Summary: The first Valentine's Day after Sam comes back is fucking horrible.
Notes/Acknowledgments: Betad by alazysod and waterofthemoon.
The first Valentine's Day after Sam comes back is fucking horrible. Words cannot truly describe the abject misery that Sam is in or the overwhelming feeling of pain in the car for nearly the entire week beforehand.
Dean's at a loss as to what to do, how to make this better. It's not like in grade school when Dean would swipe little boxes of Power Rangers Valentines because there wasn't enough money to buy them and food. It's not middle school when no one wanted to give a card to the new kid or high school when it seemed like everyone but Sam got a candy-gram—and Dean's sure it wasn't actually as incredibly pathetic as it sounds now.
This can't be solved with a bag of slightly-flavored chalk or by throwing rocks at the seniors' cars. Two dozen long-stems on the pillow next to Sam would probably cause some girly moment or barely stifled sobs instead of the righteous fury of junior year (and Sam's face alone was worth the face full of thorns he got for that one).
Dean's plan this year is to wing it. He gets them a decent room, no roaches, cable, a heated pool that gives off terrifying fog in the cold rain outside, and stays up until Sam falls asleep. He unplugs the phone and clock radio, grabs his phone, and tries to find something that's open twenty-four hours—or at least at five in the morning. He finds a Super Wal-Mart and crosses himself before going inside, a stupid habit he and Sam picked up from Dad and years of "braving the front lines."
When Dean finally makes his way out two hours later, it's still pouring outside, and he's got his arms full. A half-dozen of the crappy movies Sam likes so much, raspberry tea—fucking nasty shit, four of those thirty damned dollar five-pounder hearts full of chocolate, and a bowl big enough for Dean to take a bath in if he tried hard enough.
Dean's still in the parking lot fifteen minutes later, and he feels like a crack-head, head bent low and constantly checking to see if anyone is watching him. He's only on the second heart, fucking plastic cling-wrap, and he's sure that he's gonna have to go back in and buy another bowl. It looked big enough to hold all the chocolate, but now Dean's having his doubts. He's having doubts about a lot of shit right now, he's done less work than this to get laid—hell, he's done less work to get triplets—and Sam better fucking appreciate it, or swear to fuck Dean's gonna pull out his gun, shoot Sam right in his kneecap, and give him something to cry about.
On the way back to the room, he swings by the McDonald's drive-thru and buys a dozen Egg McMuffins. He doesn't plan on leaving the room again today, and they're just as good cold, anyway.
The fog from the pool has spilled over into the motel parking lot as Dean pulls in, cementing the idea he has of not leaving the room. He's all for atmosphere to set the mood, but this is the kind of atmosphere that precedes horny teenagers being found with their hearts ripped out of their chests.
When Dean gets back, he lets himself in the room quietly and sets the DVDs and the massive bowl of chocolate on his bed and then crawls into Sam's bed behind him, fully clothed because even he's not skeevy enough to try for sex right now. He feels Sam wake up and his body go still for a few moments, probably from catching sight of the chocolate on the other bed.
Sam rolls over slowly, and he has this gooey, sappy look in his eyes that Dean almost wants to smack out of him—only almost. He shifts and slides an arm around Dean's shoulders, hitching one of his bare legs over Dean's hip and snuggling up closer to him. Their mouths seek each other out, and they meet in a chaste kiss, soft press of lips against lips.
They lie in bed for the better part of an hour, through two twists and half a trial in the Valentine's Day Law & Order marathon playing low on the TV. Sam's got his head angled to watch, leaving Dean contemplating just how much longer he has to stay still until he can move without fear of losing the points he just racked up.
"By the way, I paid a hundred and fifty bucks for those chocolates, so if you get some coconut crap, you better not fucking spit it out." The swift kick of a heel to the back of Dean's calf tells him that he's down ten points, but it's a small price to pay to get his balls back.