Title: Let It Go For Something Better
Warnings: Incest, swearing
Spoilers: 2.01 IMTOD, 2.02 ELAC & 4.01 Lazarus Rising
Word Count: 1,037
Disclaimer: Don't own - just playing in somebody else's sandbox.
Summary: The last time Dean borrowed one of Sam's shirts, what he got back couldn't be used as an oil rag. What makes him think that Sam will just hand over one this time?
A/N: Written for the January challenge at wincest_fic
. My prompt was spilt, choke, spare. "Come on. Not this again." by my_sam_dean
Sam stepped out of the bathroom, thread bare towel draped over his head, and steam billowing out behind him. If nothing else he could be thankful that they had finally lucked out and found a motel with a decent hot water supply and water pressure.
”I was beginning to think I was going to have to go in there and drag your sorry ass out princess.”
“Whatever asshat.” He grumbled and pulled the towel from his head, accepting what little absorption it could offer had petered out after the first swipe through his hair. “You’re just sore that there was actually hot water left for my…”
Sam narrowed his eyes as it finally sunk in as to what he was seeing. “Why are you digging around in my duffle?”
Dean glanced over at him before returning to his task of tearing the bag apart. “I need a shirt.”
“Come on. Not this again.” He growled as he stomped across the room and pushed his brother away. “The last time you borrowed one of my shirts what I got back wasn’t even usable as a oil rag for the Impala.”
He gave him a shove, “Not my fault. Dad never mentioned that ectoplasm was like cement once it dried. How was I to know that once it broke off, it would take the material it was adhered to with it?”
“Don’t care.” He shook his head as he grabbed the straps of the duffle and pulled it away.
“Come on Sam.” Dean groaned and reached for him. “I have one clean shirt left but the shoulder seam is split. I know you’ve got at least one spare in there that’s clean or” he shrugged. “Passable enough.”
“So?” He moved over to the unused bed and dropped his bag on it. Making sure he was between Dean and his own clothes as he began pulling out things for himself. “Sew it up. Or,” he turned to smirk at him. “Do laundry.”
He glared at him, “And with what would you like me to mend it with Sammy? The first aid thread? ‘Cause that’s all we’ve got.”
“Where the hell is the sewing kit?” He pulled a t-shirt from his bag, sniffed it, since Dean was right, they really were down to the end of anything remotely clean, satisfied it would do for at least one more day, pulled it over his head.
“Haven’t seen it since before I fixed the Impala back at Bobby’s.”
Even after two years, something sharp and cold still slithered through his chest anytime any mention was made of the weeks at Bobby’s or the days spent at the hospital at Dean’s bedside. It still hurt, not nearly as bad as the four months he had just spent without his brother, knowing that Dean was in hell because of him but still enough for his heart to stutter at the thoughts of his brother almost dying, of dad actually dying, of the space that settled between them for so long, after.
He managed to choke back the enviable lead in from those thoughts to the memories of the half empty motel room beds, blurred vision, too much booze and his guilt over giving in to his need to feel something other than pain with Ruby, by focusing on the mundane task of picking out and sliding into a pair of boxers. But in his lack of focus, he wasn’t quick enough to stop Dean from managing to snag the over shirt he had planned on wearing himself.
“And as for doing laundry,” he chuckled as he took several steps back to stay out of reach. “Did you happen to see a laundry mat in this half a horse, blip on the map as we drove down main street? ‘Cause I didn’t.”
“Dean I was going to wear that.” He muttered as he started to move towards him.
He quickly pulled it on as he grinned at him. “But it matches my eyes.” He smirked and batted his eyelashes at him.
Sam would never admit it, since Dean’s ego was already too big as it was, but he was right. It was the only green over shirt that he owned and he had only bought it because it had been cheap but it actually suited his brother better. But it wasn’t that fact that it really did make Dean’s eyes brighter that made him pause, it was the sight of him wearing Sam’s shirt that did it.
“Fine.” He was proud that he had managed to sound like he was frustrated but willing to accept what he had too, instead of the cross between awed and the possessiveness that he felt. “Wear it then. But the next town that has a laundry mat, it’s your turn.”
“Now that that’s settled, get your ass moving.” Dean brushed past him, slapping his ass as he went. “I’m starving and it’s time to hit the road.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered as he watched his brother slip out the motel room door, leather jacket swung over one shoulder and sunglasses in place. Sam’s green shirt nothing but a shadow in the morning sun streaming through the open door but it was still his, his mark.
Logically he knew that he couldn’t lay claim on Dean in front of people that knew them or suspected that they were brothers, there was already enough shit on their plates as it was. He couldn’t kiss him in public or touch him intimately and he had to be careful of how he looked at anyone who seemed to take too much interest in his brother.
But this, Dean wearing his clothes, Dean choosing to wear his clothes, it eased the little beast inside him that screamed Mine! My Dean! all the time now that his brother was back from hell. Because Dean was his and there could be no denying it as long as he was in Sam’s shirt, a shirt that wasn’t particularly clean but wasn’t filthy either, his scent would cling to his brother like a warning.
So he’d risk getting the shirt back in tatters because it may not be a handprint but for now, for Sam, it was enough.