Work Text:
February 2017
Dean taps the horn impatiently. If Sam doesn’t hurry, they’re going to be late to their own party.
Finally, the most gorgeous man Dean’s ever laid eyes on strolls out of the garage in black slacks, a midnight blue shirt, a dark gray blazer and a scarf wrapped around his long, bitable neck. Time was, Dean would have made fun of him for the scarf, but it’s February in Petaluma and they’re having a cold snap. It’s only around fifty-five, and Dean would be freezing if he hadn’t had the Impala’s heaters on full blast while he waited for Sam.
“Come on, we’re going to be late.”
Sam laughs as he slides into the passenger seat. “And you call me a control freak. We have plenty of time.”
“I only call you that in bed,” Dean mutters, about to back out of the driveway, but Sam puts a hand on his knee.
“Wait.”
“Seriously?”
“There’s something I need to do first,” Sam says. Then Dean feels six and a half feet of baby-brother-slash-husband plastered to his side, and Sam leans in and kisses him for all he’s worth. With tongue.
“Damn,” Dean says when his mouth’s free to talk again. “What was that for?”
“I don’t need a reason to kiss my husband,” Sam says, rather smugly.
Dean still gets a thrill when Sam uses that word in reference to him. They’ve been married for almost a year, and it hasn’t gotten old yet. Part of him wants to say forget the party and head straight back upstairs and into their bed, but he knows they’ll be letting down a lot of people. All of their friends and a bunch of Dean’s employees from the Pie Company are gathering at Sam’s friend’s art gallery to celebrate the publication of the Winchester Pie Company cookbook. “Now can I drive?”
“Go for it.”
“I don’t need a reason, but I have a few,” Sam says when they’re still a few miles from downtown. “One, you look extra handsome tonight.”
Dean preens a little under Sam’s gaze. He’s wearing his favorite green sweater and even bought new jeans for the occasion.
“Two, you’re going to be too busy talking to everyone else tonight for me to get any time alone with you. Three, if I kiss you like that in front of everyone I might get carried away and no one wants to see that.”
“Probably some of them would,” Dean says dryly.
“And four, I’m just so proud of you, Dean. You worked so hard on the cookbook, and it turned out so well. Your publisher is going to be begging for a follow up. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wins some awards.”
Dean has to blink away the prickle of tears at the sincerity in Sam’s voice. Sam is a published author and has won a few awards himself. Dean couldn’t care less about his publisher or even about book sales and definitely not about awards. But he cares that Sam thinks he did a good job. He’s only ever wanted Sam to be proud of him.
“Well, I couldn’t have done it without you taking point with the twins. There were a lot of late nights.” He’d burned the candle at both ends for months, writing out recipes and stories to go with them, coordinating with the photographer, Cas and Anna’s niece, Claire, who’d gotten the job through Anna. Normally the publisher would have used their own people, but Sam had helped Dean negotiate first pick over the photographer in his contract and had helped him get a bigger advance. His brother is basically a genius.
“I didn’t mind,” Sam says. “It was nice to have some alone time with them. I can’t believe they’re going into kindergarten in the fall. Where did the time go?”
J.J. and J.R. are growing like weeds and sometimes Dean still can’t believe that he and Sam are fathers to two incredible human beings. They’re with a babysitter tonight so Charlie and Stevie can come to the book party and actually enjoy themselves instead of spending it running around after rambunctious four-and-a-half-year-olds.
“Tell me about it. I remember when you were their age,” Dean says.
“Yeah?” Sam sounds curious. “What was I like?”
“Wicked smart. Already reading. You read anything you could get your hands on. Cereal boxes. The newspaper. Your favorite part was the obituaries, you weirdo.”
“It’s interesting to read about people’s lives,” Sam says defensively. “I always wondered what it would say in my obituary when I was a kid.”
“Morbid much?” Dean’s joking but his heart gives a lurch at the idea of Sam dying, then or now or anytime soon, thanks very much. He’d pay a million dollars to make sure when it’s his time, he goes before Sam. He doesn’t want to live in a world without Sam in it.
As if Sam can read his thoughts, he puts his hand on Dean’s knee again and squeezes. “I knew it would say Sam Winchester, brother to Dean Winchester.”
Dean swallows against a lump in his throat. “I guess yours won’t say that anymore. To most of the world, we’re not brothers.”
“Yeah,” Sam sounds sad.
They’re almost at the gallery. Dean slows the Impala to a crawl, looking for a parking space. He pulls into a street spot behind Cas and Anna’s compact hybrid.
“You know, marrying you was one of the best days of my life,” Dean says.
“Mine, too.”
“But as happy as I am to be your husband, I’ll always be your brother first, Sam. And if you ever wanted out—“ Sam makes a face like he’s about to protest, but Dean puts up a hand “—not that you ever would. But if you did, that would be okay. I don’t have to be your husband. But I’ll always be your brother. Forever and ever. And ever.”
“Forever and ever and ever,” Sam repeats. It’s almost like a do-over of their vows they spoke at the beach in front of Bobby and Charlie and Stevie and J.J. and J.R.. Cas and Anna were there, too. Dr. F., Dean’s old therapist, who helped him grow up into the kind of man who deserves a partner like Sam, performed the ceremony.
“Now, give me another kiss, for luck,” Dean demands.
Sam smiles slowly, his dimples popping. Such a showoff, Dean thinks. But then he kisses Dean like he’s the most precious thing on earth and Dean manages to forgive him.
“Sweetheart?” Sam murmurs, as they break apart for the second time.
“Yeah, baby?” Dean asks.
“We better get a move on, or we’re going to be late.”
Dean glances at his watch and swears. “You little—”
Sam laughs and opens his door. “Come on, big brother. Let’s go celebrate.”