Resisting Everything but Temptation

Day 4 - Create a fanwork

Ohhh, it was not a good day for this. Long-ass day. But I did take a little stab at it. This is not finished—I picked up a snippet I had started for blackrabbit42 a long time ago, and added some words to it. I'll try to finish it this weekend.



Spring Cleaning (1/?)

They've gotten... Dean won't say lazy, but comfortable. Time's passed, shit's happened, they've slowed down. He's in total denial about the birthday he has coming up next year (the one that starts with a four and ends with a nope, not even), but denying it won't stop it from happening.

It seems like two months ago they moved into the bunker, but that's the funny thing about time: it doesn't give a crap about epic battles, apocalypses, or tectonic shifts in the geology of Winchester drama. And so, he wakes up one morning mid-March to find Sam in the war room wearing rubber gloves, his hair sticking every which way and a smudge on his jaw, amidst a pile of books and artifacts and surrounded by a cloud of dust that's probably older than the two of them put together.

"You get possessed by the ghost of Martha Stewart when I wasn't looking?"

"Martha Stewart's not dead," Sam shoots back, barely pausing in his... whatever it is he's doing.

"That you know of."

Sam's eyebrows acknowledge the point.

"Let me guess. Spring cleaning?"

"People do do that, you know."

Dean snickers; he can't help it. Sam gives him a look. Are you twelve? that look says. Pretty much, Dean concedes with a smirk. Not that any of that is new.

"If we don't do it, who will?" Sam says, and he does have a point. Also, he's the one doing the actual work, so Dean's willing to let it go.

"You gonna want breakfast?" Dean asks, watching him as he breaks out the dustbuster. A deafening noise erupts. Dean observes that his brother may have missed his calling when it comes to Housewives, International.

Duh, Sam's look says. Feed me, woman.

It occurs to Dean as he heads toward the kitchen to make pancakes that they’ve been doing that a lot lately—having whole conversations without words. It also occurs to him that they might be fairly far down a road with no exits. It's not the first time he's had that thought.

* * *

"Sam! Chow's on!"

Dean sets Sam's plate down on the kitchen table, turning it so the bacon is on the right. He shuts off the coffee maker and screws the lid on the pot, putting that in the middle of the table with the butter dish before turning to pour the warm syrup into its pitcher. He turns the antique stove off and wipes his fingers on the kitchen towel he's got slung over his shoulder, glancing toward the door. Pancakes are no good when they're cold.

As if summoned by Dean's thought, Sam appears in the doorway. He's ditched the rubber gloves, but the smudge is still there on his jaw; it's got a companion, now, right beside Sam's nose. Dean throws the towel at him and Sam catches it without thought.

"Wipe your face," Dean tells him. "You're wearing last year's schmutz."

"Thanks, Grandma," Sam says, but he wipes his face off like Dean told him to, getting the right spots on the first try. "Are these blueberry?" Sam says as he sits down.

"That okay?"

"’Course. I love blueberry."

"Well, okay, then. Eat up." Dean swings one leg over the stool opposite, setting the syrup down where Sam can reach. He sticks a strip of bacon in his mouth and chews, watching Sam pour syrup over his pancakes, feeling like a contestant on Chopped waiting for the judges to react.

"What?" Sam says, glancing up.

"Nothin'."

Sam puts the syrup down where it was, his eyebrows making a crazy-ass configuration of wrinkles in the middle of his forehead. "You're being weird."

"You're weird."

Sam's lips twitch. If you say so. He digs in to his pancakes, and makes a sound of pure happiness. The warm glow that starts up in Dean’s chest is one he’s been feeling a lot lately, over stupid shit he’d never admit out loud.

I, Dean Winchester, take my brother Samantha to be my lawful wedded wife, he thinks. And then, watching his brother lick syrup off his fork like a cat, he thinks, You could do worse.

It’s not so much a joke as an acknowledgment, and he ignores the sudden warmth of his ears by reaching for the coffee.

“Did you say something?” Sam asks, mouth full of pancakes.

“You’re hearin’ things,” says Dean, though he sincerely hopes not.

Sam looks at him kind of funny, but lets it go. He makes another little noise when he bites into the bacon, and takes his time chewing, his eyes going to half mast.

“Good?” Dean asks. He knows it is, because the last time he saw Sam make that face, he was doped up on pain meds and trying to convince Dean to play with his hair.

Sam makes an mmph noise and nods. Dean grunts in return.

“S’with the Mr. Clean routine?” he asks when Sam’s using the last piece of bacon to wipe up his extra syrup. “We having company?”

Sam shrugs. “Just like it when I can find everything, that’s all. Makes it easier.”

Dean could make a crack about Sam’s OCD, or his lifelong love affair with the Dewey Decimal System, but his brother looks so laid back right now, hair still a mess and shoulders relaxed under an ancient Zep T-shirt worn thin with wear. For some reason, Dean doesn’t want to mess with that, not today. Maybe he’s getting soft in his old age. “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll take care of the dishes, then I’ll come give you a hand.”

Sam looks up at that, a line drawn between his eyebrows. “You serious?”

Dean’s face feels warm again, and he pushes to his feet to cover it, stacking the plates. “Sure. It’ll go twice as fast, right?”

“Sure, okay. Yeah, that’s—Thanks.”

(to be continued...)