holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

Sam is dangerous when he gets like this: feigned bashful
and doe-eyed, pink lips shiny with spit as he looks up at Dean from beneath
dark lashes. “Dean,” he says, whining like a brat, “I want to. Haven’t tasted
you all week, I know you want to.”  

“Wanted to fuck your mouth for days, Sammy,” Dean
tells him, long fingers tangling in Sam’s hair. ”But dad’s gonna be back soon. Next
case he leaves for, I promise. The things I’m gonna do to you, baby brother. Gonna mess you up.”

“You know how fast my mouth gets you off, big brother,”
Sam says, filthily: he’s just a kid. “Dad’s
not around.”

The thing is, John is.

John’s stiff with dread behind the front door,
takeaway pizzas going cold in his arms as he tries to keep the bile down his
throat. He thinks of the backseat of the Impala, of single beds to save money
and of warnings not to let anyone close – family
first, we’re leaving town, don’t get attached.  

He thinks of Dean’s young face; sweet and determined: “Sammy comes first.”

John feels his knees go weak and he leans against the
door when he thinks of Sam’s first steps, first words, first kiss and first fuck, and he thinks of Dean’s clear,
green gaze always searching for Sam. He thinks of Sam and Dean’s clothes always
smelling the same; he thinks of them tangled together everywhere; from cradle
to motels to cases to funerals, and
he wants to cry.

John thinks about little Sam who’s never been on a
hunt but whose wrists are constantly bruised and about how many times he’s told
himself it’s just a trick of the light when his boys share looks that make John’s
chest go cold.

He thinks of the vengeance he’s fed them and of the whiskey
nights he hadn’t been there to stop his sons from walking hand in hand into a
darkness so compact John wouldn’t be able to follow.

He tries to think of Mary; of the sound of her voice
and the planes of her face but he finds that he can’t because holding onto her
memory is like water in a clenched fist, and all he hears is Dean and Sam
behind the door.

“Okay Sammy,” Dean says, breathlessly. “Kneel, baby. I’ll
give it to you.”

John falls to his knees with a soft thud.

On the other side of the door, his youngest boy does
the same.