He pulls his jeans back on, somewhat desperately, and a different shirt that smells like Sam because he wasn't paying attention apparently when he reached in the bag. He rubs the towel over his head one more time before tossing it into the corner, and when he steps out, he is about to demand to know who would make a mash-up of two of the greatest songs ever written, and secondly, why Sam is playing it, but Sam looks so entirely guilty that Dean waits. He clears his throat.
“Shit! Uh.” Sam says.
Dean loves catching Sam in the act. No matter what it is, he loves how Sam fumbles and goes dark and embarrassed. Currently, Sam has something in his mouth and is holding something behind his back.
Dean leans against the door jam. “So.”
Sam shifts on his feet and looks glum, which is not supposed to happen. Dean frowns.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine, I just.” Sam pauses, looks at Dean, then pulls the sword from behind his back like an admission, like it's supposed to mean something.
“Uh,” Dean hazards. “Practicing?”
Sam steps aside and a cutting board of fruit is revealed on the counter. “We didn't have a knife.”
“Peaches!” Dean says, and steps over to take a slice. He pops it in his mouth and moans around all the juice and tangy happiness that explodes like sunshine on his tongue. Sam makes a strangled noise. Dean pops another piece in his mouth and sucks juice from his thumb, feeling greedy. He says, “So, what is this?”
He notices Sam has sugar on his cheek like a fingerprint, and he wants to lick it. He's thinking about this so doesn't notice for a moment what else is on the counter.
“Is that?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You know, whatever.”
There is a tin with crust in it, and the oven beeps right then to three seventy-five.
Sam steps in so their shoulders are brushing and Dean watches him pile the peach slices into the tin in a delicious pile, and it all makes sense. Well, some sense. Sam has noticeably drawn himself up to his full height, ready for a scuffle if Dean, godforbid tries to get in between him and this mission. He pours sugar and other things on the fruit and Dean watches him, feeling an immeasurable amount of good-will which is not only due to the pie, until Sam sticks it in the oven and turns on Dean and demands, “Now spill.”
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Ma Vie En Peche(4/5)
Date: 2012-04-02 03:02 am (UTC)He pulls his jeans back on, somewhat desperately, and a different shirt that smells like Sam because he wasn't paying attention apparently when he reached in the bag. He rubs the towel over his head one more time before tossing it into the corner, and when he steps out, he is about to demand to know who would make a mash-up of two of the greatest songs ever written, and secondly, why Sam is playing it, but Sam looks so entirely guilty that Dean waits. He clears his throat.
“Shit! Uh.” Sam says.
Dean loves catching Sam in the act. No matter what it is, he loves how Sam fumbles and goes dark and embarrassed. Currently, Sam has something in his mouth and is holding something behind his back.
Dean leans against the door jam. “So.”
Sam shifts on his feet and looks glum, which is not supposed to happen. Dean frowns.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine, I just.” Sam pauses, looks at Dean, then pulls the sword from behind his back like an admission, like it's supposed to mean something.
“Uh,” Dean hazards. “Practicing?”
Sam steps aside and a cutting board of fruit is revealed on the counter. “We didn't have a knife.”
“Peaches!” Dean says, and steps over to take a slice. He pops it in his mouth and moans around all the juice and tangy happiness that explodes like sunshine on his tongue. Sam makes a strangled noise. Dean pops another piece in his mouth and sucks juice from his thumb, feeling greedy. He says, “So, what is this?”
He notices Sam has sugar on his cheek like a fingerprint, and he wants to lick it. He's thinking about this so doesn't notice for a moment what else is on the counter.
“Is that?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. “You know, whatever.”
There is a tin with crust in it, and the oven beeps right then to three seventy-five.
Sam steps in so their shoulders are brushing and Dean watches him pile the peach slices into the tin in a delicious pile, and it all makes sense. Well, some sense. Sam has noticeably drawn himself up to his full height, ready for a scuffle if Dean, godforbid tries to get in between him and this mission. He pours sugar and other things on the fruit and Dean watches him, feeling an immeasurable amount of good-will which is not only due to the pie, until Sam sticks it in the oven and turns on Dean and demands, “Now spill.”