Fic: trusting who we are (Sam & Dean, gen, PG)
Title: trusting who we are
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG
Summary/Notes: Unabashed old-fashioned curtain!fic. Probably the gayest explicit gen ever to have existed. Yes, explicit gen. For cordelia_gray's prompt boys don't cry at silverbullets.
Word Count: ~2000
In another instance of his characteristic impeccable timing, Dean comes in just as Hilary Swank is telling Chloe Sevigny she's a hermaphrodite. Sam shifts in his chair, sighs a little, and waits for the inevitable torrent of bemused bigotry.
"Dude," says Dean, never one to disappoint, "what the hell are you watching?"
Sam shrugs evasively, looks at the actresses on the TV screen, and says, "Porn." It's not that he's ashamed of his choice of viewing material, but something tells him he doesn't want to hear Dean's opinions about transpeople. Dean's a good guy, the best, and he'd never knowingly attack anyone based on their race, gender, sexuality or anything else, but...yeah. Sam's pretty sure he doesn't want to go into it.
Unfortunately, Dean is one step ahead of him. "If this is your idea of porn, you're a sicker puppy than I imagined, Sammy," he says. "Is it all the rape that does it for you, or the murder?"
Sam colours, sinking down a little lower in his seat, and frowns. "What - you've seen it?"
Dean shrugs elaborately. "You're always telling me I have to learn more tolerance, or whatever." He flops down gracelessly on the arm of Sam's chair. "But I don't think I really need to see other people being this intolerant twice, d'you?"
"You weren't here," Sam says curtly, but he reaches over anyway, turns the television off. The picture flashes for a moment, recedes into the middle of the screen, and vanishes. Sam tips his head back against the cushion and looks sidelong at Dean. "You want something?"
"Mmm," Dean says, unhelpfully. Sam waits, but Dean shows no sign of saying anything else; takes a long pull at his beer and lets his muscles relax, whole body moulding into its precarious perch on the chair. Sam's just contemplating putting the TV on again, finding something a little more cheering to watch - this whole broken-leg thing has sucked from the second that goddamn spirit snapped it up in Houston - when Dean shifts a little, clears his throat.
"Hmm?" Sam prompts, blinking up at him encouragingly, and Dean laughs a little.
"Got it again today at the store, y'know." He bites his lip on a smile and then glances away, looking mildly embarrassed. "That little old lady - with the fluffy hair, you know, the cashier?" Dean pauses to shake his head incredulously. "Wanted to know how my boyfriend's leg was doin', whether he'd be back at school any time soon because the kids miss him."
Sam laughs, too amused by the image to be uncomfortable. "And what did you say?"
Dean snorts. "Said you were doin' great, but it'd be another six weeks and some." He shrugs one shoulder. "What'd you think?"
"When we first moved here," Sam reminds him gently, "you nearly took the realtor's head off at the mere suggestion."
"Yeah, well. Probably took that little old lady a long time to learn that level of tolerance, Sam. Didn't want to set her back any."
Sam makes a vague sound of approval, rolling his shoulders against the back of the seat as if in some attempt to stretch out the muscle. The fact is that he's kind of afraid of saying anything at all, lest it should come out sounding entirely too enthusiastic, like he's liable to jump his brother in his sleep or something. But Dean - Dean's been so different since he's been happy, all these months in Howard, South Dakota, mechanic by day and badass hunter of supernatural evil on the weekends. Different enough for Sam to see that all his life, Dean never was quite happy before, not the way he is in their neat little house on Evelyn Street, with his own bed and clean clothes and Sam.
Sam can't find it in himself to be anything but grateful that other people, at the school and the garage and the grocery store, can see what he is to Dean, even if they read it just a little bit wrong. They're not looking through a Winchester lens, after all, and if by 'boyfriend' they mean 'whole world' - well. Sam's willing to leave them to parse things the only way they understand. It's not like anyone believes the whole 'brothers' story anyway, despite the fact that it's true.
He's not sure exactly when he decided to give in to it. Maybe that night last winter, when Dean rolled into Sam's bed still dressed to his boots, so cold he felt damp, and Sam only grumblingly undressed him and spooned up around him. He hadn't realised anything weird had happened until he got up in the small hours to pee and checked himself climbing right back into bed with his brother, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It had been, once, when money was tight and a room with two beds was cheaper than one with three, but Sam had been a helluva lot smaller then. He didn't need to be told how wrong this would look to any of the people Sam had convinced of the truth, that Dean was his brother and his partner only in business. It was all kinds of fucked up that Dean's drunken mind still dredged up that old sense of how things should be and walked him back to Sam's bed when he had his own just one room over. If Sam had any sense left of normal, he'd let Dean have the covers all to himself and go camp out in Dean's room for the night.
Sam hesitated in the doorway for maybe ten seconds, thinking it over. Then he came back to bed, shoved at Dean until he pulled in some of his octopodean limbs, and went back to sleep. He told himself at the time that it had been that or certain death at the hands of whatever the hell lived in Dean's bed, but that was the Winchester way. Sam's uncomfortably sure that the moment came to mean a whole lot more in its aftermath than he'd given it credit for as he lived it.
It's not that they sleep in the same bed on a regular basis, or anything. They're both way too big for that to be comfortable, even if it didn't cross about a thousand lines of sheer, unabashed weirdness, even for them. They don't hold hands in the street - or in private, either, Jesus - or even really touch beyond the occasional celebratory backslap. But the fact is that none of these things is what makes a couple. Other people assume this is what they get up to behind closed doors, but they assume it because of all the other couple stuff that they do see - how Dean grins at Sam right after he's insulted him, how they finish each other's sentences and have each other's backs. The look Dean had on his face the whole time Sam was getting his leg set at the hospital, like Sam had been outright murdered and Dean was ready to wreak vengeance just as soon as he'd snuck off somewhere for a little weepfest. Sam teased the fuck out of him afterward when the pain meds had worn off some, but he actually found it sort of...endearing. Not that he'd ever tell Dean that in a million years, but - yeah.
If people knew, really knew, they were brothers, they'd say they weren't right. Hell, people have said it enough, from Gabriel to Lisa: they're too tangled up in each other for it ever to be healthy. Except that, here, people see that entanglement and without all the backstory, they naturally give it a new one, put it in a context in which they find it acceptable. And Sam frankly doesn't give a shit if they think he's fucking his brother, if it means people wave at them as they head out of town on a Friday night with the Impala loaded up, address them by name in the general store and invite them to barbecues. They don't tend to go to the barbecues, but that's not the point. In this town, they're a unit, and God, Sam loves that. He didn't even know how much until just now, when Dean shrugged his shoulders and said whatever, like he finally gets it. Like they're on the same page.
The bottom line is that Dean's not going anywhere. They're not going anywhere, unless they go together.
Sam reaches a long arm for the coffee table, but his mug has wandered out of reach, somehow, and it's mostly empty besides. Dean grins a little when he spots him reaching, because he wouldn't be Dean if he didn't take the opportunity to laugh at Sam's discomfort. He wouldn't be Dean, though, either, if he didn't follow through with a brusque "Why don't you just ask, invalid?" as he clambers off the arm of the chair and scoops up the mug by the base instead of the handle (just, why?).
"Not desperate," Sam says, lazily, and Dean rolls his eyes.
"Whatever. You need me."
Sam's supposed to protest, tell Dean he wishes or ignore the remark entirely. It's a huge breach of brotherly etiquette to grin up at Dean and say, just a little wistfully, "Yeah, maybe." It's a breach on a level with getting back in bed with his brother when no longer dumb with sleep, and Sam does it anyway, earns himself another roll of Dean's eyes.
"Yeah," Dean says, a little stiltedly, like Sam threw him off his game, "Coffee doesn't make itself, bitch." But his fingers maybe brush along Sam's collar as he turns toward the door; maybe take a second to touch the soft hair at Sam's nape. Dean would never admit it, obviously, and Sam would never bring it up, but there it is all the same, I know and me too and of course in that tiniest touch of Dean's fingers.
Maybe. It could just be that Sam is a sentimental bitch when he's on pain meds, and possibly also forty percent of the rest of the time as well.
Dean whistles in the kitchen as he fills the kettle, flips the switch and waits for it to boil. The sound is far too comforting for Sam to feel like worrying about just how screwed up it is that Dean is all he wants - how maybe it's more screwed up this way than if he'd wanted his brother's body like any psychiatry textbook would tell him he probably does. There's no box for this, for them. There's just this: the sound of Dean's bare feet scuffing the kitchen floor as he roots around for the coffee, in their little house in their podunk town. So, Sam should probably want more than this. Whatever. They've come too far to start apologising for things just because they make them happy. Jesus, even Sam's not quite that screwed up.
His eyelids are drooping, he realises dimly. He never used to let that happen before, not in any of their faceless motels, not anywhere except maybe, occasionally, at Bobby's. Nowhere was ever safe enough; not even the car that had always been, effectively, home. But nothing's gonna get Sam if Dean feels safe enough to pad around barefoot in his ugliest sweatpants, whistling Metallica while he makes Sam's coffee. Dean is the weathervane, the plumb-line. Dean just is, like America or God.
Sam squirms around a little in his chair, pillows himself half-sideways on the cushions, the position a relict of a thousand journeys by car. Dean is still whistling Nothing Else Matters.
By the time Sam wakes up again, Dean's passed out on the couch, one hand flat on his stomach. The coffee is cold, but Sam drinks it anyway.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG
Summary/Notes: Unabashed old-fashioned curtain!fic. Probably the gayest explicit gen ever to have existed. Yes, explicit gen. For cordelia_gray's prompt boys don't cry at silverbullets.
Word Count: ~2000
In another instance of his characteristic impeccable timing, Dean comes in just as Hilary Swank is telling Chloe Sevigny she's a hermaphrodite. Sam shifts in his chair, sighs a little, and waits for the inevitable torrent of bemused bigotry.
"Dude," says Dean, never one to disappoint, "what the hell are you watching?"
Sam shrugs evasively, looks at the actresses on the TV screen, and says, "Porn." It's not that he's ashamed of his choice of viewing material, but something tells him he doesn't want to hear Dean's opinions about transpeople. Dean's a good guy, the best, and he'd never knowingly attack anyone based on their race, gender, sexuality or anything else, but...yeah. Sam's pretty sure he doesn't want to go into it.
Unfortunately, Dean is one step ahead of him. "If this is your idea of porn, you're a sicker puppy than I imagined, Sammy," he says. "Is it all the rape that does it for you, or the murder?"
Sam colours, sinking down a little lower in his seat, and frowns. "What - you've seen it?"
Dean shrugs elaborately. "You're always telling me I have to learn more tolerance, or whatever." He flops down gracelessly on the arm of Sam's chair. "But I don't think I really need to see other people being this intolerant twice, d'you?"
"You weren't here," Sam says curtly, but he reaches over anyway, turns the television off. The picture flashes for a moment, recedes into the middle of the screen, and vanishes. Sam tips his head back against the cushion and looks sidelong at Dean. "You want something?"
"Mmm," Dean says, unhelpfully. Sam waits, but Dean shows no sign of saying anything else; takes a long pull at his beer and lets his muscles relax, whole body moulding into its precarious perch on the chair. Sam's just contemplating putting the TV on again, finding something a little more cheering to watch - this whole broken-leg thing has sucked from the second that goddamn spirit snapped it up in Houston - when Dean shifts a little, clears his throat.
"Hmm?" Sam prompts, blinking up at him encouragingly, and Dean laughs a little.
"Got it again today at the store, y'know." He bites his lip on a smile and then glances away, looking mildly embarrassed. "That little old lady - with the fluffy hair, you know, the cashier?" Dean pauses to shake his head incredulously. "Wanted to know how my boyfriend's leg was doin', whether he'd be back at school any time soon because the kids miss him."
Sam laughs, too amused by the image to be uncomfortable. "And what did you say?"
Dean snorts. "Said you were doin' great, but it'd be another six weeks and some." He shrugs one shoulder. "What'd you think?"
"When we first moved here," Sam reminds him gently, "you nearly took the realtor's head off at the mere suggestion."
"Yeah, well. Probably took that little old lady a long time to learn that level of tolerance, Sam. Didn't want to set her back any."
Sam makes a vague sound of approval, rolling his shoulders against the back of the seat as if in some attempt to stretch out the muscle. The fact is that he's kind of afraid of saying anything at all, lest it should come out sounding entirely too enthusiastic, like he's liable to jump his brother in his sleep or something. But Dean - Dean's been so different since he's been happy, all these months in Howard, South Dakota, mechanic by day and badass hunter of supernatural evil on the weekends. Different enough for Sam to see that all his life, Dean never was quite happy before, not the way he is in their neat little house on Evelyn Street, with his own bed and clean clothes and Sam.
Sam can't find it in himself to be anything but grateful that other people, at the school and the garage and the grocery store, can see what he is to Dean, even if they read it just a little bit wrong. They're not looking through a Winchester lens, after all, and if by 'boyfriend' they mean 'whole world' - well. Sam's willing to leave them to parse things the only way they understand. It's not like anyone believes the whole 'brothers' story anyway, despite the fact that it's true.
He's not sure exactly when he decided to give in to it. Maybe that night last winter, when Dean rolled into Sam's bed still dressed to his boots, so cold he felt damp, and Sam only grumblingly undressed him and spooned up around him. He hadn't realised anything weird had happened until he got up in the small hours to pee and checked himself climbing right back into bed with his brother, like it was the most natural thing in the world. It had been, once, when money was tight and a room with two beds was cheaper than one with three, but Sam had been a helluva lot smaller then. He didn't need to be told how wrong this would look to any of the people Sam had convinced of the truth, that Dean was his brother and his partner only in business. It was all kinds of fucked up that Dean's drunken mind still dredged up that old sense of how things should be and walked him back to Sam's bed when he had his own just one room over. If Sam had any sense left of normal, he'd let Dean have the covers all to himself and go camp out in Dean's room for the night.
Sam hesitated in the doorway for maybe ten seconds, thinking it over. Then he came back to bed, shoved at Dean until he pulled in some of his octopodean limbs, and went back to sleep. He told himself at the time that it had been that or certain death at the hands of whatever the hell lived in Dean's bed, but that was the Winchester way. Sam's uncomfortably sure that the moment came to mean a whole lot more in its aftermath than he'd given it credit for as he lived it.
It's not that they sleep in the same bed on a regular basis, or anything. They're both way too big for that to be comfortable, even if it didn't cross about a thousand lines of sheer, unabashed weirdness, even for them. They don't hold hands in the street - or in private, either, Jesus - or even really touch beyond the occasional celebratory backslap. But the fact is that none of these things is what makes a couple. Other people assume this is what they get up to behind closed doors, but they assume it because of all the other couple stuff that they do see - how Dean grins at Sam right after he's insulted him, how they finish each other's sentences and have each other's backs. The look Dean had on his face the whole time Sam was getting his leg set at the hospital, like Sam had been outright murdered and Dean was ready to wreak vengeance just as soon as he'd snuck off somewhere for a little weepfest. Sam teased the fuck out of him afterward when the pain meds had worn off some, but he actually found it sort of...endearing. Not that he'd ever tell Dean that in a million years, but - yeah.
If people knew, really knew, they were brothers, they'd say they weren't right. Hell, people have said it enough, from Gabriel to Lisa: they're too tangled up in each other for it ever to be healthy. Except that, here, people see that entanglement and without all the backstory, they naturally give it a new one, put it in a context in which they find it acceptable. And Sam frankly doesn't give a shit if they think he's fucking his brother, if it means people wave at them as they head out of town on a Friday night with the Impala loaded up, address them by name in the general store and invite them to barbecues. They don't tend to go to the barbecues, but that's not the point. In this town, they're a unit, and God, Sam loves that. He didn't even know how much until just now, when Dean shrugged his shoulders and said whatever, like he finally gets it. Like they're on the same page.
The bottom line is that Dean's not going anywhere. They're not going anywhere, unless they go together.
Sam reaches a long arm for the coffee table, but his mug has wandered out of reach, somehow, and it's mostly empty besides. Dean grins a little when he spots him reaching, because he wouldn't be Dean if he didn't take the opportunity to laugh at Sam's discomfort. He wouldn't be Dean, though, either, if he didn't follow through with a brusque "Why don't you just ask, invalid?" as he clambers off the arm of the chair and scoops up the mug by the base instead of the handle (just, why?).
"Not desperate," Sam says, lazily, and Dean rolls his eyes.
"Whatever. You need me."
Sam's supposed to protest, tell Dean he wishes or ignore the remark entirely. It's a huge breach of brotherly etiquette to grin up at Dean and say, just a little wistfully, "Yeah, maybe." It's a breach on a level with getting back in bed with his brother when no longer dumb with sleep, and Sam does it anyway, earns himself another roll of Dean's eyes.
"Yeah," Dean says, a little stiltedly, like Sam threw him off his game, "Coffee doesn't make itself, bitch." But his fingers maybe brush along Sam's collar as he turns toward the door; maybe take a second to touch the soft hair at Sam's nape. Dean would never admit it, obviously, and Sam would never bring it up, but there it is all the same, I know and me too and of course in that tiniest touch of Dean's fingers.
Maybe. It could just be that Sam is a sentimental bitch when he's on pain meds, and possibly also forty percent of the rest of the time as well.
Dean whistles in the kitchen as he fills the kettle, flips the switch and waits for it to boil. The sound is far too comforting for Sam to feel like worrying about just how screwed up it is that Dean is all he wants - how maybe it's more screwed up this way than if he'd wanted his brother's body like any psychiatry textbook would tell him he probably does. There's no box for this, for them. There's just this: the sound of Dean's bare feet scuffing the kitchen floor as he roots around for the coffee, in their little house in their podunk town. So, Sam should probably want more than this. Whatever. They've come too far to start apologising for things just because they make them happy. Jesus, even Sam's not quite that screwed up.
His eyelids are drooping, he realises dimly. He never used to let that happen before, not in any of their faceless motels, not anywhere except maybe, occasionally, at Bobby's. Nowhere was ever safe enough; not even the car that had always been, effectively, home. But nothing's gonna get Sam if Dean feels safe enough to pad around barefoot in his ugliest sweatpants, whistling Metallica while he makes Sam's coffee. Dean is the weathervane, the plumb-line. Dean just is, like America or God.
Sam squirms around a little in his chair, pillows himself half-sideways on the cushions, the position a relict of a thousand journeys by car. Dean is still whistling Nothing Else Matters.
By the time Sam wakes up again, Dean's passed out on the couch, one hand flat on his stomach. The coffee is cold, but Sam drinks it anyway.