Fic: Using Knowledge to One's Advantage | PG-13 | 630 words
Title: Using Knowledge to One's Advantage
Author:
rei_c
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Total Word Count: 630
Summary: They've been in New Orleans -- off and on -- for ten years. It's time.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: This is future-fic for the 'verse created in Knowledge of Dead Secrets and does contain extremely (extremely) vague spoilers for the Katrina!fic, currently in-progress. Forformalizing.
--
Sam yawns, burrows closer into Dean. The ceiling fan above them spins in a slow, steady rhythm and Dean can feel his heartbeat slow down to match the click-clack, click-clack; the air around them, stale and filled with the stench of sex, does nothing to cool him down. Dean traces his fingertips over Sam's hip, over his name, tattooed there now for going on close to a decade. He never once thought that he'd have anyone the way he has Sam, never thought that the desperate, manic protectiveness he felt for his brother growing up could get even deeper, even worse, but it has.
"Thought we was gonna be gettin' some sleep, cheval," Ogou mutters, rolling over in the back of Dean's mind. "M'tired."
"You wanna sleep," Sam tells the loa, "you can. There's nothing keeping you up, Ogou, so either go to sleep or stop bitching."
Dean snorts, pulls Sam impossibly closer as Ogou mutters under his breath but then quiets. When the loa's still, when Sam's caught in that half-awake, half-asleep state, Dean says, casually, "Jazz Fest released their lineup today." He feels the pinpricks of Sam's teeth digging into his neck and smiles. "Just sayin'."
Sam digs his teeth in a little deeper then lets go with a sigh, licks up the hurt. "What day?"
He sounds tired just thinking about it and Dean understands: it's going to be hot, there are going to be a shit-ton of people around, and neither of them are at their best surrounded by thousands of tourists. They usually take a vacation those two weeks, go out on the road and meet up with Dad somewhere for an old-fashioned salt-and-burn, but it's Jazz Fest. Even though they've been in New Orleans off and on for almost ten years now, Dean's never made it over to the fairgrounds for the chaos and he thinks that maybe it's time, maybe enough's enough.
"I was thinking the first Sunday," Dean says. Sam lets out another sigh, pushes his face into Dean's skin hard enough that Dean can feel the pressure of Sam's eyelashes. "It's a good group," Dean says, wheedling now. "Eric Clapton's playing and the Preservation Hall band and one of the Marsalis brothers, and Rita's cousin's church choir is doing the Gospel Tent." Dean's got a card up his sleeve, and he waits for Sam to stop grumbling before he plays it, says, "Tab's playing."
There's a brief moment of still silence and then Sam pulls back, leans up and looks at Dean with narrowed eyes. "I hate you," Sam says.
Dean laughs, musses Sam's hair. "No," he says. "You don't. And you'd better be glad I know how much or I'd be jealous."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "We'll go to Jazz Fest. But when you end up burnt to a crisp and dehydrated and fed up with all the tourists, I get to say 'I told you so.' Deal?"
"Deal." Dean waits until Sam settles back down then says, "Maybe I oughta wear one of those crazy shirts, stand up on stage, huh? Bet you'd look at me then."
He's grinning and Sam knows it, just like Dean knows Sam's trying not to laugh at the mental image. "Look at you far too much already," Sam mutters. "And please, for the love of Bondye, stick to your own wardrobe."
Dean lets out a breath, gives himself over to the heat of Sam, the beat of the fan, the comfort of their mattress. "Stick to you," he says, once he's yawned.
"Like glue," Sam says. "And it's disgusting."
"You're disgusting," Dean replies.
"You are."
"You are."
He's not sure which of them gets the triumph of the last word before they both fall asleep.
Author:
rei_cPairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Total Word Count: 630
Summary: They've been in New Orleans -- off and on -- for ten years. It's time.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: This is future-fic for the 'verse created in Knowledge of Dead Secrets and does contain extremely (extremely) vague spoilers for the Katrina!fic, currently in-progress. For
formalizing.--
Sam yawns, burrows closer into Dean. The ceiling fan above them spins in a slow, steady rhythm and Dean can feel his heartbeat slow down to match the click-clack, click-clack; the air around them, stale and filled with the stench of sex, does nothing to cool him down. Dean traces his fingertips over Sam's hip, over his name, tattooed there now for going on close to a decade. He never once thought that he'd have anyone the way he has Sam, never thought that the desperate, manic protectiveness he felt for his brother growing up could get even deeper, even worse, but it has.
"Thought we was gonna be gettin' some sleep, cheval," Ogou mutters, rolling over in the back of Dean's mind. "M'tired."
"You wanna sleep," Sam tells the loa, "you can. There's nothing keeping you up, Ogou, so either go to sleep or stop bitching."
Dean snorts, pulls Sam impossibly closer as Ogou mutters under his breath but then quiets. When the loa's still, when Sam's caught in that half-awake, half-asleep state, Dean says, casually, "Jazz Fest released their lineup today." He feels the pinpricks of Sam's teeth digging into his neck and smiles. "Just sayin'."
Sam digs his teeth in a little deeper then lets go with a sigh, licks up the hurt. "What day?"
He sounds tired just thinking about it and Dean understands: it's going to be hot, there are going to be a shit-ton of people around, and neither of them are at their best surrounded by thousands of tourists. They usually take a vacation those two weeks, go out on the road and meet up with Dad somewhere for an old-fashioned salt-and-burn, but it's Jazz Fest. Even though they've been in New Orleans off and on for almost ten years now, Dean's never made it over to the fairgrounds for the chaos and he thinks that maybe it's time, maybe enough's enough.
"I was thinking the first Sunday," Dean says. Sam lets out another sigh, pushes his face into Dean's skin hard enough that Dean can feel the pressure of Sam's eyelashes. "It's a good group," Dean says, wheedling now. "Eric Clapton's playing and the Preservation Hall band and one of the Marsalis brothers, and Rita's cousin's church choir is doing the Gospel Tent." Dean's got a card up his sleeve, and he waits for Sam to stop grumbling before he plays it, says, "Tab's playing."
There's a brief moment of still silence and then Sam pulls back, leans up and looks at Dean with narrowed eyes. "I hate you," Sam says.
Dean laughs, musses Sam's hair. "No," he says. "You don't. And you'd better be glad I know how much or I'd be jealous."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "We'll go to Jazz Fest. But when you end up burnt to a crisp and dehydrated and fed up with all the tourists, I get to say 'I told you so.' Deal?"
"Deal." Dean waits until Sam settles back down then says, "Maybe I oughta wear one of those crazy shirts, stand up on stage, huh? Bet you'd look at me then."
He's grinning and Sam knows it, just like Dean knows Sam's trying not to laugh at the mental image. "Look at you far too much already," Sam mutters. "And please, for the love of Bondye, stick to your own wardrobe."
Dean lets out a breath, gives himself over to the heat of Sam, the beat of the fan, the comfort of their mattress. "Stick to you," he says, once he's yawned.
"Like glue," Sam says. "And it's disgusting."
"You're disgusting," Dean replies.
"You are."
"You are."
He's not sure which of them gets the triumph of the last word before they both fall asleep.