holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

John wakes up and
tries to hide the liquor on his breath with coffee so black it moves like tar in
the dirty motel mug before he gets into the Impala and drives across the
country in search for darkness.

When Dean tells Sam
that their father hunts bad things, Sam giggles.

Because little
Sammy knows how to hide in plain sight.

Sam watches
through his lashes as John packs his bag: holy water, gun, silver bullets.

A bible.

Sam rolls over in
the warm bed and pretends to be asleep: Dean is warm and close next to him,
sleeping soundly. Sam can feel John’s tired gaze fall on them for a minute, and
the room is silent with goodbyes he knows John won’t bother to voice.

Shuffling steps, a
key in the lock, and the roar of the Impala.

Sam smiles softly
into the pale morning light.

When Dean wakes
up, Sam’s close: dark eyes heavily lidded, a sleepy smirk that looks
indecent on his young face. His fingertips are feathery light on Dean’s shoulder,
counting the faint sprinkle of freckles there.

“You’re pretty when
you sleep,” Sam tells Dean. His voice is very quiet, and Dean blushes like a
virgin.

“You’re pretty
when you’re awake,” Dean says, and Sam slides unhurriedly on top of him,
grinding their barely dressed warm bodies together. Dean makes a beautiful
noise somewhere between a plea and a whine, and Sam can smell the guilt on his
neck.

It smells like
victory, and Sam keeps smiling when he thinks of John out there: I have to protect you boys.

John never
realizes that the call is coming from inside the house. That when he locks
the motel room door, he leaves Dean at the mercy of the most dangerous thing of
all.

By the time John exorcises
his first demon, Sam is counting the freckles on Dean’s hipbones with the tip
of his tongue.