I want to talk about the look in Dean’s eyes when Sam doesn’t know he’s looking. About how his mouth softens, and his eyes get really gentle, and years fall away between the two of them, because Sammy will always be every age he’s ever been to Dean, each one of them filled with precious and bittersweet memories. He just loves his little brother so.fucking.much.
What do you want to talk about?
Those times also remind me of the times Dean will crack a joke. He knows it’s corny, he knows it’s low-hanging fruit, but he just can’t help it. He’d do anything to see that boy smile. And then he pauses after he’s said it and looks closely to Sam for his reaction. Did I make him smile? Did I bring joy and amusement to that already breath-taking face? Did those eyes crinkle and glimmer because I made them do that?
And then he’s lost again for a few moments.
“Kid, you’re gettin’ too big for this,” Dean tells him when he’s fourteen, skinny and small for his age. He’s fallen asleep in front of the tv, trigonometry book in his lap, and he lays his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breathes in that big-brother smell from his neck. Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever get too big for this.
“Sam, you got to be kiddin’ me,” Dean grunts at him, and Sam can feel the tremble in his brother’s arms. He whimpers into Dean’s neck, clings to him tight, too hurt to move and he’s sorry, he is, except that it’s been years since he’s been carried to bed, and it’s comforting.
“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go,” Dean says gently, scooping him up like they’re not grown men, like he doesn’t have inches and pounds on his brother. Sam kisses the hollow of Dean’s throat, lets his eyes drop shut. Dean crawls under the sheets after him, slips an arm around his tummy and tugs him in tight, kisses the nape of his neck.
Sam will never be too big to be the little brother.
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