SPN fic: I can't wait to fall in love with you Sam/Dean R

This is unforgivable schmoop. It is the shmoopiest shmoop that ever, er, shmooped. I don't know. I honestly don't. I'm sorry. Blame dea_liberty. If she weren't so freaking awesome, I wouldn't have been moved to write this for her. Alas, she is, and it's all for Dea.





It happens on a Tuesday, when they're sitting in a laundromat in Jersey, pressed tight from shoulder to thigh and talking about nothing. Dean says, fucking Pac-man gives me the creeps, dude, while casting suspicious looks at the ancient arcade game hulking in the corner. Sam feels something soft and hot burst in his chest and he just. Tilts. Shifts, and his lips are pressed against Dean's.

It's not what he expected. For one, he imagined the smell of leather and cotton, and all he can smell now is cheap laundry detergent and expensive fabric softener and stale coffee. He imagined that Dean would groan softly and slide his hands into Sam's hair and pull him closer, kiss him hard and rough, demanding...and...something. It all gets a little fuzzy, but...something. What actually happens is that Dean's mouth is soft soft soft against his and wet, and Dean rests a hand gently on Sam's shoulder. Not pushing or pulling, but reassuring.

When he pulls away, his smile is slanting and shy and his face is a little flushed. "Well." It's more a sigh than a word.

Sam runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it anxiously. "I." He planned for more words to come out after that, but Dean stands abruptly.

"I'm gonna go get a slushie," he says. Sam tries not to gape, but he thinks he fails spectacularly. "You want?"

"Um. No?"

"'kay."

Sam hadn't expected Dean to push him up against the shiny wall of washers and take him right there or anything, really, he'd been too nervous about the actual kiss to think, but he did expect something to happen. And the thing is, Dean's kind of all about instant gratification. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. Hungry? Hork some gas station junk food. Horny? Pick up a girl in a bar and introduce her to the back seat of the Impala. Dean's not the kind of guy, Sam thinks, to sit in a movie theater with a girl and get sweaty palms wondering if he should put his arm around her or not. The only time Dean takes girls to the movies is when they want a more private place to fuck than the backseat of a car.

Which makes what happens next kind of ironic.


&

They go to the movies.

Dean's munching on popcorn and wiping his greasy fingers on Sam's jeans and something on the screen is blowing up. Sam thinks quietly and desperately about just banging his head on the seat-back in front of him until he's unconscious, because pretty much anything would be better than this.

Several more explosions occur in rapid succession and Dean cackles gleefully and rubs his hand together, looking just this side of insane. Sam wants to kiss him again. Wants to kiss the corner of his mouth which probably tastes like salt and butter and—

Dean grins over at him, fast and bright and carefree. Sam grits his teeth and forces his mouth into some horribly grotesque shape possibly resembling an answering smile.

He's starting to seriously consider that whole unconscious thing when Dean leans back, kicking his feet up onto the back of the empty seat in front of him, and stretches, one long sinuous roll that brings his arm up over the back of Sam's seat.

His hand lingers at the back of Sam's neck, stroking softly.

Sam grins for real.


&

Sam stirs when the light outside is still soft and steely gray, and the alarm clock on the bedside table is a distant worry. Dean is pressed up against his side, one leg thrown over Sam's, head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder.

Sam breathes in, inhaling metal and cotton and leather and soft and sweat and spearmint gum and cheap shampoo. It's kind of weird that he's breathing in the scent of Dean. It's kind of weird how much he likes it. It's kind of weird that last night after the movie, Dean got in bed with him and went to sleep and didn't say anything about kissing or anything. It's kind of weird that he likes kissing his brother.

It's kind of weird that he likes waking up with him.

"Dude." Dean doesn't open his eyes. "Stop starin'."

"Not starin'." Sam replies. "Watching."

"Mmmph." Dean sighs. "'S time to get up?"

"Nah, a couple hours still."

"Frgnngh." Dean mumbles into the pillow. He cracks an eye open and tilts his face up to Sam's. "Mornin', sunshine."

Sam breathes in because god, finally, finally and he leans down and seals his mouth against Dean's and they've both got morning breath and it's gross and it's messy and it's hot and Sam is getting hard, and Dean just chuckles, this hot blast of stale air over Sam's face and closes his eyes and goes back to sleep. Sam bites the inside of his cheek hard and listens to Dean's deep, even inhaleexhaleinhaleexhaleinhale until he falls asleep too.

The next time he opens his eyes it's because Dean is kicking the foot of the bed and barking up and at 'em, Morrissey. Places to go, evil things to kill.


&

They're in Boston, and Dean is talking to a waitress. Sam's at the bar with his second beer and an ache somewhere around his solar plexus.

She laughs, Dean laughs. Their eyes look like black pools under the light of the bar, and Sam takes another long pull of beer, feels a little sorry for himself. Feels like maybe he shouldn't be feeling sorry for himself.

Dean's hand grazes her shoulder, she ducks her head, hair brushing his chest. He laughs again, and she pushes white slip of paper into his hand. It's idyllic. It's fucking iconic. He's so jealous he can taste it, heavy and thick on the back of his tongue, like dark, bitter beer.

Dean slides onto the barstool next to him, clapping him just a little too hard on his shoulder. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

They step out of the bar into the rain slicked parking lot and Dean tosses the little slip of paper into the trash can outside. Sam has to duck his head and turn away so Dean can't see his smile.


&

The air feels thick and dusty and Sam's t-shirt is rucked up around his shoulders. Dean pants into his mouth, lips slick and swollen from spit and hours of nothing but this. Pressing his mouth against Sam's, hard and soft and hard again, fingers pinching and pulling and stroking Sam's nipples.

Hours.

"Dean." Sam breathes. "Dean."

Except his brother isn't listening, he's licking gently at the hollow of Sam's throat, and Sam gets his hands in Dean's hair and pulls him up again, sliding his tongue in between Dean's lips, biting at the corners of his mouth and breathing in those quiet gasps that Dean makes every time Sam shifts his hips upward just that little bit.

His skin feels tight and hot and stretched too thin, and if he could think, if he could move other than to kiss and kiss and kiss, he might unbutton Dean's pants, or hell, his own. He might reach in between them to feel the heavy weight of Dean's cock curving into his palm. He might stroke them together, wetting his palm with his spit and Dean's, and he might twist sharply on the upstroke, he might, he might, he might. But every time Sam's fingers quest lower, Dean angles his hips just so and Sam gets distracted and light headed.

He's breathing hard through his nose, they both are, and when Dean sucks hard on Sam's tongue, he can't help but break away just so he can breathe and just, god his hips snap up against Dean's and he's so hard he can't see straight. No finesse, just tongues and teeth and wet and messy and slick and hot and yesyesyes.

He slides his hands up under Dean's damp t-shirt, stroking gently with shaking hands and Dean takes his mouth again. Soft, soft, soothing shallow kisses. Shhh, he says. Shhh, come on, let's get up. Let's go out somewhere. Get a drink.


&


"I don't see a point is all," Dean grumbles, mutinously taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

Sam plucks it from his fingers, stomping it out on the ground and grabbing the front of his jacket, dragging him across the parking lot. "The good thing is, you don't have to see the point, Dean. I just want to."

"Of all the stupid, crazy, dumb things you've ever done, this has got to be at the top of the list."

"Stupid and dumb are synonyms."

"What's a synonym for you're a loser geek who needs a life?"

"Grab a shopping cart, will you?"

"Wow, and I thought I had stumped you with that one."

Sam grabs the shopping cart himself.

"It's just—"

"Shut up."

"All I'm saying is—" Dean runs a hand nervously through his hair and eyes the old lady who greets them with no little suspicion. "These places weird me out."

"I know, Dean. But if I eat one more egg mcmuffin, or twinkie, or ding-dong, or ho-ho, or anything pink, sugary, and with a hyphen in the title I'm going to die. You know, you should really take better care of your body." Sam grins. "Your metabolism slows down when you get older."

Dean whacks him hard on the back of the head. "You wish you looked as good as me, stringbean."

Sam aims a head of arugula at Dean's face, and his brother catches it, smirking. "Well if you insist, dear." He draws the word out until it's an insult, but Sam doesn't mind. Dean drops the lettuce into the grocery cart and with his other arm reaches up to stroke his knuckles softly over the back of Sam's neck. "Make it worth my while, and I'll even pick out a good salad dressing for you."

Sam feels the rough cant of Dean's voice everywhere and he leans down lightning fast, cupping Dean's face in his hands and kissing him. Slow, hard, wet, soft, Dean's hand at his waist, fingers slipping under his tee, Dean's nose gently bumping against his. There's tinny music playing in the background, and he's kissing his brother in the middle of the produce section and it just might be the best thing he's ever done. He feels warm all over, strokes a hand down Dean's chest and over the growing bulge in his jeans, before pulling back reluctantly. Dean blinks, slightly cross-eyed. Sam grins.

"Well, all right then. I'll be back."

Sam snorts. "Are you serious? You're going to get salad dressing."

"No, Watson, I'm going to get ingredients for salad dressing. I thought you were on some sort of health food kick?"

"Do you even know how to make salad dressing?" Sam's trying really hard not to be incredulous.

Dean looks affronted. "Food Network, dude."


&

"So, if I make you dinner and light candles and stuff, do you wanna have sex after?"

For a minute, Sam goes completely still. He kind of wants to cry with relief, or maybe get down on his knees and thank every deity in earshot for finally deciding to look out for him or maybe just, you know, get down on his knees in general, because dinner sounds great but given the choice, he'd rather suck Dean's cock. "Yes?" he answers cautiously.

Dean smiles, like he's relieved. Like he's relieved. Sam decides right then and there that he's going to punch Dean in the face. Maybe after the sex. Maybe before, because then it could be makeup sex. Maybe...his head is spinning and Dean's pressing him against the kitchen table. "Good."

Sam has no choice but to sit on the kitchen table and let Dean stand between his spread legs and kiss him until he's panting for breath and his fingers are clenching at Dean's waist and all he can think is finally, when his brother pulls away, grinning that same shy, slanting grin.

"You know, I like this dating stuff."

"Nnnghf." Sam replies, trying to follow Dean's mouth with his own.

"Hey. Go shower. Dinner'll be ready when you get out." The words are soft and slightly worn sounding, as if they've been borrowed from overheard conversations, and Sam gets it.

He slides from between Dean and the table, and runs a hand nervously through his hair. "Hey. Thanks." He pauses. "And. I like—this. You know, this thing. It's. It's good, Dean. You...well."

Dean tucks his chin to his chest for a moment, eyes slipping closed. Sam reaches out, lacing his finger's through Dean's. "Okay?" he's not even sure what he's asking, but Dean opens his eyes and meets Sam's gaze head-on and it means something.

It's not what he expected.


Fin.