SPN ficlet: "Chocolate" PG, gen
I wrote this last night in bed in my notebook, and typed it up just now instead of doing my homework.
Title: Chocolate
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None, although if you're desperate for wincest I suppose it could be seen as pre-slash
Rating: G-PG (very light underage drinking and one instance of the word "Hell," lol)
Word count: ~840
Notes: This takes place when Dean is 21 and Sam is almost 17. It's unbetaed, but it's spellchecked. :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and never will. This is purely for fun, not profit.
Also: Oh, look! A song with the same name, and kind of a similar mellow feel, but which otherwise has nothing to do with the story. Chocolate - Snow Patrol
Summary: Sam and Dean, a porch, and all five senses.
Dean's got the door open and there's a soft breeze blowing inside, ruffling Sam's hair. Sam can't see Dean, can't see outside, because his back's turned to the doorway, but he can smell the dampness from today's rain, and a whiff of garlic from the pasta Dean's eating. He can hear the steady hum of cars on the freeway a few blocks away--can almost pretend it's the ocean, until a car's engine revs as it speeds up, or a driver honks at someone who's cut him off--and the clink of Dean's fork against his plate, then a thunk as he sets his beer bottle down. Sam licks his lips, tasting the faint traces of beer still there (Dean always lets him have the first sip, even though he's underage) and sighs, scratching out a few lines in his notebook before shutting it and abandoning his homework to join his brother on the porch.
Dean looks up when Sam comes outside. He's standing, leaning against the pillar that holds up the porch's roof, and he's got his beer sitting on the ledge next to him. Sam sits down on the top step next to Dean and leans against his brother's legs. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the wet outdoors smell stronger now and mixed with the slight fragrance of laundry detergent from his brother's jeans. Dean nudges him with a foot, not shaking him off, just getting Sam's attention.
"Hey," Dean says. Sam opens his eyes and tilts his head back. Dean's looking at him. "You finish your homework?"
Sam shrugs. Dean raises an eyebrow, so Sam says, "Close enough. Anyway, the teacher likes me."
Dean's mouth quirks into a smile. "Everybody likes you, Sammy."
Sam huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes again, shifting closer to Dean and turning his face slightly into his brother's jeans. They smell like years of cheap laundromats and worn sheets, like the closest thing to home Sam is likely to get. Above him, Dean's fork taps against his plate and he adds, through a mouthful of food, "I don't want your GPA coming down just because it's a nice night out."
Sam doesn't respond, just sighs again and brings one arm around the back of Dean's legs. He hears Dean set his plate down on the ledge and pick up his beer. Dean takes a sip and hands the bottle down to Sam. Sam drinks from it and moves to give it back, but Dean's hand lands on his wrist, stopping him.
"No," Dean says. "You can finish it."
Sam swirls the bottle slowly; there are only a few mouthfuls of beer left. "Thanks," he says, and takes another sip.
Dean moves his hand to rest on Sam's head. Sam can feel his fingers brushing gently, slowly, through his hair, and it's soothing, in a way.
They sit like that for a few minutes, Sam leaning against Dean's thigh, finishing his beer, while Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair. Finally Dean gives a little tug; he wants Sam's attention.
"Dad called today," he says, and Sam can't stop himself from stiffening. He starts to pull away, moving his arm back to his side, but Dean's hand tightens its grip on his head, keeping him in place. "Stop it," Dean scolds.
When Sam relaxes, so does Dean's grip, and he goes back to petting Sam's hair absently, flipping the locks through his fingers.
"He wanted me to tell you he'll be home for your birthday next week," Dean says.
Sam has nothing to say to that, so he just replies, "Oh. Okay."
Above him Dean sighs. It's a familiar sigh; it makes his chest ache, and he hates that he's the reason for it. Something overwhelming surges inside him and he turns his head into Dean's jeans, letting the soft fabric absorb his tears before Dean can notice them.
Sam is sure his brother will say something about it, launch into his "Why can't you guys just get along?" speech, but maybe Dean's decided by now it's hopeless, because instead he just asks, "What kind of cake d'you want?"
"Chocolate," Sam says immediately, because that's the one thing he's sure about right now.
Dean laughs quietly and Sam squints up at him. Dean shakes his head.
"I have very vivid memories of little Sammy Winchester with chocolate cake smeared all over his face," he says. "I don't know how we ever cleaned it all off."
Sam rolls his eyes.
"Hell," Dean continues, grinning. "For all I know, that's why your hair is this dark." He gives a little tug and laughs when Sam swipes at his hand.
"I think it's safe to say that after twelve years and who knows how many hair washings, my hair is not colored with chocolate cake."
"Hmm," Dean hums, faking skepticism. Sam shoves at him and he laughs again.
It starts to rain.
Dean ruffles Sam's hair. "Let's go inside," he says quietly, still smiling. "I'll make cocoa."
Title: Chocolate
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None, although if you're desperate for wincest I suppose it could be seen as pre-slash
Rating: G-PG (very light underage drinking and one instance of the word "Hell," lol)
Word count: ~840
Notes: This takes place when Dean is 21 and Sam is almost 17. It's unbetaed, but it's spellchecked. :-)
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and never will. This is purely for fun, not profit.
Also: Oh, look! A song with the same name, and kind of a similar mellow feel, but which otherwise has nothing to do with the story. Chocolate - Snow Patrol
Summary: Sam and Dean, a porch, and all five senses.
Dean's got the door open and there's a soft breeze blowing inside, ruffling Sam's hair. Sam can't see Dean, can't see outside, because his back's turned to the doorway, but he can smell the dampness from today's rain, and a whiff of garlic from the pasta Dean's eating. He can hear the steady hum of cars on the freeway a few blocks away--can almost pretend it's the ocean, until a car's engine revs as it speeds up, or a driver honks at someone who's cut him off--and the clink of Dean's fork against his plate, then a thunk as he sets his beer bottle down. Sam licks his lips, tasting the faint traces of beer still there (Dean always lets him have the first sip, even though he's underage) and sighs, scratching out a few lines in his notebook before shutting it and abandoning his homework to join his brother on the porch.
Dean looks up when Sam comes outside. He's standing, leaning against the pillar that holds up the porch's roof, and he's got his beer sitting on the ledge next to him. Sam sits down on the top step next to Dean and leans against his brother's legs. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, the wet outdoors smell stronger now and mixed with the slight fragrance of laundry detergent from his brother's jeans. Dean nudges him with a foot, not shaking him off, just getting Sam's attention.
"Hey," Dean says. Sam opens his eyes and tilts his head back. Dean's looking at him. "You finish your homework?"
Sam shrugs. Dean raises an eyebrow, so Sam says, "Close enough. Anyway, the teacher likes me."
Dean's mouth quirks into a smile. "Everybody likes you, Sammy."
Sam huffs out a laugh and closes his eyes again, shifting closer to Dean and turning his face slightly into his brother's jeans. They smell like years of cheap laundromats and worn sheets, like the closest thing to home Sam is likely to get. Above him, Dean's fork taps against his plate and he adds, through a mouthful of food, "I don't want your GPA coming down just because it's a nice night out."
Sam doesn't respond, just sighs again and brings one arm around the back of Dean's legs. He hears Dean set his plate down on the ledge and pick up his beer. Dean takes a sip and hands the bottle down to Sam. Sam drinks from it and moves to give it back, but Dean's hand lands on his wrist, stopping him.
"No," Dean says. "You can finish it."
Sam swirls the bottle slowly; there are only a few mouthfuls of beer left. "Thanks," he says, and takes another sip.
Dean moves his hand to rest on Sam's head. Sam can feel his fingers brushing gently, slowly, through his hair, and it's soothing, in a way.
They sit like that for a few minutes, Sam leaning against Dean's thigh, finishing his beer, while Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair. Finally Dean gives a little tug; he wants Sam's attention.
"Dad called today," he says, and Sam can't stop himself from stiffening. He starts to pull away, moving his arm back to his side, but Dean's hand tightens its grip on his head, keeping him in place. "Stop it," Dean scolds.
When Sam relaxes, so does Dean's grip, and he goes back to petting Sam's hair absently, flipping the locks through his fingers.
"He wanted me to tell you he'll be home for your birthday next week," Dean says.
Sam has nothing to say to that, so he just replies, "Oh. Okay."
Above him Dean sighs. It's a familiar sigh; it makes his chest ache, and he hates that he's the reason for it. Something overwhelming surges inside him and he turns his head into Dean's jeans, letting the soft fabric absorb his tears before Dean can notice them.
Sam is sure his brother will say something about it, launch into his "Why can't you guys just get along?" speech, but maybe Dean's decided by now it's hopeless, because instead he just asks, "What kind of cake d'you want?"
"Chocolate," Sam says immediately, because that's the one thing he's sure about right now.
Dean laughs quietly and Sam squints up at him. Dean shakes his head.
"I have very vivid memories of little Sammy Winchester with chocolate cake smeared all over his face," he says. "I don't know how we ever cleaned it all off."
Sam rolls his eyes.
"Hell," Dean continues, grinning. "For all I know, that's why your hair is this dark." He gives a little tug and laughs when Sam swipes at his hand.
"I think it's safe to say that after twelve years and who knows how many hair washings, my hair is not colored with chocolate cake."
"Hmm," Dean hums, faking skepticism. Sam shoves at him and he laughs again.
It starts to rain.
Dean ruffles Sam's hair. "Let's go inside," he says quietly, still smiling. "I'll make cocoa."