Small routine
paritus: Sam/Dean
ikäraja: K-12
genre: angst (ylläri!)
A/N: Halusin kirjoittaa iloisen jouluficin. En onnistunut. Kirjoitettu joulukalenteriin.
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The first time; drunken hands and looks, Sam had thought it a good joke, to kiss his brother sitting under the mistletoe. The first time, the bar in the middle of nowhere, an ugly plastic Christmas tree in the corner, more of a mockery than a decoration. Never kiss as a joke because humor is based on tragedy and suddenly there was something in the air, a tension built on Sam's awkward gestures and the barkeepers long looks. Fuckin' faggots and then there were punches thrown and a very weird pause as Dean yelled 'm not a faggot, he's my brother.
Well, that certainly convinced the guy.
The first time. The last time. There is actually very little difference. Both times are measured by the same amount of grief of knowing that everything will change. The first time; Dean was so angry, pushing the Impala to her limits as he drove back from the bar. As they finally got to the motel, Sam was already expecting the fight, to feel the knuckles on his chin and if he'd be kind, he'd let Dean win but he wasn't today. Dean slammed the door shut, Sam could feel his body getting tense. A matter of seconds before the first spring of pain. A small price for victory.
The first time looked better as a flashback in their minds. It always does. Dean slammed him into the wall but there was no trace of knuckles on Sam's chin, but a tight grip of fingers holding his head still as Dean placed the kiss, anger and need and something Sam couldn't name, that he years later recognized as giving up.
The first time, the quilt under lust, the shifting of their universe, pieces getting lost and finding each other. It was never spoken of after, little hints they could only name if they chose to see them, the tension of Deans jaw as they holidays came near and Christmas lights were put up, a faint awkward cough as Sam caught a glimpse of a mistletoe.
They didn't talk about it but there was a small routine, the first part which was ignoring Christmas, the second part which was getting very drunk when the day finally came and the third part of skin and sweat and a years amount of tension. They always acted it out almost as it had been the first time, the same tension in the air, the same gestures, same drunken hands on hips and hair.
The first time. The last time. Everything seemed to go more slow this time. Sam didn't say that he still hadn't found anything and Dean couldn't say that he heard the hellhound's bark even though he knew it was still months away. They couldn't say any of it so instead they acted like Christmas was a joke and the pagan gods only a funny but deadly mockery of it.
They had always been very good at not talking about what ever it was that they wanted to ignore, but the problem was, they didn't need to talk. It was all there. The way Sam who despised Christmas ended up buying the eggnog and decorations. The way Dean let his hand slide when they sat down to watch the game.
First times. Last times. The slow motioned movement of fingers on Sam's back and lips on Dean's thighs. This is what Sam thinks of months later, this is what he focuses on when the hellhounds finally come for Dean. First times, last times. An ugly plastic tree and the taste of eggnog in Dean's mouth. The snow outside the window, the mumbled words in his ears and the desperate grasps for breath.
Merry Christmas, Sammy.
Fuck you, Dean.
