keagan writes

“Ever wonder about those two?” Bobby asks, watching Dean and Sam in the living room, curled around each other. The TV was loud enough they couldn’t hear the two adults conversing in the kitchen.

“No.” John says softly. “They’re brothers. That’s all.” He glances sidelong at Bobby as if daring him to say more, to press the issue.

Unaware they were being watched, Sam tilts his head up, and presses a kiss to Dean’s jawline. 

Bobby sighs, shaking his head. “Just brothers, huh?”

John let Dean have the car, let him stay out all night, let him chase after whatever girl he wished without any scolding. All efforts to keep Dean away from who John knew he really wanted. 

But he saw the way Dean looked at Sam, saw the way the slept, curled up together like air had no business being between them. 

And he knew it was too late. 

saltiestandthirtiestgem  asked:

Hey there babe since you wrote the cutest flash back in without a word could you do Dean insisting he gives Sam a bath

“Dean, it’s fine.” Bobby rolls his eyes, staring at the 7 year old Dean contemplatively. “I got it.”

Dean stared up at Bobby with clear green eyes. Clinging to Dean’s side, was 3 year old Sammy, his chubby arms wrapped tightly around Dean’s torso and in turn, one of Dean’s arms wrapped protectively around his shoulder. 

“I’m supposed to take care of Sammy.” Dean says calmly. “That’s my job.”

“It’s fine.” Bobby repeats. “You can go play while I bath him.”

Dean holds Sam tighter. “I’m gonna bath him.” He says firmly, voice unwavering for an 8 year old directly defying familiar authority. “He needs me.”

Sam is only looking at Dean, not saying anything. His hazel eyes were wide and focused for that of a child barely older than a toddler. “De?”

“S’okay, Sammy. Gotta give you a bath.” Bobby answers instead, reaching down and scooping Sam easily out of Dean’s grip. 

Sam starts crying. 

Chaos erupts. Dean grabs Bobby’s wrist and twists it painfully to the left, digging his small fingers into a nerve and nearly making Bobby drop Sam, who was struggling and crying and trying to get to Dean. 

“Okay, okay!” Bobby relents, releasing Sam, who stumbles over to Dean. Dean scoops him up easily and soothes him in a manner that is practiced, until Sam is calm, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder and sucking on his thumb contentedly. 

“I’m giving him a bath.” Dean says again, and turns to walk Sam upstairs.

Bobby takes off his baseball cap to run  a hand through his hair. 

“Too damn codependent.” He mutters. 

Bobby watches them across the room from over his glass of whiskey. “Sam is fourteen.” He tells John. “Isn’t that too old for him to be sitting on Dean’s lap?”

John follows his gaze, and he watches his sons for what seems to be forever, but really, is only about a span of three minutes. “Maybe.” He agreed.

“John, I’m a little worried…” Bobby hedged, not quite sure how to go about telling John he thought his two boys might be in love with each other.

“Why?” John asks, seeming calm and at ease.

Because.” He grunts like it’s obvious. And isn’t it? He’s pretty sure that the way Sam tucks his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, or the possessive hand Dean splays under Sam’s t shirt, against the bare skin of his back, is something to be worried about. “They’re…very close.”

“They’d die for each other.” John agrees, nodding to himself.

Bobby opens his mouth to say more, but John cuts him off by slamming his glass down on the coffee table. “Bobby, please.” He says sharply. “I know it’s not healthy. But this has been fourteen years in the making. They’re safer like this. They’ll do more to protect each other. To keep each other safe.”

“I think a little space would do them some good.” Bobby adds.

“No.” John is quick to shoot that idea down. “Sammy gets nightmares, and Dean is the only one who can calm him down.”

“Well maybe–”

“I said no, Bobby. It’s too late.” He stares down in his glass, his jaw tight, though he has clearly come to accept the fact before him long ago—otherwise, John would be much more worked up than he is. “Nothing is going to come between them now.”

Bobby refills his glass and downs it all at once, his throat burning from the alcohol, though he pays no attention to it. He’s more focused on the brothers before him. “Dammit.” He curses under his breath. “Too damn codependent.”

To Build a Home
The Cinematic Orchestra
To Build a Home

[[ inspired by above song ]]

If you asked any 6 year old kid what their definition of a home is, they’d answer you with a description of their house—their four walls, their room, maybe the cars that line their drive way. The color of their grass, the flowers in their garden, how much they liked to run and play in the back yard.

Sam has a different answer. He has never known what it’s like to fall into the same bed every night for a long time. He doesn’t know how it feels to come back to the same place every day, to have routine.

Not to say he doesn’t have a home. He absolutely does. 

He knows the feeling of curling up in his own version of home when he’s upset. He knows how it feels to want nothing more than to be home, and to want nothing more than to be as far away from home as possible. He knows the feeling of coming home after a long, hard day.

But his home isn’t a brick building with rooms and windows and pretty flowers and green grass.

No.

His home is smaller, much smaller, and more mobile, likes to go with him almost everywhere he goes. His home means safety and it means comfort. His home has dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. His home is a 10 year old boy.

His home, is Dean. 

“That your boy?” asks a hunter at the Roadhouse, one John’s never spoken to before. He’s looking at Dean.

John follows his gaze to see Sam and Dean smiling at each other, a 14 year old and a 18 year old lost in their own world in the corner of the room, Dean’s arm around Sam’s shoulders, Sam’s head on Dean’s chest. They look so happy that John can’t help but share in the joy even from afar.

“They both are.” John replies, smiling at his boys proudly. He saw the butt of a 45 sticking out of Dean’s belt. Sam doesn’t carry a gun, because he doesn’t have to. Dean is always around with his. Though, John encourages him to keep his butterfly knife with him at all times, just in case. The youngest Winchester barley obliges, often forgetting the weapon. 

The hunter chokes on his beer, sputtering as he stares at John and then at Sam and Dean in disbelief, his gaze dropping back to John.

John assumed it was because Sam looked more like Mary and there wasn’t much resemblance between him and his youngest boy, unlike Dean, who shared all John’s manurisims, right down to choice if clothing and music, even their way of speech was similar. 

“You mean to tell me their brothers?" The hunter asks, his eyebrows hiked up on his forehead as if the very idea was a blasphemy. 

"Well, yes.” John answers without hesitation. “They’re just…very close.”

“I’d say.” Mutters the hunter, returning to his beer, muttering something under his breath John can’t quite catch, despite his acute hearing. 

John doesn’t comment, just watches Sam and Dean intently, trying to see them through the eyes of an outsider.

Sure, they were physically close, as if air had no business to be between them, and the way they looked into one another’s eyes held a depth that he should probably be concerned about…

But John couldn’t make himself worry about the unhealthy codependency of his boys, because he couldn’t exactly see it as unhealthy.

They just loved each other a whole lot, and that was okay.

They were okay.