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Entry tags:	fic - spn and cwrps, recs - spn and cwrps

Ficlet: May the Delights of the Heart Be Yours
So setissma is having a big drabble par-tay over at her journal (where you should all go play!), and I may have written a little something for her request, Sam/Dean, "just married signs". But I pooed it up and switched tenses at the end and comments are annoyingly uneditable. SO. I am reposting a tweaked version. If you know where the title comes from, you get bonus points for being cool. Or an enormous geek. Whichever.

Title: May the Delights of the Heart Be Yours
Author: balefully
Pairing: Sam/Dean.
Rating: PG
Words: 803



May the Delights of the Heart Be Yours

They're waiting at a stoplight in Manassas, Virginia, when Dean ducks down into the footwell to grab his bottle of Mountain Dew and a huge bag of nacho-flavored Doritos. Sam's driving because of Dean's wrenched ankle, and if Dean has to be the passenger, he's going to take advantage of it; they had to pretend to be a health-conscious gay couple for a whole goddamned weekend to hunt down a nasty spirit on Fire Island, and Dean is ready for something as far from tofu and steamed vegetables as possible.

He sits up again, clutching his junk food, and notices a middle-aged woman in an SUV over in the right lane giving them the stink-eye. Dean blinks at her, takes a swig of his soda, and asks Sam when he thinks they'll be in North Carolina.

In Charleston, Dean wakes up from a painkiller-induced nap while Sam's pumping gas, and he rolls down the window to sing along with Queen as it blasts on the radio. There's a trucker walking past who turns a half-frightened, half-withering look on him, and Dean just beams right back and keeps on belting it, culturally deprived rednecks be damned. When Sam finally slides into the driver's seat again, he's weirdly perky and prone to random bouts of laughter. Dean figures it's because his singing's just so damn good, he could give Freddy a run for his money.

Eventually, they get to a motel, and Dean assures Sam he can hobble to the front office to get them a room without sustaining permanent injury while Sam parks. As soon as he reaches the desk, the receptionist chick is smirking at him and fiddling with her hair. "Um. Got any vacancies?" he asks, brow furrowed. He can't peg the girl's weird look at all, which is unsettling.

"Sure, yeah. Number seven. It's just around the corner," she says, sliding him the key with a wink. Dean thanks her, unsure, and limps back outside to the pink door with the gold seven on it.

And right under the seven? Are the words "Honeymoon Suite", written in curling gold script. Dean bites back a curse and stares, nonplussed.

When Sam comes up behind him with a chuckle, Dean spins around, ready to march back to the front desk, demand a refund, and rip into the stupid, presumptuous reception bitch. But of course, his bad ankle chooses that exact moment to give out pretty spectacularly, and Dean is about to fall flat on his face when Sam lunges to catch him right before he hits the ground, all strong arms and quick reflexes.

"Chill," Sam says, voice low and quiet. He's breathing hard, though, and Dean doesn't think he's all that heavy. "It's not her fault." Sam jabs his thumb awkwardly towards the Impala, parked across the lot, without loosening his hold on Dean.

Dean eyes his car, slowly taking in the enormous pink and white "JUST MARRIED! ♥ ♥ ♥!" sign, flowery and coated in glitter, taped across the back bumper.

"What the fuck?" Dean practically shouts, trying half-heartedly to shake Sam's big warm hands off his arms. "Why—"

"I think George and Darren bought our story back in New York a little too completely," Sam grins. His smile is soft and genuine, and he doesn't look even remotely pissed off.

And maybe being laid back is contagious, because Dean starts feeling the fight drain out of him. Or it might be the fact that Sam subtly slipped one of his hands from Dean's bicep around to his back when Dean wasn't paying attention and started rubbing slow, soothing circles. Which Dean is patently not thinking about. Clearly, their Fire Island act has gone to Sam's head.

"You must'a known it was there, though," Dean attempts, confused. "You were pumping gas way back in Charleston."

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. I kinda like it." He nods at the Honeymoon Suite. "Got its perks, right?"

Dean blushes crimson. Sam had been a little touchy-feely over the weekend. And Dean maybe hadn't really tried all that hard to put a stop to it. "Uh, you got something you wanna tell me, Sammy?"

"What if I do?" Sam asks, grabbing the key from Dean and opening the door one-handed.

"I don't—" Dean starts, trying to figure out what the ever-loving hell is actually happening over the rushing in his ears and the frantic thumping of his own heart. But Sam just sweeps him up in his arms, only a faint grunt to belie the apparent ease of hefting Dean bodily off the ground, and carries him over the threshold into the motel room.

"Hush. And don't worry about your ankle. You won't need to be on your feet for what I've got planned," Sam orders, and slams the door behind them.


AND NOW. You should all go read Balance, by setissma, which was based on my prompt Jared/Jensen, bodyswap, and is GENIUS. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.