The Princess and the Pea- Sam/Dean (PG-13)

Title: The Princess and the Pea
Author: girlguidejones
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: Sam/Dean; 3500 words
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean belong to the CW and Eric Kripke. The title belongs to Hans Christian Andersen. The angst and schmoop belong to all of you. Happy holidays!
Warnings: Non-graphic Wincest. AU. See author’s note.
A/N: Thanks to maygra for her usual lightning-fast beta. Any remaining errors are all mine. This story is a sequel to la_folle_allure’s “more dear than...” which you can find here: http://la-folle-allure.livejournal.com/97003.html#cutid1. It is not necessary to have read it first, but you should because it is incredibly, amazingly well done. In it, Dean offers anything to save a dying Sam, and gives up one of the things that truly makes him Dean. I immediately had a thousand angsty ideas as to how Sam and Dean would deal with that, and la_folle_allure said to go forth and fic like bunnies and that I could have the whole damn ‘verse. Who does that, I ask you? This is the first of these stories.



Sam didn’t notice Dean wasn’t really eating until he picked up Dean’s belt from the floor and saw a fresh crease in the leather, a notch further back than it’d been before. And then he felt like the worst brother in history.

Dean needed his space a lot more now, and Sam got it, but it still hurt. Dean was just this side of reclusive, spending a lot of time alone, and taking drives in the Impala by himself. Once in a while, Dean’d let Sam press his lips over his, and usually only very late in the day, or in the gray, sleepy hours of morning. Never when Dean was wide awake and functioning. And while he’d let Sam curl up behind him at night, it’d never gotten any further than that since...since it. Sam hadn’t even seen Dean’s body, except for the one time he’d come right back into the motel room after walking out of it on his way out for breakfast, because he’d forgotten his wallet. He’d caught Dean in the middle of undressing for a shower, and Dean had snatched up his boxers again, covering himself with a glare and scuttling into the bathroom like an embarrassed beetle, as if his privates had been sliced off instead of his tongue.

Logically, Sam knew that given the circumstances, it wasn’t surprising he hadn’t noticed Dean’s eating habits. Just as certainly, he also knew that had the tables been turned, Dean would have known Sam’s calorie intake down to the last salted peanut.

“Dude. I’m starving. What do you want for dinner?” Sam strove for casual, not-watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. Dean waved a disinterested hand. “No, seriously. What sounds good?”

This time Dean reached for the ubiquitous hotel stationery pad, scratching out his own brand of shorthand, a bastardized version of online chat-speak and plain, Dean-type shortcuts.

“8 B4” Sam gnawed his lip for half a second until his universal translator kicked in and he figured it out.

“I know, but that was hours ago, Dean. You gotta be hungry. Mac ‘n cheese sounds good. That mom ‘n pop diner probably has some homemade. Sound okay to you?”

Plain as day, Sam heard Dean’s stomach grumble, but again the pen scritched on the pad, the word “hungry” marked through with a Ghostbusters “no” symbol.

“Dean, you’re not eating enough. You’re losing weight, and your clothes are hanging off you. Chicks don’t dig skinny guys, you know.”

Instantly, Sam knew he’d said the wrong thing. He was going for funny, but Dean’s face closed down like a dungeon door slamming shut, and he just tossed the pen down and pressed the volume “UP” arrow on the remote. Sam got up and yanked the plug from the wall.

“Look. I know it sounds like something off of a sappy TV movie, but this...you...this takes time, okay? There’s stuff that’s different, I know, but not everything has to be. Not everything should be. You need to eat. I need you healthy, Dean. I need you strong beside me.” Sam felt like an ass. He knew he was playing his trump card, pinging Dean’s instinct to be there for Sam, no matter what. But if that’s what it took to make sure Dean ate, he’d deal with the guilt.

“I know you’re hungry, Dean. Fuck, you’re never NOT hungry, so what’s the deal? You gotta talk to m-“ Sam stopped, horrified. For the entire three weeks since Dean had saved him, he hadn’t slipped, not even once. Hadn’t asked Dean to “say” or “talk” or “speak up” or anything. Not until now. His face burned, and he blinked back tears as Dean stared up at him in dismay. “God”, he whispered, voice raspy and broken. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m sorry. Christ, I-I’m so...”

Sam stepped away, turning and intending to flee the room, not even looking at Dean. But somehow the TV cord was tangled around his feet and Sam tumbled forward, choking back a sob as he flailed toward the floor.

He never hit it.

Dean broke his fall, reaching out and taking one of Sam’s elbows in the gut as he dodged forward, catching him with one arm and shoving the falling TV away in mid-air with the other before it could smash Sam’s ankle. Sam stayed where he fell, burying his face in Dean’s neck and tangling up with him on the floor, sobbing sloppy tears and “I’m sorrys” into Dean’s collarbone. He rocked Sam and petted his hair, humming a non-tune softly, apparently because he couldn’t “shuushhhh” him anymore. Unconcerned, Dean rucked up the hem of his own t-shirt –it was easy because it was too baggy, Sam thought- and wiped Sam’s face with it. Sopping up snot and tears, Dean didn’t let him go, just re-settled them both on the carpet against the foot of the bed where they’d landed.

It seemed like forever, and Sam was almost asleep when Dean finally shifted, feeling around for something on the floor. Sam lifted his head to protest, and saw Dean had written again.

“Eat bad/messy. Cant swllw rite. Gross.”

“Oh.” It was like a light had turned on for Sam. Why hadn’t he realized? “Oh, hell. Dean, I didn’t even think...shit. Fuck. I should have known...”

Dean just shrugged and wrote, “ ?? How wud U?”

“I- I just should have, is all.” That time Dean just rolled his eyes and bonked Sam on the forehead with the eraser end of his pencil. “What have you been eating, then?”

More scratching. “soup. mkshks. cfe.” It took Sam a second to interpret “cfe” as “coffee” in Deanskrit.

“What? No beer?” Dean grinned then, a small one, but it was real, and nodded a little. “Jesus. You gotta be hungry, Dean.” Dean just nodded again, and wrote a little more.

“me-m&ms = :(”

“Yeah. I bet. Uh, lemme think a minute.”

Sam ignored Dean’s pen scratching the paper. So far he hadn’t figured out how to keep his own train of thought when he watched Dean write. He always seemed to just zone out, watching Dean’s fingers around the pen and waiting for the words to appear on the page, and then once they did, Sam forgot what he’d meant to say. Not that Dean deigned to write much anyway. Sam remembered one day last week when Dean was trying to get him to open the blinds, but Sam wasn’t interpreting the complex hand signals correctly. He’d tossed the pad over to the bed where Dean was laying, but Dean just raised a scornful brow and continued his vague gesticulations.

“Dean! I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to tell me. Screw the charades and meaningful looks and just write it the fuck down for once. Christ.”

Slowly...Sam would almost say snidely, if someone could be said to write snidely, Dean finally did: “knw wht U wntd evry minit evry dy 4 3 yrs whn U cldnt tlk. & I ws 4-7 yr old. So fck U Sam.”

That last “U” was written extra heavy.

And underlined.

Ever since then Sam had made more of an effort to try and interpret Dean’s little movements, and to anticipate what he’d want before Dean actually wanted it, but this time Dean seemed willing to tell him. Or at least Sam thought so, until he looked down at Dean’s paper and saw not words but hieroglyphics. It was a stick figure, long and skinny, with lots of Bay-City-Rollers-type hair sticking up and its head was exploding. It said “Sammy----->” next to it. Sam let out a bark of laughter and nodded ruefully, scruffing the back of Dean’s head with his knuckles.

“Isn’t that the truth? I guess putting your deluxe pizza in a blender is out of the question?” Sam got the patented “uh-huh sure right” look from Dean, and it hadn’t changed any from before the demon took his tongue.

In the end, they both really did fall asleep, but Sam woke first and managed to get out and then back with two huge plastic bags of styrofoam containers just as Dean was stirring. Dean scowled and rubbed his neck, alternating a black glare between Sam and the ominously sticky motel carpet he’d slept on.

“What? You looked like you were comfy.” Sam grinned. “C’mon. It’s getting cold.”

Sam watched as Dean escaped to the bathroom, and took twenty times longer than necessary to piss and wash his hands. When he walked out Sam could hear Dean’s stomach growling, but the look on Dean’s face made his own belly clench. “It’s okay, man. I got a bunch of stuff. Something here’ll work for you. C’mon.”

The chair legs scraped across cracked linoleum as Dean pulled it out and sat, Sam reaching into the microwave for the first couple containers he’d nuked. He’d been torn on what to get, and ended up with some of almost everything on the menu. Each little compartment was filled with something different...green beans, slices of red, juicy beef, mashed potatoes, carrots, coleslaw, and the aforementioned mac ‘n cheese. There were five more containers just like these two on the counter by the microwave. Dean stared, and cocked a brow at Sam, lipcorner teetering on a twitch. “Yeah, I know. It’s a side-dish-palooza. Get over it and eat something.” Then...”Oh! Wait. Hang on.”

Sam reached into one of the abandoned bags. “Ta-da!” Grinning, he placed a plastic melamine-type plate and real silverware on the table in front of Dean, snatched the plastic spork out of Dean’s fist and put another setting in front of his own chair. Dean just stared, clearly wondering whether yesterday’s Big Mac was too rare and the mad cow had eaten Sam’s brain.

“I- I thought you...uh...might need to cut some stuff up. And styrofoam and sporks don’t work so great with that.” Dean dropped his head then, staring down at his sea-green plate and the cheap fork with one bent tine for a long time before looking back up and mouthing “thanks” at Sam. Sam grinned back and started scooping the contents of his foam box onto his plate. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.” Dean started dumping his beans and carrots out too, and Sam dipped his head for a bite when a sharp rap on the table raised his head back to Dean.

Grinning (but not yet eating, Sam noticed) Dean had written “U stel plstic plt 4 ME?” and then he mouthed “Awww....” plain as day, and Sam snorted, downing a glug of milk before answering.

“Nope. Got it fair and square. I told the nice lady it was my girlfriend’s birthday but she was cranky and on the rag and wouldn’t leave the hotel room, and I was trying to make it special for my princess.”

Dean laughed then, and ironically, his laugh was the one sound he could make that was still almost exactly the same as before. He just never made it anymore. It startled Sam for a second to hear it, but he shook it off and stood up, digging in the sack again and coming up with a candle and some matches.

“See? She even gave me this to make your special day even nicer.” Dean snorted, but he tore one of the tiny compartments away from the rest of its container while Sam lit the candle. They watched while it dripped into the well, wax pooling amidst the green bean juice until there was enough to hold it steady, and Sam pushed the candle down into it and moved it to the center of the table. Dean had scratched out some more words while he’d been doing it.

“U knw U R not getng laid 4 ths, rite?”

“Whatever,” Sam said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Quit stalling and eat. Jesus.”

It was messy, Sam saw. The occasional stray pea escaped from Dean’s lips and the mashed potatoes seemed to be just as inclined to move forward in his mouth as to head down his esophagus. It had to be even more disheartening for Dean because Sam knew Dean couldn’t taste much of anything without his tongue. He knew. He’d looked it up. It was a lot to endure just to fill a hole in your belly.

Before long Sam got up and rooted through the trash for the discarded plastic utensils, so he could pull the tissue-thin paper napkins out of them. He took one too, even though their napkin usage was sporadic at best. So many of their meals were the type that came without napkins and out of machines or gas stations that they’d learned to make do with a shirt hem or a jacket sleeve or even a towel. But he didn’t want Dean to be the only one using the napkin.

It was difficult to know what to do. He tried to keep a balance between looking at Dean naturally like he usually would and yet not looking at him too much. They would normally talk –if they weren’t pissed at each other— but now if Sam talked then Dean had to stop eating to write an answer, and that was pretty counterproductive. He could feel Dean sneaking looks at him in return, and knew Dean was checking to see if Sam was getting grossed out.

“Dude. Stop it already. I’m not going to run screaming from the table, okay?”

Dean shrugged, and stuffed another forkful of peas in his mouth.

“Besides, if you’d just stop being so stubborn and admit you have to do things different now it wouldn’t be so bad.” Dean looked a “what?” at him, but Sam wasn’t having it. “Stop trying to eat like you used to, okay? Take smaller bites. Cut the beans in half and have smaller bites of meat and stuff. Jesus. You’re making it harder than what it would be if you’d just...just...god.”

Sam loaded up his own fork with peas. They were on the second set of containers now, and Dean was eating like he just got rescued from a desert island. He clearly wasn’t enjoying the food or Sam’s company anymore, although he had started taking smaller bites and had actually cut the next slice of meat -roast turkey with stuffing, this time— into doll-sized bits and pieces. The candle sputtered, and drew Sam’s gaze upward just as Dean was hurriedly wiping gravy from his chin, hooded eyes watching Sam and clearly hoping he wouldn’t notice. Dean’s hand froze and his face flushed instantly, and fuck it, but Sam couldn’t keep his from doing the same. He wanted that look of shame and embarrassment – that look didn’t belong on Dean Winchester’s face at all, not EVER— off his brother’s face, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He opened his jaw wide and flashed an entire mouthful of half-chewed peas and sticky mashed potato gloop at Dean.

Dean froze; the only thing that moved was his eyes as they widened, startled and staring at Sam. Sam lifted his tongue and waggled the tip of it at Dean. One of the peas dropped off, and, having momentarily escaped being chewed, rolled across the table and came to a stop against the knuckle of Dean’s hand where it rested by his plate. Seconds ticked by as they stared at each other, and Sam’s jaw was beginning to ache and was slowly wobbling closed when Dean picked up Sam’s lonely pea, placed it on the tip of his spoon, and flicked it back at him.

It hit Sam in the exact middle of his forehead and rolled down the bridge of his nose onto the floor. Another staredown, but this time Dean was merely being sneaky, holding Sam’s gaze while he loaded up his spoon with more peas. Sam spat the rest of his mouthful at Dean, yelling “Food fight!” at the top of his lungs as he reached for a handful of mashed potatoes. At the same time Dean flicked his spoon and howled something unintelligible that was clearly a declaration of war.

Sam’s first handful landed right in Dean’s hair, but he was momentarily blinded by the barrage of peas and it gave Dean the time he needed to smack Sam in the nose with a thick slice of turkey breast. Sam countered, nearly clogging one of Dean’s nostrils with a carrot, but the tide clearly went in Dean’s favor when he lunged forward and got his hands on his AND Sam’s macaroni. Sam dove as well, and felt the candle hiss itself out against his belly where he landed on it. The table wobbled and creaked alarmingly beneath them. Dean hooted and laughed, stuffing cheesy yellow pasta in Sam’s left ear while Sam flailed wildly, cursing and trying to fend him off. Both of them rolled to the floor, grasping handfuls of foodstuffs as they fell. Sam reared back, triumphantly biffing Dean in the nose with a hot roll, but Dean caught it when it bounced off and pounced on him, stuffing it down the back of Sam’s pants and hooting what were clearly cocky put-downs in Sam’s ear while he had him momentarily pinned. Sam bucked, throwing Dean off and he skidded a little where the gravy had dribbled off the table-ledge and slicked the floor. Both of them scrabbled for something to throw, remembering the last two containers of food on the counter at the same time.

Sam and his long arms actually got to them first, but John Winchester had taught them that there was nothing shameful about fighting dirty, and Dean goosed Sam and laughed as his startled brother fumbled the boxes, which fittingly enough were filled with desserts. Dean ended up with lime Jell-O up his nose and Sam had cherries down his shirt, the pie crust crumbled in his hair, when they finally called a truce and came to rest tangled and panting –and laughing, thank god he’s laughing, thought Sam — on the greasy, gravied floor.

Something was digging into Sam’s back and he contorted himself until he could get his arm underneath and pull out Dean’s pencil. A finger brushed his buttery hair out of his eyes, and he turned to see Dean –shiny-eyed and apparently content on one elbow, head in his hand- looking at him. Sam – who’d always been the one to talk about how he felt and what he was thinking and always wanted Dean and everyone he loved to do the same - wondered how he would feel if he could never tell Dean anything that mattered again. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, and watched Dean’s eyebrow quirk up in question. Dean’s freckles were camouflaged now by tiny droplets of beef gravy and sweet potato casserole. He wasn’t sure which dots were Dean’s and which were the diner’s.

Sam didn’t see the pad of paper, but he found the mutilated top of one of the foam containers, and put the pencil to it. It wouldn’t write –the lead was greasy with gravy or butter- but he pressed it lightly into the Styrofoam surface, careful not to punch through. When he was done, he scooched himself over closer to Dean, who tilted and curved himself on the slippery floor and made room for Sam to come closer and hold the box lid up for him to read.

Sammy loves Dean
4-ever!

Sam felt like an idiot, and knew Dean would be calling him a junior high girl if he had a tongue to do it with, and when he looked up he expected to be mocked by that eyebrow of his. But instead Dean moved a little closer, so Sam could feel his breath in his ear. He pulled the pencil out of Sam’s fingers and was tapping the words with it, but starting backwards with the “Dean”, so he said:

Dean loves Sammy
4-ever!

And then Dean pressed the pencil into the lid himself, adding a:

2

Sam’s breath was thicker than it should be, and he didn’t feel Dean move until Dean’s lips pressed against his temple. Before he could kiss him back, Dean was up and moving toward the shower.

“I could help...?” Sam offered trying to keep the hope out of his voice, and Dean paused in the bathroom doorway but shook his head, smiling to soften the rejection as the door clicked softly closed.

”One issue down,” Sam sighed to the peas. "Eleventy-five more to go.”

He cleaned while Dean showered, and by the time he was done in the bathroom Dean was already asleep, so he supposed it was fair Dean was up first and already back with coffee the next morning when he stumbled from bed. Sam grimaced as he hit the kitchenette. The floor was still sticky in places. Dean had his nose buried in three different papers' worth of obits, and it wasn’t until Sam was halfway through his coffee that he noticed. Dean had taken out the garbage, but the lid –The Lid- was propped up on the counter by the microwave. Where he had most certainly NOT left it last night.

He looked back to Dean, who was smiling a little, and could feel his own stupid grin stretching wide. Dean finally rolled his eyes then, scribbling on a new notepad with a new pen.

“Dnt go grl on me now. Got us a job. Get pkd, bro. Starvin. U?”

Sam smiled, his own belly feeling better than it had since Dean had been hurt.

“Yeah. I could eat.”