean that.
He managed to find some clean jeans and pulled them on over yesterday’s boxers because, until they found somewhere to wash their clothes, he was going to have to make do. The t-shirt that he found was a little too tight but he tugged it down over his head anyway and then cursed under his breath when he saw the state of the long-sleeved shirt he had been planning to wear over the top of it. Grimacing, he looked back into the bag and then shrugged; pulling out the hoodie that he had worn home from the hospital just a few weeks earlier. It wasn’t his usual thing - hoodies were more Sam’s territory - but it was warm and clean and functional so he put it on before scribbling a quick note to Sam and heading out to grab some breakfast.
---
Sam opened one eye and groaned; the room was light, too light to be early in the morning which meant that he had slept in. He opened his other eye and rolled over onto his back, frowned when he heard the crunching sound of Dean eating something loudly. It was really disgusting how the mouth that he enjoyed kissing so much could make him feel so gross as well.
“That’s really-” He broke off when he saw Dean, sitting at the table with packets of food in front of him, wearing one of his own hoodies. “Where did you get that?”
Dean shrugged, “It was in my duffel.”
“It’s mine.” He had left it with Dean back at the hospital because the jacket that Dean had been wearing had been ruined and he hadn’t wanted him to get cold.
“You mind, then?”
He shook his head because it wasn’t like he could complain; they had grown up swapping clothes back and forth and, although, it happened less often now, it was part of life on the road. Blinking, he sat up and tried to get the image of Dean looking more ill than he had ever been out of his head. It was hard, though, trying to put it all behind him. He had thought he was going to lose him. That was all over now; Dean was still alive and he needed to get a grip. He forced himself to look at Dean, at the healthy tint to his skin, at the way his brother was attacking his food with gusto.
“Want a picture, Sam?”
“No.” He smiled slightly as he watched Dean push the long sleeves of the hoodie up his arm. “I know what you look like.”
Dean swallowed another bite of toast, “What’s the staring for, then. You after sex?”
“No, asshole. I just - it’s big for you, the hoodie.”
“Well, yeah. You’re taller than me. Like the freaking Eiffel Tower.”
He laughed - because it was Dean and Dean wasn’t being mean, he was just being his big brother - and crossed over to the table, sat down opposite Dean. “You let me sleep in.”
“You needed it. We can hit the road after lunch and still stop somewhere new by tonight.”
“Thanks.” Smirking, he leaned over the table and pulled the hood up over Dean’s head.
Dean raised an eyebrow, “And that was supposed to-”
“Make you look even cosier.” And it did. It made him look younger, more like the Dean that only he knew than the one that everyone else saw.
“You’re crazy, Sam. Don’t know how you turned out so soft, growing up with me and Dad.”
But Dean didn’t take the hood down, just pulled the drawstrings tighter and finished off his breakfast as Sam watched. Even just simple things like this, his brother eating and bitching and being himself, made him feel lucky; he had almost lost everything. He waited until Dean had finished his coffee before standing up and moving around the table to stand next to him.
“Right.” Dean nodded, “You want that sex now.”
“No. I just want to-” He rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed lightly, “Kiss you.”
“Oh, man. Sammy, could you be any more like a chick?”
“Quit complaining and come up here.”
Dean opened his mouth to reply but seemed to change his mind and, instead, stood up, close enough that Sam could feel Dean’s breath against his cheek. Hand reaching out to grab Dean’s hip, he turned his face so that his lips met Dean’s and kissed him, a soft press of lips against lips instead of the urgent, harder kisses that they usually shared.
Grinning, he pulled back, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“If you’re into sap, I guess not.”
Nodding, he rested his forehead against Dean’s and brushed his thumb over Dean’s lips, silently thanking his brother for understanding that he needed this. “Hey, Dean?”
“What?”
“You should wear my clothes more often.”