Fic: Thankful (Sam/Dean, PG)
Nov. 26th, 2009 12:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlTitle: Thankful
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl (Lynsey)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Sam, Dean, the Impala and some pie.
Warning: Spoilers for S5
<Happy Thankgiving to all who celebrate - I'm so thankful for Show and all of you here in this awesome fandom!
The tiny Midway Diner has an improbable five foot neon sign, glowing garishly like a beacon through the fog as the Impala crunches onto its gravel lot, the rumbling of Dean’s stomach for the last three hours impossible for Sam to ignore. Dean grumbles, something about needing to put as much distance as they can between them and Lucifer and the ‘nothing but me and taxes’ thing he dragged out of the ground a week ago, but Sam says “I’m hungry,” and that shuts Dean up like he knew it would. Besides, the waitress looks happy to have some customers instead of staring out at an empty parking lot.
“Turkey special?” she asks with a practiced cheerfulness, as though having to work or having nowhere else to be on Thanksgiving is actually a good thing. Sam nods, sure, thanks, but Dean scowls and orders a cheeseburger and a black and white shake, glaring at the waitress like he’s daring her to pronounce his choice inappropriate. Something warms in Sam’s belly as he watches his brother, James Dean leather jacket hunched up around his shoulders, always the rebel.
They don’t talk as they eat, watching the replay of a college football game on the tv in the corner while the waitress refills the cracked china cups full of steaming coffee. When the clock’s at midnight (and doesn’t that always make Sam’s belly twist in on itself, remembering), she brings five pieces of pie, two apple, two blueberry and one pumpkin with a wilted mountain of whipped cream on top.
“We’re closin’ soon, they won’t last til tomorrow,” she says, and her smile at the I-just-won-the-lottery look on Dean’s face isn’t forced anymore.
Sam eats one each of the blueberry and apple and leaves the rest to his brother, who shovels in the jellied fruit and flaking crust like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, tongue swiping out to lick the crumbs from his full bottom lip, and there it is again, that warmth spreading through Sam, deeper this time, larger.
Dean pushes a ten dollar bill under one of the coffee cups as they get up, mumbles “Don’t have anything smaller,” to Sam’s raised eyebrows, and Sam feels the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
The fog is thick as they climb into the Impala, and Dean pauses after he starts her up, familiar rumble and smell of old leather broadcasting home as Sam sinks into the seat that carries his impression after all these years. He doesn’t look at Sam, staring across the parking lot at the lights blinking off in the diner, but Sam doesn’t need eye contact to read the sadness on his brother’s face, the promise of an apology in the way he worries at his bottom lip – sorry Sammy, sorry this isn’t the apple pie life you deserve, sorry I wasn’t a bigger man, better brother, stronger person. The warmth he’s been feeling fluttering in his belly all night spreads up into Sam’s chest, down into his core, makes his heart beat fast and something not quite brand new quicken between his thighs.
Dean turns to say those things Sam doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want Dean to feel – and snaps his jaw shut at the look on Sam’s face. Because Sam is grinning. Full on smile that splits his face wide, the kind of expression Dean hasn’t seen on his little brother’s face since they were kids and Dean blew off a date with MaryLou McGee to come back and take Sam to see the early showing of Star Wars.
“Sam?”
If anything, Sam grins wider, and he slides across the smooth leather of the Impala’s front seat until his knee nudges Dean’s.
“Sam, what is it?”
Sam’s fingers curl in the front of Dean’s shirt, hold him close and still, so all Dean can see – his entire world – has narrowed down to the gleaming white of Sam’s smile.
“I’m so fucking thankful,” Sam says, the warmth of his breath tickling Dean’s cheek, seeping through the doubts and defenses the way Sam has always been able to get through whether Dean wanted it or not. “For you,” Sam says.
And then Sam kisses him.
Lucifer’s waiting for them six months down the line, but right now they’re nowhere near Detroit and Sam is warm and real and grinning against Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s belly is full of three different kinds of pie, and all he can think is “Me too.”
Author:
runedgirl (Lynsey)Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Summary: Sam, Dean, the Impala and some pie.
Warning: Spoilers for S5
<Happy Thankgiving to all who celebrate - I'm so thankful for Show and all of you here in this awesome fandom!
The tiny Midway Diner has an improbable five foot neon sign, glowing garishly like a beacon through the fog as the Impala crunches onto its gravel lot, the rumbling of Dean’s stomach for the last three hours impossible for Sam to ignore. Dean grumbles, something about needing to put as much distance as they can between them and Lucifer and the ‘nothing but me and taxes’ thing he dragged out of the ground a week ago, but Sam says “I’m hungry,” and that shuts Dean up like he knew it would. Besides, the waitress looks happy to have some customers instead of staring out at an empty parking lot.
“Turkey special?” she asks with a practiced cheerfulness, as though having to work or having nowhere else to be on Thanksgiving is actually a good thing. Sam nods, sure, thanks, but Dean scowls and orders a cheeseburger and a black and white shake, glaring at the waitress like he’s daring her to pronounce his choice inappropriate. Something warms in Sam’s belly as he watches his brother, James Dean leather jacket hunched up around his shoulders, always the rebel.
They don’t talk as they eat, watching the replay of a college football game on the tv in the corner while the waitress refills the cracked china cups full of steaming coffee. When the clock’s at midnight (and doesn’t that always make Sam’s belly twist in on itself, remembering), she brings five pieces of pie, two apple, two blueberry and one pumpkin with a wilted mountain of whipped cream on top.
“We’re closin’ soon, they won’t last til tomorrow,” she says, and her smile at the I-just-won-the-lottery look on Dean’s face isn’t forced anymore.
Sam eats one each of the blueberry and apple and leaves the rest to his brother, who shovels in the jellied fruit and flaking crust like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, tongue swiping out to lick the crumbs from his full bottom lip, and there it is again, that warmth spreading through Sam, deeper this time, larger.
Dean pushes a ten dollar bill under one of the coffee cups as they get up, mumbles “Don’t have anything smaller,” to Sam’s raised eyebrows, and Sam feels the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.
The fog is thick as they climb into the Impala, and Dean pauses after he starts her up, familiar rumble and smell of old leather broadcasting home as Sam sinks into the seat that carries his impression after all these years. He doesn’t look at Sam, staring across the parking lot at the lights blinking off in the diner, but Sam doesn’t need eye contact to read the sadness on his brother’s face, the promise of an apology in the way he worries at his bottom lip – sorry Sammy, sorry this isn’t the apple pie life you deserve, sorry I wasn’t a bigger man, better brother, stronger person. The warmth he’s been feeling fluttering in his belly all night spreads up into Sam’s chest, down into his core, makes his heart beat fast and something not quite brand new quicken between his thighs.
Dean turns to say those things Sam doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want Dean to feel – and snaps his jaw shut at the look on Sam’s face. Because Sam is grinning. Full on smile that splits his face wide, the kind of expression Dean hasn’t seen on his little brother’s face since they were kids and Dean blew off a date with MaryLou McGee to come back and take Sam to see the early showing of Star Wars.
“Sam?”
If anything, Sam grins wider, and he slides across the smooth leather of the Impala’s front seat until his knee nudges Dean’s.
“Sam, what is it?”
Sam’s fingers curl in the front of Dean’s shirt, hold him close and still, so all Dean can see – his entire world – has narrowed down to the gleaming white of Sam’s smile.
“I’m so fucking thankful,” Sam says, the warmth of his breath tickling Dean’s cheek, seeping through the doubts and defenses the way Sam has always been able to get through whether Dean wanted it or not. “For you,” Sam says.
And then Sam kisses him.
Lucifer’s waiting for them six months down the line, but right now they’re nowhere near Detroit and Sam is warm and real and grinning against Dean’s mouth, and Dean’s belly is full of three different kinds of pie, and all he can think is “Me too.”
