holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

John’s stomach is in knots when he sees the way his
youngest looks at Dean.

Ten years will pass, however, before he finally lashes
out at seventeen-year-old Sammy when he sees how he looks at Dean, passed out
on the couch. “Don’t look at him like
that!”

Sam’s dark eyes are calm and calculating beneath his
dark bangs where he’s artfully draped across the cheap motel armchair, his long
legs thrown across the furniture gracefully: He looks like royalty, the
merciless kind, and John feels like he’s trapped with something he’s never
encountered.

Sam’s eyes never leave Dean’s sleeping form. “But daddy,”
Sam says, and he makes it sound so filthy;
John wants to weep. “You’re the one who gave me the prettiest thing in the
world to look at.”