rating. 14a for Sam/Dean preslash/slash.
notes. 650 words of untitled (a stanford fic) accompanyment for anteka's birthday. Listening to Our Lady Peace - 4 A.M. is highly recommended.
See, it’s easy. Sam could either leave with Dean, or without Dean. When he thought of it like that, it wasn’t much of a choice at all.
It started the second week, at least that’s when Sam thinks it started. I think it actually began earlier, maybe around when he had to make that decision, but when Dean got back from his first hunt since they’d arrived, and Sam saw him – bruises at his temples, wide as fuck smile, the stupid textbook with its stupid dogeared pages - Sam’s never been so glad.
Dean grinned, threw his duffle bag at Sam’s head; Sam caught it easily, set it down, and nearly moved to hug his brother but managed a sharp punch to Dean’s arm instead.
“Oww! Sam, if you’re gonna smack me up whenever I come home, I’m just gonna stay gone.” The smile that crinkled around the corners of his mouth contradicted everything he just said.
Or you could stay. “Chili's in the pot, bitch.” Sam grabbed two bowls out of a cupboard while Dean grabbed two forks from the stainless steel dish thing.
Nothing could have felt better.
“To summarize. Studies have proven that infant rhesus monkeys will always know that their food comes from the wire frame decoy, but they will only develop a social/relational bond with the fur-covered decoy. The conclusion is then that-”
Sam’s phone started ringing, this track that Dean must have downloaded because there was no way he’d set Justin Timberlake as his ringtone, thanks. He had standards.
Face flushed, stepped out past his professor’s glares because he knew better than to miss Dean’s call. He flipped open his phone and looked down – it wasn’t even an actual call, just a picture. Something on fire, something like a stuffed dog, looked like. Dean’s thumb was in the shot, and Sam could read every whorl. Got it. Coming home.
Sam grinned, leaned up against the wall outside the classroom for a second, and then stepped back in.
The professor glared at him. “Young man. If you answer a phone call during lecture again, I will have to ask you to leave this course. Permanently.”
“Sure.” Sam said.
It still smelled like black fur, bits of it stuck in their hair and on their clothes. Lucky it was a weekend, it would take them days to get it all out, smoke smell breathed in.
“Still only possessed ugly dogs?” Sam laughed, wheezed a little. Dean shrugged, glanced up and caught Sam’s look, smiled with just his eyelashes.
“At least it wasn’t a fucking wolfhound this time.”
Sam moved very slowly, stood in front of Dean, leaned in carefully. Dean’s breath hitched in his throat and he shifted to move away, but Sam bent and kissed him lightly, pulled back.
“Sam-” Dean’s voice nearly cracked.
“In the morning,” Sam whispered. “Let’s go to bed.”
Sam’s hand was at Dean’s belt, thumb and forefinger rucked up under Dean’s shirt, cold against bare skin. Dean was flushed, eyes bright with everything he was thinking and Sam kind of never wanted that to go away.
“Holy shit, Sam. Everything she just said – it makes sense. I mean, that whole idea, that everything is copy, nothing’s original – the exception that makes the rule, huh?”
Sam smiled. “I think you might have to go over Baudrillard with me when we get home, I got lost as soon as she said ‘map.’”
“Course you did.” Dean paused midstride and Sam nearly missed it.
Dean looked behind him, pulled them both around a corner, pressed Sam up against a wall and leaned in.
“Don’t think I don’t know.” Dean muttered quietly, kept his eyes on Sam’s mouth.
“Don’t know what?”
“What you’re thinking. Me, too.”
Sam shook his head, but Dean tugged lightly at the beltloops at Sam’s hips, tilted up enough to kiss him back.