A little ficlet for soulforsam because she wasn’t feeling awesome today.
AN: I figure Sam is about 13 near the end of this and Dean is 19, nothing more graphic than a kiss in this but still, if wincest is not your thing, do not read and if underage stuff is not your thing, do not read.
Unlike most children, Sam didn’t grow up in the middle of suburbia with a yard, and a dog, and two loving parents. Sam grew up in the back seat of the Impala with Dean. In the beginning, he’d fuss and cry so hard that he’d throw up, throwing Dean into a similar state of distress. Eventually, Dean figured out how to cut Sammy off before his face could so much as turn red or tears could flow. The best way to keep Sam from tears was for Dean to count all of Sam’s toes, then all of his fingers, and then his nose and eyes and ears before blowing raspberries into Sammy’s stomach till he shrieked with laughter. Sam would toddle across the motel room’s floor towards Dean before demanding that Dean “count” him. Dean always obliged, throwing Sam onto his lap and counting his digits and kissing his tummy and face. Sam begged him to do it “again” and “again!” till neither of them could breathe for laughing. Sammy grew out of it, eventually. When they got back from his first hunt though, he and Dean and Dad, Sammy sat on the motel bed, hands still shaking from adrenaline and while Dad was in the shower Dean carefully counted Sam’s toes, and his fingers, and his nose and eyes and ears before carefully pressing a kiss to his lips. Sam smiled, ducked his head, and said, “Again.”