SPN Fic: Hesitation Waltz

[coyotesuspect]

Title: Hesitation Waltz
Fandom: Supernatural
Summary: Dean teaches Sam how to dance. Sam/Dean
Rating: PG 13
Word Count: ~2000
Spoilers/Warning: No spoilers; lots of schmoop.
AN: Written for blindfold_spn , because I am that rare individual who wanders into a kinkfest and then staggers back out with 2000 words of pornless schmoop. Go me!
Prompt: "I would be in awe of anyone who can convincingly get Sam and Dean slow-dancing. Schmoop! Doesnt have to be in public. Can be in a motel. Can lead to more, or not."

“Oh God,” utters Sam suddenly. “There’s going to be dancing.”

Dean looks up from where he’s sitting crosslegged on his bed, reading through a pile of newspaper articles. Sam’s standing in the middle of the motel room, dressed in his best suit with his tie undone around his neck and looking horrified. Dean’s kinda sidetracked for a moment because, hello, Sam in a suit. And yeah, he knows, great job there Deano, perving on your little brother.

And then Dean blinks and brings himself back to the real world.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, a little more roughly than he intended. “Social event of the year there Sam. Of course there’s going to be dancing.”

Sam stares at him. “I don’t know how to dance,” he says.

“You don’t know how to dance?” repeats Dean. “What the hell?”

Sam gives him an incredulous look.

“Yeah Dean,” he says, dry enough to kill a water sprite. “Because ballroom dancing was really a skill Dad valued, up there with bow hunting and hand to hand combat.”

“Sparring’s kind of like dancing,” points out Dean.

“You think I should choke out my date?” gapes Sam, voice high and strangled the way it only gets when he wonders how he’s even related to his brother.

“Hey man, only if she’s into it,” leers Dean. Sam’s brow furrows and he looks like he’s about to say something biting and sharp, so Dean stands up and says, “Here dork, I’ll show you how.”

Sam looks at him, perplexed. “Show me how to what?” he asks.

Dean sighs, because, seriously, for someone so smart, Sam’s kind of a dumbass at times.

“To dance,” he explains. He narrows his eyes. “What did you think?”

The look Sam gives him now is even more incredulous than the one before.

“You know how to dance?”

“Of course,” scoffs Dean, flushing a little. There was this case this one time, and this girl, and he doesn’t know a lot, but, hey, Sam just needs to know enough so that he’s not Tommy Two Leftfeet tonight.

Sam’s shocked expression disappears, replaced with a smug one. “Dude,” he crows, smirking. “You do realize how much ammunition this is for, like, the rest of our lives?”

“What the fuck ever,” says Dean defensively. “You know how much chicks dig that ballroom dancing shit? Shit Sam, didn’t you ever go to a dance at Stanford?”

“That’s not the kind of dancing they do at college parties, Dean,” says Sam with a put upon sigh. He eyes Dean warily and says, “So if you’re so great, why don’t you go tonight, and I’ll stay here with the paperwork.”

“Because dumbass,” replies Dean in the same weary tone as Sam, “Linda’s got bad taste and she wants your skinny ass. Which means you get to pump her for information, and I get a cozy evening with some newsprint and a highlighter.”

Sam bitchfaces. “All right,” he says begrudgingly, holding his hand out. “Show me how it’s done then.”

And right then Dean realizes this may not have been the best idea he’s ever had. Because dancing? Is pretty intimate, and Dean’s not sure he’ll be able to handle being pressed up close and warm to Sam for however long it takes to teach him to dance. But then Sam gets tired of waiting for Dean and grabs his hand, hauling Dean toward him.

“Okay,” says Sam, scowling down at Dean. “Sooner we get this done, sooner we never talk about it, right?”

“Fine by me,” sneers Dean. He grabs Sam’s left hand and puts it on his right shoulder, then takes Sam’s right hand in his left and outstretches their arms before finally placing his right hand just below Sam’s shoulder blade. It’s awkward, because Dean’s used to partners who are shorter than him, but the stance keeps enough space between their bodies that Dean’s not completely doomed, even if he is incredibly aware of every point of contact between him and Sam.

He blushes again, damn his fair skin, and looks down at their feet. Sam’s got large feet, he thinks critically. That could hurt if Sam’s complete balls at this.

“So I’m gonna teach you how to waltz,” he tells Sam’s shiny black dress shoes. “Make sure you keep your weight centered above your feet, okay lover boy?”

Sam nods, and shifts his stance slightly. He gives Dean a brief, rueful grin. “So far so good.”

“Don’t get cocky,” warns Dean. “We’re gonna start with the box step, all right? That’s basic.”

“Okay,” says Sam, fidgeting slightly, gripping Dean’s shoulder a little more tightly than is strictly necessary.

“Good,” says Dean. “Now, when I put my left foot forward, your right foot goes back.”

He nudges Sam’s right knee with his left, and Sam takes a step back.

“I’m gonna start counting time now,” says Dean. “Too bad we don’t have any music for this.”

“Oh good,” says Sam. “For a moment there I was worried you were a classical music buff as well as a dance prodigy.”

“Hey!” sniffs Dean, mock offended. “I am a man of hidden depths.”

“Too bad most of them are pornographic,” says Sam cheerily, and Dean doesn’t even bother to dignify that with a reply. He starts counting the rhythm instead, and once he has it, begins leading Sam through the very simple steps of the box.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. So long as he’s counting rhythm and concentrating on Sam’s shoes, he’s not thinking about his hand curled warm against Sam’s back, not seeing the way Sam’s tongue peeks out between his lips as he concentrates.

After a moment, Sam says, sounding insulted, “Dean, are you leading?”

Dean looks up, vaguely irritated that Sam’s broken his concentration. “Yeah,” he says huffily. “I’m the only one who knows what he’s doing here.”

Sam looks amused. “And I’m sure my date will be thrilled that I know her part of the dance,” he says.

And, shit, Dean hadn’t thought of that. He frowns. “Fine,” he says grudgingly.

Sam smiles at him, sly and toothy, already rearranging their positions so that his hand is now the one pressed to Dean’s back. “Good thing you’re so small and pretty,” he teases. “Just like a chick.”

And really, that should not turn Dean on as much as it does.

“You’re charming,” Dean says, deadpan. “No, really Romeo, continue. I’m flattered.”

Sam chuckles, low, warm chuckle that does strange things to Dean’s stomach. He’s got Dean’s hand gripped tight in his own, and Dean steels himself and stares over the broad line of Sam’s right shoulder.

You can do this, he tells himself sternly. You’re just teaching your brother the waltz.

Goddammit, he thinks, immediately after that thought. Our lives are fucked up.

Sam clears his throat. “So,” he says. “Right foot forward?”

“Left,” corrects Dean, and Sam pauses, brings his right foot back, and then presses against Dean’s right with his left. Dean lets Sam lead him backward, and they dance in awkward silence for a moment, Dean trying to adjust himself to not being in the lead, and telling Sam what foot to move when.

After Sam more or less understands what to do, Dean begins counting aloud again, steady and expressionless as a metronome. He keeps his eyes on the wall. They dance like that for a few more minutes, Sam getting the steps down more smoothly, and Dean’s voice drops down slowly, until finally he’s not speaking at all.

They dance in silence.

There’s no clock, no rain outside, no shouting neighbors in the next room, just the soft footfalls of their steps, the light in and out of their breathing. They’re not graceful, but there’s a fluidness borne of years of combat that makes the dance work, their natural agility compensating for a relative lack of training.

Dean begins to feel light-headed and too warm, mouth going dry, and he thinks he should start teaching Sam another step, so he’ll be able to do more than dance in a square, but when he looks at Sam and tries to speak, he fails. Sam’s face is scrunched adorably, eyebrows in a straight line and mouth moving soundlessly as he counts the steps. Dean stares. Then, Sam notices Dean looking at him, and his expression shifts, goes soft and thoughtful.

“Hey,” he says, but he doesn’t complete the thought, tilting into Dean instead, and Dean, startled, tries to back away. But Sam’s hand is firm against his back, and Dean ends up pressed flush against his brother, same thoughtful look on Sam’s face. Their dancing slides to a halt.

“Sam-” says Dean, going for pissed instead of desperate, and he ends up somewhere around anxious.

Sam kisses him. There’s a pause, a tiny fraction of a second, when Dean’s entire mind goes completely blank, and then it explodes outward in a wave of shock, and he doesn’t even think about it, just opens his mouth beneath Sam’s lips. Sam slips his tongue inside, probing gently, and Sam’s big hands let go of Dean, coming around to bracket his face. Dean leans into the contact, his own hands twisting into the soft fabric of Sam’s dress shirt. They stand there, kissing, tongues gentle and exploring, until finally they both have to come up to breathe.

“Sammy,” exhales Dean, voice cracking embarrassingly. Sam smiles at him, crooked and fond, his face pink.

“So, um,” says Sam, scratching at the back of his head. “Much as I want to do that again, I should probably go pump the witness for information now.”

It takes a moment for Dean to realize what Sam is saying; he’d forgotten all about the reason for the dance lesson in the first place.

“Oh, right,” he says when he remembers. “Um.”

Sam continues to smile at him, smiling like he can’t really control it, like he’s feeling too happy for it not to be there, and something pleased and bubbly swells in Dean’s gut. He likes that he was the one to put that smile there.

“So I’ll just be going then,” says Sam with an awkward little laugh.

“Yeah,” says Dean. “Okay.” And then he says, “Wait.”

Sam looks at him, eyebrows arched, still smiling faintly.

“Your tie,” says Dean, gesturing at the tie still hanging loosely around Sam’s neck. “Here,” he says, leaning forward and taking the silky fabric in his hands. “Let me.”

He ties the tie, and Sam goes still and straight. Dean can feel Sam’s gaze on him, heavy and intent, and when he finishes with the tie, his cheeks are burning. He pats Sam on the chest, wishing furiously that Sam didn’t have to leave, this thing hanging new and fragile between them. He’s afraid that if they have time alone, time to think about it, they’ll realize what a bad idea it is. But when he looks up at Sam, his doubts disappear, because Sam’s smile has gone wide, shiny and dimpled and completely content, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted in the world, and that bubbly filling in Dean’s gut expands until he’s flushed and giddy with it.

On impulse, he tugs on Sam’s tie, bringing Sam toward him, and kisses him. It’s brief, just a chaste press of lips, and when he pulls away, Sam has on the same smile, and Dean knows they’ll be all right.

“So,” says Sam, wicked curve to the smile now and mischievous glint in his eyes. “When I get back, will you show me some of your other moves?”

“Sure thing Sammy,” laughs Dean. He leers. “Fortunately for you, most of them are pornographic.”

AN: I don’t actually know anything about ballroom dancing- I know; you’re all shocked- other than that 1) the waltz is a ballroom dance and 2) it’s basic step is the box. All my information on how the waltz actually works came from the Wikipedia article and here. Wikipedia is also where I got the name, as the hesitation waltz is actually a form of the waltz.

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