rivers_bend

Title: Holding Pattern
Author: rivers_bend
Fandom: Supernatural
Genre: Wincest and pre-slash
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: teen
Words: ~4,100
Prompt: The best part of Dean's day is cuddling with Sam in the morning.
A/N: Written for the eagerly anticipated fluffandfold hiatus ficathon. Huge Thank yous to wendy for organizing it and for her prompt. lima_sierra, rejeneration and mickeym all helped with this in various and wonderful ways. THANK YOU.
Summary: One way or another, Dean's always been holding on to Sam.


August 11th 2010

Summer in Maine, the sun rises early. That doesn't make Dean feel any less tired when he sees the motel silhouetted against a sky edged with pink. Up all night feels like up all night whether the sun comes up at 4am or six. Dean’s sure there needs to be a rule that clearly allows for him to lie down and close his eyes for at least an hour between one daybreak and the next.

Sam hasn't said a word in twenty miles and his hand on Dean's knee is heavy with sleep. Dean takes a minute to savor the irony that the guilt he feels about being half-hard is due to the fact he's so tired he doubts he could finish getting it up even if Sam had his hand down Dean's fly. It seems like only yesterday the guilt would have been over the fact it was his brother he was getting hard over, but next month it will be three years since he and Sam decided the incest taboo was the least of their worries. Dean traces the edge of Sam's finger, shivering as it curls a little tighter on his leg, and then puts his hand back on the wheel so he can make the sharp turn into the lot.

"Hey, Sammy, time to wake up. Bed's just the other side of that door. " Dean threads his fingers through Sam's hair.

"I almost shot a moose," Sam mutters, pressing his head back into the warmth of Dean's palm.

Dean thinks for a moment that Sam is telling him about a dream and then he remembers the huge antlered beast they'd come across in the woods. "'Almost' doesn't put meat on the table," he says, wondering if Sam's awake enough to rise to the bait.

Apparently, yes. "You wouldn't eat a moose?" Incredulity filtered through that level of sleepiness comes out pretty much as adorable, but Dean's not saying anything about that.

"Moose burger, moose steak, moose pie…" The little wrinkle between Sam's eyebrows deepens every time Dean says the word moose.

"Dean, stop it." Sam is trying to sit up and disentangle Dean's hand from his hair, opening the car door at the same time, making him not very successful at any endeavor.

"Sorry. I know. No moose. Come on, let's get in bed before the sun's any higher." Dean unbuckles Sam's seatbelt since he seems to have forgotten that step entirely.

Sam's never exactly loved hunting animals, but he was always happy to eat whatever venison or other game Dad came home with when they were growing up. He pitched a screaming, kicking, all-out-fit the one time their dad had tried to kill a moose, however. Thirteen and old enough to know better, Sam was at that awkward age where his height was outstripping his weight so you were scared he'd snap like a twig if you so much as looked at him sideways. Despite that, he'd jumped on Dad, wrestled the crossbow from his hands, and started punching him in the head.

At first, Dad was confused, giving Dean enough time to pull Sammy off his chest before he got to mad. Dean'd sat in the dirt with Sam huddled on his lap, crying of all things, begging, "Don't let him, Dean. We can't. Don't let him kill the moose. We can't do it."

"What the hell's gotten into your brother?" Dad's hands were busy checking his crossbow, but his eyes were on Dean and he expected an answer.

"Shh, Sammy, shush, it's okay," he whispered into his brother's hair, and then said, "I don't know, sir. But maybe we could try for a deer? You know Sam doesn't get like this over nothing."

To Dean's surprise, Dad just said, "Okay. A buck's easier to get back to the truck anyway. But for god's sake, shut him up." He stomped off muttering something about pansy-assed kids, expecting Dean would follow him when Sam calmed down.

Sam never did explain his thing about moose, but he remained adamant that they weren't to be killed, shot at, maimed or eaten, and he was moody for hours the few times they'd seen one as road kill. Dean teased Sam about it occasionally through high school and then forgot about it while Sam was at Stanford. Sam might tell him now what the moose thing was all about, but they're both too tired for Dean to want to pursue it at the moment.

Dean moves his hand from Sam's neck to his shoulder blade and helps him sit forward. "Don't worry about it. You didn't shoot the moose. You shot the ghost, you found the bones, you watched me do all the digging. Now it's time for beddie-by."

"You're a dick, Dean." Sam finally gets the door open and hauls himself out of the car.

"I know. S'why you love me." Just last night, or the night before, whenever it was they'd last seen a bed, Dean had quite clearly heard Sam say, 'I love your dick,' so he knew it was true.

Stripping off his clothes, Sam pulls back the comforter, slides into the bed, one of the advantages of not being filthy fucking gross from having to dig. Dean watches for a minute, unable to resist the way Sam's muscles move under his skin, but even that fails to do more than create a lazy stir in his belly, so he goes to scrub off the grave dirt. Sam is sound asleep when Dean comes back.

Knowing he doesn't need to worry about waking him when Sam's this tired, Dean climbs in beside his brother. The sheets are cold on his shower-heated skin, but Sam's made a pocket of warmth already under his side of the covers. He's fallen asleep half on his side, half on his stomach, facing away from the center of the bed. Perfect for cuddling.

When Sam's awake, Dean satisfies himself with resting a hand on his hip, or lying with his forehead pressed against Sam's shoulder, or curling up so his shin is resting along Sam's calf. Because encouraged beyond that, Sam will wrap Dean in those freakishly long limbs of his and tease and tease and tease about how Dean would rather cuddle than fuck. Which is totally not true.

Mostly.

But when Sam is asleep like this, Dean can drape himself over Sam's back, push a leg between his brother's so that Sam's balls rest on his thigh, nuzzle his nose into the back of Sam's neck, rest a hand in his hair, slide an arm under Sam's and intertwine their fingers. It makes him feel like the big brother in more than just age, despite Sam's size. He can be trusted and depended on to protect Sam from anything.

Plus, who wouldn't want to nestle their cock between the cheeks of Sam's amazing ass?

December 24th-25th 1990

Sammy's seven, Dean's eleven, and they're spending Christmas in Texas, holed up in an old stable on a ranch that belongs to a friend of a friend who has a lead on the Demon. The guy's kids and grandkids are around for the holiday so he's got a full house, but he says John and the boys are welcome for Christmas dinner, there are spare mattresses out there from when the grandkids camp out in the summer, and the electrics're still working, stay as long as you'd like. His wife even gives them an old tree in a pot and some tinsel which Dean can tell Dad's about to refuse until he sees the eager look in Sam's eyes.

Last Christmas was spent with Pastor Jim. He’d read Sam the Christmas story out of his big bible, so while they're unpacking the Impala, Sam keeps asking Dean if wise men will come and bring them presents if they're sleeping in a stable like Jesus. Dean doesn't know about wise men, but he's got a He-man action figure he won off a kid at school that’s all wrapped in the Sunday funnies so Sam has something to open in the morning. Dean hedges and tries distraction until Dad finally tells Sam to can it and stop bothering his brother.

Though the right side of the stable is an open space big enough for the Impala, they leave the car outside. The rest of the building is taken up by the three horse stalls along the left-hand wall. Two of the stalls are filled with old junk, but one is twice as big as the others and has two cots and a table with a lamp on it. Dean figures Dad and Sam will sleep there and he'll get the mattress up in the old hayloft overlooking the stalls. Dad's been keeping an eagle eye on Sam since Wisconsin.

Instead, John climbs half-way up the ladder and peers around before saying, "Why don't you boys camp out up here? Sound good, Sammy? Want to sleep in the loft with your brother?"

"Okay!" Sam says, and Dean can tell he's excited. "Come on, Dean, let's check it out."

There's a dusty glass window under the eaves that lets in the afternoon sun, and a few musty bales of hay. The old double mattress is tucked up against the railing above the stalls. Dean doesn't want Sam to fall, and he's pulling it back towards the wall when he hears Dad call up, "Dean, why don't you move that mattress so your brother doesn't roll down out of there in the night."

He doesn't bother saying he already is, just yells back, "Sure, Dad."

Sam brings up the sleeping bags and pillows one at a time, being extra careful on the ladder when Dean tells him to. Once he's laid them all out on the bed to his satisfaction, he comes over to join Dean at the railing. "Hey," he whispers. "We can spy on Dad from up here."

Dean hooks an arm around Sam's neck and giggles as John sits on one of the cots and it makes an alarming creaking sound. He stands quickly, tests the other cot by leaning down and shaking it and then moves his sleeping bag over when it seems more stable. "I hear you laughing up there." He looks up and smiles. "Get down here and set up that tree if you want it."

The boys scramble down the ladder and put the tree in the corner. Dean supervises while Sammy drapes the tinsel on the branches. "I made—" Sam starts and then goes pink and won't look at Dean.

"You made what?"

"They made us do, like, ornaments. With Santa and reindeer and stuff. At school. I have 'em in my bag. Maybe I could put them on the tree?" Sam's almost cringing like he thinks Dean's gonna smack him upside the head.

"That sounds great!" Dean's class made ornaments too, but he threw his away when the teacher wasn't looking. Now he kinda wishes he'd kept them. He wasn't expecting a tree this year.

Sam has two reindeer made out of clothespins, a candy cane made from pipe cleaners, and a Santa made of felt and cotton balls. Dad gives them some fishing line and Dean helps him make loops so they can hang them on the tree. They aren't much, but the tree is only small anyway, and they look pretty good.

"How'd you get to make so many?" Dean asks.

"We could make as many as we wanted once we finished the spelling sentences, and those are easy, so I had lots of time."

"Well, you did a good job." Dean ruffles Sam's hair.

Dad comes up behind them and puts a hand on each of their heads. "What do you two boys want for Christmas Eve dinner? Tacos or pizza?"

"Tacos," Sam says, at the same time Dean says, "Pizza."

"Well, sort it out between you. We're not having both. We're going in and sitting down and having napkins and silverware and everything. It's Christmas."

The taco place has enchiladas which taste a little bit like pizza, if Dean uses his imagination, and Dad's in a good mood, and Dean almost forgets the scared feeling that's been lurking in the pit of his stomach since he saw that thing sucking the life out of his little brother at the motel in Fort Douglas. Sam falls asleep in the car on the way back to the ranch.

The water in the sink at the rear of the stable is rusty and John doesn't like the look of it, so they all brush their teeth in Holy Water. When they're done, he looks his sons in the eye. "Now. I don't want to see either of you boys until six o'clock tomorrow morning, understand?"

They do.

Sharing a bed with Sam is a little like sharing a bed with a litter of puppies, and Dean wonders if they're ever going to get any sleep. Finally he clamps an arm over Sam's chest and hisses, "Stop it! What's wrong with you? Is your bag full of ants?"

"Tomorrow's Christmas," Sam says.

"I know. But tomorrow's never gonna get here unless you go to sleep."

"Ok." Sam's quiet and still for less than a minute. "Dean?" he starts.

"Boys, go to sleep." Dad doesn't sound happy. "Now."

"Yes, sir," they say in unison.

It doesn't take long after that for Sam to start huffing in the way he does when he isn't quite snoring. Dean slides out of his sleeping bag and sneaks the He-man out of his duffle. Peering over the side, he sees Dad's turned off the light and seems to be asleep. Quiet as he can, which is pretty quiet, Dean creeps down the ladder. He's surprised to see four wrapped boxes under the tree. Two of them have his name on the cards. Two are for Sammy. He tucks his present behind the pile, worrying for a minute that he should have gotten something for Dad. He can't think of anything Dad wants though, except maybe another gun, or the Demon, or mom back, and Dean can't get him any of those things. He wishes he could.

Dad doesn't stir as Dean sneaks past him and up to bed. Sam hates being wrapped up and has unzipped his sleeping bag in his sleep somehow. He's lying on top of it and has pulled Dean's still zippered bag over himself. Dean's not sure what to do. He doesn't want to lie on the bare mattress, so he pushes Sam over, spreading Sam's bag out like a sheet. Curling up next to his brother, Dean unzips his own bag, tucking it over both of them. Sam snorts but doesn't wake up.

It seems like only a few minutes later when Dean feels Sam trying to burrow under his arm. From right under Dean's neck, Sam whispers, "Is it six yet?"

Dean's on his left side, facing the center of the bed. Sam's head is on his left shoulder, his lips are right against Dean's ear, and he's got Dean's right arm draped across his back. His hair is in Dean's mouth and his sharp toenails are poking Dean in the knee. Sometimes little brothers are just a big fat pain. Dean manages to get his left wrist above the level of Sam's head and his right hand over to hit the glow button. His watch is a Timex, his Christmas present from Pastor Jim last year. Dean's proud that he hasn't broken it or lost it. He's good at taking care of stuff, even if some people, like his teacher, think he's too young for a watch that nice.

"It's four fifty-one," he whispers back, super quiet so Dad won't hear.

"Do you think there are presents?" Sam is still whispering but he's starting to wiggle.

"Dunno, but we have to wait. Dad said six." Dean starts to rub Sam's back, hoping he can calm him down.

"Is four fifty-one almost six?"

"No. Now go back to sleep."

"But what if there’re presents?" This isn't said so quietly, and now Sam's clutching at Dean's t-shirt.

"They'll still be there at six. Be quiet."

"Are you mad?" Sam's hushed and up in Dean's ear again.

"No. I'm not mad. But Dad will be if you wake him. Roll over, and I'll rub your back. Ok?" Dean used to do this when Sam was younger and couldn't sleep.

Sam rolls onto his belly, face turned towards Dean, huge smile on his lips. Dean rubs little circles between his shoulder blades and Sam whispers, "Bigger."

"Shh," Dean says, but moves to stroke from the nape of Sam's neck down his spine.

Sammy closes his eyes, but Dean can tell from the way he's playing the edge of the pillowcase between his fingers, he's not getting sleepy.

Dean watches him for a while but feels his eyes drifting shut. Before he knows it, Dad's moving around downstairs and calling, "Boys, you gonna come down and see if there's presents under this tree?"

"It's six!" Sammy's up and running towards the ladder before Dean can even lift his head off the pillow.

Dad laughs. "It's ten past seven. I have to say, I was surprised you let me sleep in this morning."

"Dean, Dean! There's presents!"

Dean pulls his jeans on and makes his way down the stairs. He smells hot chocolate and coffee. Dad's sitting on a chair with three cups on the floor next to him. Sam's on his knees next to the tree, bouncing up and down. Dad's starting to look impatient and for a minute, Dean wishes he was back upstairs rubbing Sam's back. But then John smiles, and tells Sam to open his presents. He nods at Dean and Dean goes to sit by Sam, reaching for his own presents. Sam's torn into the first box and pulled out a pocket knife. "Thanks," he says, looking at Dad and then opening the different blades.

Dean's first present is a carved wooden box. It's covered in symbols he's seen in the books at Bobby's house. Inside is a leather bag with the top sewn shut. He looks at his dad, curious.

"It's for protection. Keep it with your stuff."

Dean nods.

Next Sam opens a book. Leather covers and lined pages. Something for him to write in. "That's from Bobby. Don't forget to thank him next time we go and see him. You too, Dean. That box's from him."

"Yes, sir." They both speak at once.

Dean opens the smaller package with his name on it. Inside's a keychain with a key to the Impala and a key to the gun box on it. He doesn't know what to say.

"You're not old enough to drive yet, and you are never to take the car without my permission. But you're a good driver, and I think you're old enough to be trusted with those now."

"Thanks, Dad." Dean feels a tightness in his chest like the time he got knocked into a tree, except it doesn't really hurt. Dad looks at him like maybe he thinks Dean is going to say something else, but when he doesn't, Dad just nods a little and sips his coffee while he watches Sam reach for the last present.

"Who's this one for?" Sam looks back and forth between Dean and his father.

Dad nods his head towards Dean. "Nothing to do with me," he says.

"That's for you." Dean's suddenly shy. "I got it for you. I hope—"

Sam tears open the paper. "Oh, wow! He-man!" He jumps on Dean and hugs him, arms around his neck, He-man jabbing him in the back.

The tightness in Dean's chest moves to his throat, but it's more a happy kind of tightness. "Hey! You're squishing me," he says, but his arms are around Sammy's back and he's not letting go.

September 17th 2007

Dean's in the desert, Arizona maybe, or New Mexico, lying in the back seat of the Impala, wrapped in heavy blankets. It feels like the car's in the sun, but everything is dim and hard to see. One of the blankets has a fringe that keeps getting in his mouth. When he tries to push it away a cat jumps up and lands on his chest, its paws somehow kneading at his hip. If Sam let a cat hitch a ride in his car, they are going to have words.

And where is Sam, anyway? Is this really the Impala? As tightly as he's wrapped in the blankets, his legs are stretched out, and generous as his baby is, he hasn't been able to stretch out in the back seat in more than a decade. Maybe this is something else. Somewhere else. His year up without warning, flown past in what seemed like a couple of months, all this heat, hellfire. At least he missed the hounds. Except he still can't find Sam. Didn't get to say goodbye. Didn't get to tell him everything he'll need to know.

As Dean struggles to get his bearings, to figure out if this is hell, he takes a deep breath. And smells Sam. No sulphur, no brimstone, just Sam. And sex. The cat's paw, or whatever it was stroking the line of his hipbone is now grown to something big enough to wrap around his pelvis, cupping the curve of his ass.

Sex. His ass. Sam. What the fuck?

Without changing his breathing, or moving a muscle, Dean goes from asleep to awake. Cracks an eye and sees the top of Sam's shaggy head, which is resting on his chest.

Riiiight.

Except, really, not. As much as something very similar to this scenario has been in Dean's wet dreams for longer than he'd like to think about-- hello, brothers. Just because he's going to hell doesn't mean he's planning on putting Sam in this position.

He's about to ask Sammy what the hell he thinks he's doing when the smell registers again and the night before comes back in a rush. The shouting, the pushing, the punching and, oh yeah, the fucking. All of which explains the stiff ache in his muscles and the bruised feeling on his cheekbone and in his ass, but not really the fact that his arm is wrapped around Sam's shoulders, Sam's around his waist. Because sex is sex, but this feels an awful lot like cuddling.

Winchesters don't cuddle. Well, not with each other.

Sam is radiating heat like he's trying to power a small city and he's practically lying on top of Dean, so it’s no wonder he was dreaming about the desert. Now that he's awake though, it's kind of nice. The air conditioner is on high and Dean figures he'd be chilled if he asked Sam to move.

Sam's rubbing his thumb along the small of Dean's back and wrapping his leg over Dean's hips, twisting Dean a little to pull him between his thighs. Dean was getting stiff lying on his back like that, anyway, so he lets Sam move him and press, oh, his hard-on in the groove of Dean's pelvis. Dean never thought Sam would be the guy who humps people in their sleep. It's kind of perverted. But not as perverted as humping your brother, and Dean really doesn't want to talk about that, so he doesn't say anything.

Though Sam isn't really humping anyway. It's more a nuzzling. Once he's got Dean settled against him, he just buries his nose in Dean's neck and breathes. Except where occasionally he's kissing. Or licking.

Dean starts to wonder if it's embarrassing that he's been pretending to be asleep for the last five minutes, and if it is, if it's more embarrassing for him or for Sam. Or maybe Sam knows he's awake and has been wondering why Dean hasn't said anything. And is that better, or worse?

But there's something addictive about just being held. About letting Sam touch and move him with no expectation of response. Dean wants to tell Sam he's acting like a girl. That if he wants to stroke something, Dean's dick is a whole lot more interested than his spine, but it's like he's drugged, or still asleep, his body rebelling and just relishing Sam's attention.

Besides. If Dean 'wakes up', Sam'll only want to talk. About the sex, or the deal, or something. And Dean would like to put that off as long as possible. So Dean just shifts his arm a little so it's more comfortable, and if it happens that means it's curled more tightly around Sam's shoulder? That's just coincidence.

"I know you're awake," Sam says, and Dean stiffens, starts to pull away. "Don't worry." Sam pulls him back. "I don't want to talk."

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"What…" Dean's almost afraid to ask. "What do you want?"

"This," Sam says.

Dean realizes that he doesn't want to argue.