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Fic: Two Times Dean Got Away With It (And One Time He Didn't)
Title: Two Times Dean Got Away With It (And One Time He Didn't)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,200ish
Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, playthings, blah, blah, cake.
Notes: For my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_fluffathon prompt, "Dean is obsessed with Sam's hoodies and steals them whenever possible." Um, I hope this is fluffy enough? And that thing in the middle is completely made up, as I'm sure you'll be able to tell. I have no idea.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,200ish
Disclaimer: Not mine, blah, blah, playthings, blah, blah, cake.
Notes: For my
spn_fluffathon prompt, "Dean is obsessed with Sam's hoodies and steals them whenever possible." Um, I hope this is fluffy enough? And that thing in the middle is completely made up, as I'm sure you'll be able to tell. I have no idea. 1. Don’t give something away unless you never want to see it again.
“A fuckin’ dragon,” Dean says incredulously, throwing his ruined t-shirt at the wall. “You couldn’t have maybe, I don’t know, warned me? Maybe?”
Sam calmly sits down on the edge of the motel bed, folded hands between his knees, and pointedly does not rise to the bait. “It was a wyvern, Dean.”
“Whatever. It spit fire, it had huge ass teeth, and it tried to eat my head. That’s good enough for me.” Dean pauses in pawing through his duffle and looks up, wide eyed. “That was my last shirt,” he says.
“I can lend you—“
“That bastard! He totally roasted my last shirt!”
Sam sighs and gets up, grabbing clean clothes from his bag. “Just take what you want from my bag. I’m gonna shower,” he says.
When he comes back out, Dean is curled up on the bed closest to the door, buried nose-deep in one of Sam’s sweatshirts. He’s out cold, and even Sam stifling laughter and tripping over a chair doesn’t wake him up.
“Hey, Dean,” Sam says, poking his head into the bathroom two weeks later. “Have you seen my blue hoodie?”
Dean ignores him for a minute, rubbing a washcloth over his face. “Nope. You probably left it in the car or something.”::: 2. Stop leaving your crap laying around if you don’t want me to take it
“Sam? Sam, are you down there?”
Blinking blood out of his eyes, Sam scrambles onto his knees and yells, “Dean! Jesus, man, the floor went out from under me. I don’t see a way back up.”
There’s a pause and the flashlight’s beam flickers back and forth until it’s resting squarely on Sam. “Did you break anything?”
“No, just a few scrapes. I’m ok,” Sam says, taking stock of his surroundings. There’s a big wardrobe off in one corner and a few damp-looking pieces of couch littering the concrete floor, but not much else. No doors, no ropes, not even a rickety ladder.
Something moves in Sam’s peripheral vision.
“Dean, I think whatever’s in the house is down here with me.” He hears Dean curse colorfully.
“You still have your gun at least?” he asks. The wood floorboards creek as he kneels down, trying to see the area around Sam better. “Please tell me you have your gun.”
“I don’t have my gun,” Sam says. “Do we even know what this is?”
Dean huffs above him. “No.”
“Great. That’s just…that’s great.” He looks around again and breaks off a leg from the rotting couch. At least it’s something. “You can’t see a way down from up there, right?”
“No,” Dean says again, and he sounds fainter. “Wait, I think…”
He trails off and Sam can’t hear him anymore, not even his soft footfalls. “Dean?” he calls. There’s no response and whatever’s lurking the shadowy corners of the room seems to gloat. “Fuck.”
The thing lurches forward, halting steps like it’s dragging something with one leg, and then the air in front of it is warping. Sam brandishes his couch leg and squints his eyes against the glare. When the light dims, there’s a huge snake, almost as tall as Dean, curled where the shadow creature had been before.
Sam remembers something about the strike range of a snake and how it’s equal to the snake’s sitting height, but that’s all he gets to think because the cobra is hissing and darting forward, long fangs out and aiming for his throat. There’s no room for Sam to maneuver—the basement is too small and the snake is too big—but he tries anyway, dropping to his knees and rolling left.
The cobra hits the stone wall with a sickening crunch.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean says from behind Sam. He has a portion of the stone wall pushed open like a door and Sam can see stairs over his shoulder. “What the hell is that thing?”
“I don’t really want to know,” Sam says, looking at the twitching corpse. “Think we should shoot it just in case?”
Dean looks a little surprised, but seems agreeable. They put four different kinds of bullets into the dead cobra before Sam’s satisfied.
“Could you be any more of a baby?” Dean asks mildly, dabbing at the cut on Sam’s forehead. Sam doesn’t say anything, just puffs out his cheeks to keep from whining. “You don’t even need stitches.”
“Maybe next time you can go one-on-one with a ten foot long king cobra,” Sam snaps, peevish.
“Easy, tiger.”
“I’m just saying. You got off easy, and aren’t you done yet? I want to shower.”
Dean rolls his eyes and lets his arms flop down. “Yeah, ok, fine. Just give me your freaking sweatshirt, I’ll get the stains out,” he says.
Sam strips down to his underwear, ignoring Dean when he wolf-whistles, and throws the soiled hoodie at his brother. “Don’t forget to put that little chocolate mint on my pillow, Alfred.”
Dean's laughter follows him into the shower.:::
3. When in doubt, deny, deny, deny.
“Man, I think we need to stop by goodwill or something. I have no heavy shirts,” Sam muses, rolling up another t-shirt and throwing it into his pack. “Have you seen any of my hoodies?”
Dean coughs and shakes his head. “I bet we forgot a load in the last Laundromat we went to. I can’t find any of my socks,” he says. Another cough.
“Are you getting sick?” Sam asks, coming up behind Dean and wrapping his arms around that slim waist. Dean shivers and freezes in the middle of rolling another pair of jeans. His fingers stay clenched, white-knuckled, around the hem when Sam’s nails scratch against his belly. “Are you?”
“N-no,” Dean says.
“Then why,” Sam’s fingers trace along the waistband of Dean’s boxers, dip inside, “are you coughing?”
Dean lets out a tiny moan, choked off and sweet. He drops the jeans and turns in Sam's arms, linking his wrists around Sam's neck and pushing his hips forward. "Stop teasing, Sammy."
“Tell me why you’re coughing,” Sam counters, walking them backwards until his legs hit the edge of one of the beds. The tumble back, and somehow Dean ends up splayed on top of him, one knee between his thighs and both his hands on Sam’s chest. Dean leans in to mouth along the line of Sam’s long neck.
“Is it because you have my sweatshirts stashed away in the trunk?” Sam murmurs, letting his hands fall against the swell of Dean’s ass. Dean lets out a startled, high sound, rocking forward against Sam’s hip.
“I know you steal them, Dean.” He presses his lips right behind his brother’s ear. “I know you like the smell of me on them. You wear them when you think I won’t notice. But I do.”
“God, shut up,” Dean moans, fumbling with the button of Sam’s jeans. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”
Sam laughs a little, giddy, and says, “Make me.”
Dean’s lips purse and his eyes narrow. “Is that a challenge?”
“You betcha.”
“Oh, bitch,” Dean says, and then neither one of them says anything for a good hour.
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