every breath is a victory (moveablehistory) wrote in thistogether,
every breath is a victory
moveablehistory
thistogether

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a slight cause and almost celebration

title. a slight cause and almost celebration
rating. 14a.
pairing. Sam/Dean, blink-and-miss-it Sam/Jensen Ackles reference.
notes. “Experimental” “writing” about 1580 words long. Dean is drunk, and also Sam is drunk, and also possibly me, thanks. Happy birthday, Dean.



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Sam grinned, a wide-mouthed and full-of-teeth grin, laid back on the bed (two singles, thanks) and waved around a tiny minibar bottle of Cuervo – a bottle so tiny that a kitten couldn’t have gotten drunk off of it, but Sam was doing a favourable impression of somebody who about, about to fall over.

“Shit, Sammy, this is not that much alcohol.” Dean steered Sam from the chair he’d been sitting on (in front of a desk, which the laptop sat on, which was a mac, thanks, and no Sam was not surfing porn, he was just deleting his bookmarks) to the bed farther from the door, facing the window because Dean knew it was west-facing and he was an awesome older brother who wasn’t going to let his little brother have a sun-aggrevated headache in the morning, because that would suck, and also Dean was supposed to be on the outside because he was older, like today, which meant that Sam was a whole number year younger than before, which just made him littler, even though he was taller, which wasn’t fair.

And also, the makers of this tequila bottle lied about the percentage of alcohol, he was sure. And the bare lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling, which was also very white, was interesting and possibly pretty, although he would not say ‘pretty’ out loud.

Sam didn’t let go when Dean pushed him down on the bed, which just meant that Dean fell on him, which he hadn’t meant to do, and he was too tired but not at all comfortable. It was disconcerting, and also confusing. Dean stuck his nose in the space where Sam’s neck met Sam’s shoulder, and breathed, but not too deep. Sam ran his hand up Dean’s back, just lightly, and only for a second, and Dean would have shrugged it off but he didn’t.

"Sam, this is the gayest thing you’ve ever done.” Dean’s voice was muddled because Sam’s shirt was in the way of proper air flow. “Wait, I take it back. That dude, Jensen? He’s the gayest thing you’ve ever done." He wasn’t supposed to know about that, but he did, because he’d checked in on Sam more often than he cared to admit and yeah.

"Jesus, don’t remind me." Sam sounded about three years away, which was accurate because he was four years away and one year and a bit back, so things evened out, sort of.

"What? Why?" Dean didn’t mean to say that, because he wasn’t supposed to know about that in the first place. Or that Sam sometimes dated guys, or whatever. Sam wasn’t going to remember this in the morning, anyways, he hoped, because he hoped he wasn’t going to remember this in the morning, either.

"‘Cause I thought he was you, you jerk." This time Sam’s voice sounded like it came from inside his head, which he knew was impossible because Sam was not capable of tele– fuck. Telesomething, and if he was then Dean was kind of screwed because private thoughts were supposed to be private for a reason, and not public. For a reason. And also, Cuervo was evil, and should possibly be salted. Wait, it was salted. Damnit. Maybe more salt, less lime. Or something. He couldn’t remember drinking it in the first place, maybe it was all Sam, maybe it was all the pressure of everything and he was cracking, but he didn’t think so. He hoped.

"Jesus, Sammy, that is fuuuuucked up." And he drew his syllables out because it was easier to talk that way. Fuuuuuuuuctted sounded better. Dean didn’t pause to consider the actual level of fucked-up-ness, because he did a guy, in Vegas, who was tall and kind of lanky, and who had brown hair he could hold on to, and there were worse things than wanting to fuck your brother. Like wanting to kill your brother, and they’d managed to get past that, more or less. Sometimes the tiny scars on his chest itch.

"Tell me about it. God, I’m so drunk. And you’re heavy." Sam shifted around, didn’t bother with moving his hands when their shifting-around movementness meant that one square palm attached itself to the small of Dean’s back, Dean would have shrugged it off but he was too comfortable to move, and also a hand there was kind of all right, mostly, and he could ignore that it was Sam’s hand if he wanted. But this chest thing was another story. And Sam was evidently not to aware of what he was saying, because Cuervo was evil, and would be taken care of. In the morning.

"You’re hard." Hard, like a skillet to the back of the head. And uncomfortable because he wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, even though he was. And it was fucked. And that was okay, mostly.

Sam pushed at Dean with a sort of futility. "What?" Dean could tell that Sam was looking at him with something approaching sobriety, and that wouldn’t do.

"Fuck. Hard. I can’t sleep on you, you’re as uncomfortable as hell. Why'd you pull me down anyways?" And that was the crux of the matter, was it not? Even at their most inebriated there was a sort of sense of careful placement, in case something came crashing through the front window and it was important that you wake up knowing exactly where your closest weapon was, or even a sturdy lamp, or possibly corded telephone for garroting purposes. Has it been mentioned yet that they’re fucked up? And so Sam knew what he was doing, or at least his hands did.

"Uhh. Forgot to let go?" Sam was making excuses now, and Dean was going to call him on it, if it was possible.

"Crapass excuse, dude." Which was a lame comeback, but he was all tapped out right now.

“You gonna get off me?” Sam sounded closer, like possibly six months away, or possible lips an inch from his ear, breath tickling. It sounded like Sam had said get me off, but that wasn’t the case.

“No. Wasted.” Besides, Dean didn’t want to, and it was his birthday, and that was enough reason to satisfy. And also he’d doing enough moving for now, or possibly ever.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Sam bent enough to pull the covers up over them both, even though they were still dressed, and it was counterintuitive to the whole ‘not sleeping’ part of his sentence. But it had cooled down some, and so it wasn’t so bad, and the blankets were not scratchy.

“What? No. Why?” Dean made sure to breathe out through his mouth, because then the pocket of air under the covers would get all warm and moist, and it made it easier to sleep, even through the air conditioning was on.

“Mmmm.”

Sam shifted and moved closer, which was almost impossible, but only almost. He stuck his leg over Dean’s thigh, and the line up his body was too hot to be so close. “Damnnit, Sam.”

“Mmm.” Sam threw an arm over Dean’s shoulder, and pulled him down, and Dean would definitely have turned away if he could have. Which he could have. He was sort of confused.

“Awww, Sammy, fuck that.” He moved to get up, but Sam wasn’t having any of that and he was just about passed out, not even thinking.

“Nawww, fuck me.” Dean knew Sam hadn’t meant to say that, but Sam said it anyways and nobody was forgetting this in the morning.

José wasn’t enough to get them both drunk like this, and they both knew it. It would have been easier if they could pretend it was as bad as all that, but it wasn’t and sometimes Dean was sick of pretending, and sometimes on special days – like today, it was his birthday after all – he took the liberty of being honest with himself, and sometimes even with others. While he pretending the whole time. It was a paradox.

Therefore, Dean didn’t have to say anything in as many words, but the slight and careful motion of pressing his hips down against Sam’s, and also leaving tiny bitemarks underneath Sam’s jaw– it was very late at night and this was eloquence enough.

When Dean woke up in the morning he was sprawled out on his stomach, pillow creases and funny-looking button marks on his face. There was aspirin and a black extra-large cup of coffee on the nightstand, and Sam was on his knees in front of the toilet.

“Sam? Sammy? You alright in there?” His voice was too loud and it bounced around inside his skull.

Sam groaned, spat into the bowl and flushed it, got up and brushed his teeth. Then Sam stepped into the room proper, very carefully shielded his eyes from sunlight while he walked over to the bed, then bent down and kissed Dean with very little self-awareness and no preamble. Licked lips open and slipped a hand around the back of Dean’s head, said good morning and hope you had a happy birthday.
Tags: fandom: supernatural, genre: angst, genre: comedy, genre: drama, genre: schmoop, length: 1000-2000, pairing: sam/dean, rating: 14a, style: experimental
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