pairing. Sam/Dean (preslash)
notes. Episode tag for 2.11 Playthings, approx. 325 words long.
The frayed knees of Dean’s jeans are because of gravel, his skin is scraped up underneath, they’d both missed the shot at the last minute and Dean paid the price in denim like he paid the price in everything else. But that was nearly a month ago and he’d practically forgotten.
The pants were folded over the edge of the chair by the table underneath the wedding dress that hung on the wall. Sam was asleep – passed out – on his stomach, skin under his shirt visible and prickly, like he was cold. Dean sighed, considered, then moved to his brother’s bed, wrestled Sam around and over, waking him up just enough to get him out of his jacket, the layers and layers of teeshirts and sweaters underneath, thumbed open Sam’s belt buckle and unzipped the fly, make it easier to sleep in heavy fabric. Sam’s hand caught at Dean’s elbow before Dean moved away, kept him still and in place.
Dean wasn’t sure what Sam was trying to do before. He pulled up the blankets from the foot of the bed and draped them over his brother.
Actually, he was pretty sure, wouldn’t have pushed Sam away if he wasn’t so positive. Sam was drunk, fucking wasted out of his mind and he didn’t know what he was saying, much less what he was doing – what with thumbs spread across cheekbones, holding on to Dean’s face like–
Shit. Like he was about to plant one, move a little to the left and forward for a perfect aim.
Dean was too tired to move, and it wasn’t as if he’d be break any rules if he just sort of– sat here, for a while. And if he wakes up in the morning with his brother warm and alcohol-breath and sleepy around him – it’s not like Sam would remember, anyways. Dean curled an elbow under his head, let his arm lie flat at his side.