#but let's get the o.g. to dehymenate our boy

[zmediaoutlet]

Sam could put the car in park but he doesn't think it's going to take that long. Purling fog over the sidewalk and the tapedeck's got Sabbath on low, Paranoid, the engine rumbling through the steering wheel where he's got two fingers curled, idling on the brake while he watches in the wing mirror. A kiss. Like a movie, especially with them still in costume. Dean holds the low sweep of her back in that goofy princess dress and Jamie grips his white romance-hero sleeves and it's good, clearly, from how she curves into the shape of his body, how she looks up at him with her teeth in her lip. Sam can't see Dean's face from this angle but he can imagine it. When it's that good and they want him that bad, and they're imagining how it could be. His thumb riding low along the gentle curve of her cheek. Best they've ever had, bar none.

The passenger door opens, and closes. Dean follows his eyes to the wing mirror where the front door to Jamie's house is illuminated in porchlight, where she's locked her door against the night. "Perv," Dean says. Not sounding surprised or like he minds that much. While they watch the light goes out. Damsel off to bed. Dean rubs his fingers over his mouth, sighs. Says, "Are we going, or am I gonna regret letting you drive for the thousandth time?"

"I don't think you've let me drive a thousand times," Sam says, but he puts the car in gear. Ignores the four months in the rearview that he's trying to pack away tight and gone and enjoys Dean's mild bitching instead, about Sam's use of blinker signals and how fast he brakes and that he goes six over the speed limit instead of nine, all the way back across town to their motel.

Rare non-Oktoberfest theme, dark green bedspreads and gold-glow lamps that bring all the color back from the cold night outside. Dean looks even dumber struggling to unbuckle his suspenders. "Dude, why couldn't the fake vampire have gotten snap-on lederhosen," he mumbles. Sam snorts, dumps the keys on the table. Knocks Dean's hands away and gets one of the buckles undone in about three seconds, for which he gets a look. "I loosened it for you."

"Sure you did," Sam says. Gets the other and pushes the straps off Dean's shoulders so they swing around his hips. He flicks a button. "Is this the worst shirt in the world?"

"Ranked," Dean says, but he catches Sam's wrist. Stands there with his cheek sucked in on one side, looking at Sam's throat and then up to meet his eyes. "You know, I totally had an in, back there."

"Yeah, I know you did," Sam says. He lets Dean keep holding his wrist but starts unbuttoning the stupid shirt, anyway.

Flick of tongue to Dean's lower lip. "Dehymenation on lock. Big hero gets the damsel, the whole deal."

"I think she was technically the hero, since she shot the monster," Sam says. Dean's very pale under the shirt. His chest moving as he takes a deep breath. "Which makes you…"

"Don't say it," Dean says, and when Sam smiles he gets a backhanded smack to the shoulder. Sam pulls the shirt out of the tuck into the weird shorts and Dean grabs both his wrists then, tongue at the corner of his mouth. He takes a breath but doesn't say anything with it, and so Sam hooks the first two fingers of both hands into the waistband, hitches Dean those few inches closer. Touches his lips to Dean's temple and feels the next breath Dean takes with his whole body, seems like.

"Oh, Mister Harker," Sam says, quiet. Makes Dean puff out half-a-laugh, his head tipping back. Sam takes him in, like this. Safe and smiling, in a motel with a locked door, no particular horror about to batter the walls down. This day or two the easiest he's been in—since he's come back. Easier than he was the whole year before that, and maybe the year before that, and maybe for a long time that Sam didn't see him. He breaks Dean's grip on his right hand and cups Dean's cheek in his hand and Dean's eyes go to this other darker color, his lips parting.

A kiss—easy, brief. No romance soundtrack and nothing crazy other than how crazy it always is. Dean's mouth and the way he tips into it soft and willing and the brief taste of beer and then the salt-spit tang that's meant Sam's brother just about as long as anything's meant anything. Their noses brush warmly and Dean smiles, for what reason Sam doesn't know. When he lifts up an inch or two there's no answer. He drags his thumb along the curve of Dean's jaw and Dean opens his eyes, pleased. So good Sam could take him literally any way. Even in the awful knee-high socks. Although—

"If we're dehymenating you, can we lose the costume?" Sam says, and Dean grips his hair and says, "If you never mention the costume again, I'll do that thing you pretend you don't like," and Sam says, flushing warm, "Deal." He doesn't have to imagine because he knows. Best he's ever had, or will.

#happy wincest wednesday #my writing #ww lottery #a random ficlet for episode 65 #tbh i think fucking jamie would not have interrupted the wincest #but let's get the o.g. to dehymenate our boy