[Mild Wincest with swearing]
Note: So this was actually going to be a part of a massive Wincest story that I've been writing for around 3-4 months now, except it didn't quite fit with the whole story.
“What’s your password?” Sam asks Dean, who is still pretty much out of commission.
“Password? What password?” He asks, trying to sit up and failing, quite badly. After his third attempt, he curses and lies back down. “What password, Sam?”
“For your email, man. We need that spell. That girl said she’d email it to you, remember?”
“Fuck.” Dean closes his eyes and then smacks his forehead. “Uh. Yeah.” He manages to somehow sit up by pushing himself up with his forearms, shaky as they are, to look at Sam. “Do me a favor, Sam? Gimme the laptop.”
“No way, man.” Sam shakes his head. “You’ve gotta be on your back, Dean. Asleep. Now quit being such a baby and give me the password for your email.”
All this time, Sam’s fingers are poised on top of the keyboard keys. He’s got Dean’s email address typed up and ready.
When Dean first sent him an email from that address, maybe a year or so ago, Sam had stared at it for just about ten minutes or so. And then it clicked.
John. Dean. Sam. Winchester.
“Dammit, Sam! Why the hell do you wanna know my password anyway?”
“And why don’t you want me to know? What’s wrong? Do you write secret love poems and send them to girls or something? Are you having cybersex behind my back?”
Did she ever send you emails and you’ve kept them all this time, Dean?
“Fuck. Fine.” Dean mutters something under his breath. He grabs a pillow—one of Sam’s—and he puts it over his face. The reply that Dean tries to smother goes unheard and Sam kicks at the bed to jostle Dean.
“Alright, alright! Hold your goddamn horses, Sam!” He lifts the pillow long enough for Sam to see him all flushed and for Dean to mumble the password. “S-A-M-J-W-I-N-C.”
Sam doesn’t think much of it, just types the letters as Dean says them. And then he stops for a moment, replays them in his head. The laugh that follows when it clicks in place—second time now—makes Dean curse and call him more names.
Sam’s much too busy to care though, because the page finally finishes loading and Sam clicks to open Dean’s inbox. All he sees is an almost empty space save for the email he’s looking for and another email—from Ellen. And three email folders, clearly marked, all capitals.
DAD. HUNTS. SAMMY.
Sam stops snickering long enough to crawl into bed with Dean, ignoring his brother’s protests and name-calling to arrange himself at Dean’s side to snuggle. Because really, after all this time, even knowing that this is Dean—his brother—that this is wrong, he’s done hiding. And even if Dean is still trying to put on the smoke screen, Sam’s seen all his cards now.
BTW, C&C? Makes me happy.