rivers_bend

Today I was just going to write the minimum 300 words to satisfy my mini-nano, and then do homework. Two hours later, there is this. At least I'm not out getting crushed in shopping crowds... *g*

Title: Black Friday
Words: ~1500
Rating: Adult
Genre: Sam/Dean
Enticements/Warnings: Crack. And sex. And knitting.
Summary: Dean could be forgiven for thinking he maybe indulged too much on Turkey day.
A/N: I do not even know. I probably never should have eaten apple pie for breakfast.



"Sam," Dean says carefully, thinking he must still be dreaming, but wanting to check, "what are you doing?"

"Knitting," Sam answers, and holds up a turquoise and yellow scarf.

Well, scarf-to-be. Probably. Dean hopes it's not the start of a sweater or something worse.

"Am I dreaming?" Winchesters don't knit. Dean's pretty sure about that. And he was just napping after too much food and more than his share of the six-pack.

"Whether I say yes or no," Sam says, going back to clicking the needles, "that is the kind of question you can only truly answer for yourself."

"I'm dreaming," Dean decides. "I'm going to close my eyes again and this dream will go away and a better dream will come." He doesn't mention that the better dream involves Sam naked and not knitting, just in case he's not dreaming. Some things you don't share with your brother.

"Ok, Dean. You do that." Sam pats the turquoise ball on his lap, gives it a little squeeze, and then pulls a yard or so of yarn loose and goes on with his stripe.

Dean closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Sam is sitting on the other bed hunched over his laptop. "I think I found us a case," he says when he sees Dean looking at him.

Everything looks perfectly normal, except that he has a little snip of turquoise fluff on his shoulder. Dean ignores it. "Oh?" Dean says.

"High school football team, lost every game for three years, suddenly they're on a six-game winning streak. Same players, same coach. This article wonders if it's the new cheerleaders. I think they're saying it as a joke, but what if they're right?"

"Cheerleaders?" Dean can get behind a case with cheerleaders. No question.

It's a long drive to Texas, and there's no sign of yarn, scarves, or knitting needles the whole way. Dean forgets about his strange dream. They roll into town just in time for a Ram's home game, and he and Sam find seats and wait for the teams to come out. When Dean sees the Rams in their turquoise and yellow uniforms, the knitting comes back in a flash. He looks around at the crowd and sees that at least a third of them are wearing striped scarves, just like the one Sam was knitting.

"What the fuck?" he says.

Then the cheerleaders come out in their little turquoise skirts with yellow pleats and yellow sweaters with turquoise sleeves and, seriously. "What the fuck?"

"Dean, what?" Sam says. "And can you cut out the swearing? There're kids everywhere."

"I'm pretty sure high school students have heard the word 'fuck' before, Sam," Dean says and then remembers again why he was swearing. "You didn't tell me their school colors."

Sam looks at him like he's completely insane. "Does it matter what colors they wear?"

Dean looks again and now almost half the people filling the stands are wearing the scarves. "Were you knitting one of those the other day?" he asks, and gestures to the man two rows in front.

"Yes, Dean. You caught me. I'm a closet knitter. I haven't had time to finish it yet, or I'd be wearing it right now. Help us blend in more."

Sam sounds serious. Not like sarcastic-serious, though to be honest, he's been getting better at that, and Dean's finding it harder to tell sometimes. Not that he's admitting any of that to Sam. "You're an asshole," he says instead.

"Whatever."

The next thing Dean sees makes him swear again. Six more cheerleaders, this time in turquoise pants, which makes sense, given they're boys. Carrying a ram in a golden cage resting on poles on their shoulders. Dean's heard of mascots, but thinks that might be going a little too far.

"Wonder if those are the new cheerleaders," Sam says. He pulls his laptop out of his bag right there in the bleachers and starts googling something.

As though they aren't standing in front of a home-team crowd of Texas high school football fans, the boys with the ram put down the cage, make a circle around it, and start chanting. The skirt-wearing cheerleaders start chanting too, but they are saying "Go, team, go!" and not something that might be recognizable as Latin if Dean were a little closer, but might be some other ancient language, too. Maybe that's what Sam is googling.

No one else seems to be bothered by the chanting boys with the dubious-looking caged farm animal, and play is starting on the field. Dean asks Sam what he's doing with the laptop, and if this seems weird to him, but Sam ignores him. The Ram's quarterback has the ball and one of the cheerleaders takes out a knife and slices across his own palm, dripping blood down into the ram's mouth.

"Dean," he says as he does it. "Dean!"

Except it's Sam saying it. From his place on the bed, right behind Dean, all sort of curled around him under the covers. "What the hell are you doing in my bed, Sam?" Dean asks. He can get to the freaky-ass cheerleader dream later.

"Technically," Sam answers, rubbing a soothing hand down Dean's arm and back up again, "since it's the bed away from the door, I think it's mine. And I'm sleeping." He squeezes Dean's left biceps and then slides his hand under Dean's arm and down his chest. Which is taking soothing just a little bit too far.

"Sam?" Dean's getting alarmed. Because this feels very real, but it's too much like the better sorts of dreams he has for it to actually be real. And at any moment the blood-sacrificing cheerleaders might come back.

"Well, I was sleeping, until you started having a nightmare." Sam idly rubs his thumb over Dean's nipple.

"Is this part of the nightmare?" Dean asks.

"Thanks a lot!" Sam pinches Dean's nipple, hard. Which should wake Dean up, but nothing about the scene changes.

Nothing except that Dean's dick points out it quite likes the nipple pinching, stirring as though in hopes there might be more, which makes Dean realize that he's naked. With his brother's naked dick nuzzling against his left ass cheek.

"We're naked," Dean feels compelled to point out.

Sam pulls away and tips Dean onto his back so he can look down at him. He seems worried and is wearing bitch-face number three. "You promised you weren't drunk, Dean."

The change in scenery brings last night back. The turkey, the stuffing, the pie, the beer, the football game—the weird tension between them you could cut with a knife, that had led to Sam suggesting they "wrestle to work off some of that dinner."

Wrestling, that led to groping, that led to kissing, that led to making a sticky mess of Dean's sheets, and, apparently, sleeping curled together in Sam's bed.

Dean tries to smile reassuringly at his brother. "I wasn't drunk. Just, I was having really weird dreams. And this, you know…" He waves a hand around vaguely, hoping to encompass the new and different that is waking up naked next to Sam.

"You said you wanted it." Bitch-face number three is morphing into pissy lipthrust.

"I did." Uh oh, pouty-lipthrust. "I do. That's the point. Not really used to getting what I want." And Christ. Now Dean sounds like he's pouting. Time to put a stop to this whole ridiculous conversation.

The easiest way to shut Sam up, what with his face being right there, is to kiss him. It's also, it turns out, the best way. His lips are all soft and moist when he's pouting, and his hair feels right gripped in Dean's fist, and makes it easy for Dean to pull him closer. The pulling makes him lose his balance so that he falls onto Dean's chest, his thigh slotting between Dean's legs, and it's suddenly become a hot morning make-out session, which is a rocking change of subject, as far as Dean's concerned.

Sam seems pretty happy with it too, making little noises and lining up so he can wrap his hand around both their dicks. He gets his other hand between their chests and starts playing with Dean's nipples again. Between that, the stroking, and the feeling of Sam's ass muscles under Dean's hands, Dean forgets all about his dream, his confusion, and even bitch-face number three.

By the time they're done, Sam's sheets end up in a worse state than Dean's.

They shower together, but Sam, with his ridiculous hair, takes longer, so Dean starts packing up while Sam finishes. He's stuffing a pair of jeans in Sam's bag when he sees it. A chunky, hand-knit, turquoise and yellow striped scarf, folded in between two old tee-shirts.

Dean closes his eyes, zips up the bag, and decides that he's not going to ask.