SPN FIC: Good Things Come (PG-13)

[unamaga]

Title: Good Things Come
Pairing: Sam/Dean, slightly gen
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: ~950 words
Notes: A sort-of-coda to last night's episode, 3x06. The boys really needed to make up.

The weather abruptly veers from a light chill to freezing in a matter of days.

Sam takes to wearing a ridiculous flap-eared hat that he’d bought at good will earlier in the month that’s a hideous plaid of orange and red and pushes his bangs down in front of his eyes; Dean’s never had so much fun just sitting across from someone in a diner before. The looks Sam gets from the rest of the patrons when he sits down and refuses to take it off are too classic to pass up, and even if Dean does look like a doofus by association, it’s usually worth it just to see the pissy glares Sam will throw his way.

Today, though, it’s not really as fun.

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, kicking Sam under the table and watching, all guarded hope, as Sam’s cheeks flush with annoyance. He hasn’t looked away from that stupid book since he sat down, and Dean’s about to start getting creative. “Hey, I think that chick over there is digging your hat, dude.”

Sam only glances up for a moment, glaring at Dean through slitted eyes, and then stabs a french fry and turns his attention back to his research.

It’s the most direct eye contact they’ve made in the past twenty four hours.

Dean sets down his fork with a clatter and reaches over the table – spilling the salt, sending some of the sugar packets flying into the aisle – and yanks the book away, closing it forcefully. “You,” he says, pointing at Sam with his free hand, “are being a jackass.” When Sam opens his mouth to protest, he adds, pointedly, “And you haven’t said more than two words to me all day.”

“Excuse me, I didn’t realize you were so needy,” Sam snaps meanly.

Dean frowns and stomps on Sam’s instep. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. You are being a complete jackass. Are you still pissed at me?”

Sam’s mouth thins into a straight, stubborn line, and gives up trying to get his book back, slumping down in the booth until he’s glaring at Dean’s throat. He looks exactly like he used to when he was six and too proud to admit he was tired and wanted to go to bed.

Making a split-second decision, Dean slaps down a few bills on the table and says, “Come on, bitch, we’re leaving.”

-

Thirty minutes later, the Impala pulls into a parking spot on the far side of the lot, and Dean jumps out.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he says impatiently, popping the trunk and pulling out Sam’s huge wooly scarf and the black gloves they usually only use on cases. He tosses them both at Sam’s chest and pulls out an extra hoodie for himself, tugging it on underneath his jacket.

“Where are we going?” Sam asks dubiously.

Dean gives him a lopsided smirk and walks backwards towards the concrete, crooking his finger to make Sam follow. “You’ll see, just trust me.”

-

“You’re kidding me,” Sam says blankly.

Gazing around with wide, gleaming eyes, Dean promises, “Not even a little.”

“Dean,” Sam mumbles, rubbing his forehead tiredly, “it’s cold and I’m exhausted. I just want to go back to the hotel and sleep for a while, okay?”

“No can do, little bro,” Dean says, bumping his shoulder with Sam’s. He sends him a sidelong, coaxing grin: eyebrows arched, just a bare hint of tongue behind his teeth. “Come on, Sammy, I’ll let you get to first on the Ferris Wheel, win you a stuffed animal at the shooting range…don’t you wanna have some fun?”

Sam looks torn, but eventually sighs and sticks his hands in his pockets. “If you try to grope me, I am going to kill you,” he says solemnly.

“Sure, right,” Dean nods, “no groping. Hey, look, hot dogs.”

They stuff their faces with hot dogs and cotton candy – or at least Dean does – until their pants start to feel a little too tight, and then Dean charms Sam into getting on the Gravitron with him and they only manage to keep everything down by smiling very, very forcefully at everyone they pass on the way to the Scrambler, which, true to its name, seems to be scrambling well enough that half the people on it are screaming their heads off.

“This is such a bad idea,” Sam gravely intones as they get on line, but he’s back to bumping shoulders with Dean when they walk and he doesn’t look as pinched around the eyes, so Dean thinks he can count this as a win even if someone ends up having to change his shirt.

Sam starts to look more like Sammy by the time they make it to the bumper cars, grinning wildly and chasing Dean – who’s speedier by far, but not half as vicious – around the rink in his little red number five; his knees are sticking out the sides awkwardly and he’s hunched over so far his orange plaid forehead is almost pressing against the padded steering wheel.

It’s just about the best thing Dean’s seen all year.

When they amble out of the place together, clutching hot mugs of cocoa, Dean knocks his elbow gently against Sam’s middle.

“Stop being mad at me,” he demands. “You can’t be mad at me anymore.”

Sam looks indescribably sad for a moment, a too-old soul trapped in a young body, and then he’s back to being Sammy again, and he’s reaching over to biff Dean affectionately on the back of the head with his knuckles.

“Quit being such an asshole about it then, okay? Deal? Just try at least.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “yeah, okay.”