"He's mine and I don't share." - Wincest. I hope you have a good day.
Sam always got attention when they went into bars. And not because his fake ID said he was 21, meanwhile his doe like eyes betrayed his true age, which was just barely legal.
It was his eyes and his dimples, and probably his ass, too, Dean was pretty sure. His eyes–they were so big and hazel, so innocent looking, despite the fact that Sam wasn’t all that innocent at all. And his dimples, well. They were inches wide and miles deep, carving out little pockets of sunshine in Sam’s cheeks.
And his ass?
No explanation needed.
Yeah. His kid was a twink, and Dean knew it. Fucking loved it, most of the time. Except maybe right now.
He’d left for five minutes, just to take a piss, and when he returned, his seat at the table was taken. Some asshole with a beer and a loud voice, was leaning too close to Sam, was crowding him in, trying to drink him up.
Sometimes, Sam was a little shit. Sometimes he’d bat his lashes a couple times, gift whatever stupid drunk was brave enough to approach in Dean’s absence a little piece of his sunshine smile. And then Sam would dart his eyes to Dean, smirk a little at his reaction, and Dean would storm over, quick to remind both Sam and the offender just exactly who Sam belonged to.
Tonight, though, Sam wasn’t in the mood for games. He squirmed in his seat, not looking at the guy’s face, not even listening to whatever shit he’s spewing. No. Sam’s eyes are wandering around desperately.
He’s looking for Dean.
When their eyes finally meet, Dean can see the relief sink into Sam’s bones from across the bar. The nervousness drifts from Sam’s actions, the tension melting away.
Dean stalks over slowly. Dangerously. This guy was bothering Sam. Was trying to get close to what was rightfully Dean’s.
“Dean,” Sam said softly, and christ, Dean was in love. “Don’t hurt him.”
Dean clenches his jaw. “Nah, Sammy, don’t worry. He was just leaving,” Dean says, not looking at Sam, just staring the guy down.
“Only if you’re coming with, sweetheart,” The man slurs, watching Sam. He puts his arms around Sam’s shoulders, and Sam cowers away, trying to get closer to Dean.
And that’s Dean’s last straw.
“He’s mine.” Dean growls out finally, getting a fistful of the man’s shirt. “And I don’t share.” His voice is dark enough, with the promise of danger, so much so that the man only blinks up at him, bewildered. When Dean lets him go with shaking hands at Sam’s quiet plead, the asshole just stumbles away, looking dazed.
“You okay?” Dean asks, snapping out of it and turning to Sam.
Sam nods, standing up to press close to his big brother. “Only want you. Hate it when they touch me. Doesn’t feel right.”
Dean plants hungry kiss to Sam’s collarbone. “Then let’s go home and fix it. How does that sound”
Sam answers with a slow smile and nothing else, but it’s all the reply Dean needs.