FILL: Everything Changes, gen (Wincest if you squint), chubby!Dean, hurt!Sam, PG-13 for language (1/2)
He pulls the tray from the oven.
The cookies look good. The sight and smell reminds of Jess a little. She loved to bake. Tried to teach him, but most lessons ended with floury handprints on somebody’s ass and a lot of giggling. He must have absorbed some of the information though, and he smiles a little.
The clock tells him it’s half past five. He should get dinner going; Dean will be home soon. He heads for the pantry and decides on something simple. Grabs a couple boxes of pasta and he can whip-up a quick Alfredo sauce.
His back is beginning to ache. A dull pain that tells him he might be pushing himself a little too hard. He can already hear Dean’s voice in his head, telling him to take it easy. He puts a pot of water on the stove and then sits down at the table. Takes a quick break before diving into the next task.
It was five months ago that he fell. He was chasing a goblin through an abandoned warehouse and wasn’t watching the floor as carefully as he should have been. Missed that the wood was completely rotted out in an area and it was twenty feet to the unforgiving concrete below. He recognizes that he’s lucky to be walking, not to mention alive. He broke three lower vertebrae and was laid up in the hospital for three weeks before they let him go home. Only home was a shitty house Dean had been squatting in, and they knew change was on the horizon.
It came the form of a house. A house with both their names attached to it. Dean got a job at a garage and otherwise busies himself with motherhenning Sam. Arranges his schedule around his. Goes to every doctor’s appointment and brings him to and from physical therapy.
It’s their routine. A terrifyingly normal routine.
By the time Dean gets home he’s got dinner almost ready.
“Five minutes,” He shouts back over his shoulder.
“Looks good.” Dean is behind him. Moves like a friggin’ ninja sometimes and he can feel Dean’s hand subtly brush against the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers dip beneath and it could be interpreted as an affectionate touch, but Sam knows better. He’s checking to see if he’s wearing his brace. Which of course he is, but Dean is Dean and always needs to check.
“You wanna change? Everything’ll be ready when you come back.”
“How about you sit down and I’ll finish everything up.”
Dean begins guiding him toward the table. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t object. The dull ache hasn’t let up and he’s learned to listen to his body or pay the price. He takes a seat and watches Dean move to the counter. He fills both their plates with pasta and spoons the thick, creamy sauce over the noodles. “Fuck, Sammy,” He groans. “Smells awesome. You make all this yourself?”
“Everything but the pasta.”
“Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. Who’d a thought you could cook.”
He doesn’t respond but smiles a little. He might have picked up pieces from Jess, but most of his skills are thanks to hours of cooking shows and time spent pouring over websites and cookbooks. Not that he’d admit it.
In the first weeks out of the hospital he began to feel helpless. He watched Dean devote every free moment to him and needed to do something. After a little thought it clicked. If there was one thing that could rival Dean’s love for him, it was his love for food.
That was when he decided to learn to cook, and the meal in front of them is proof it’s been going pretty well.
Dean sets the plates down. Sprinkles a little of the parmesan he’d grated earlier over the pasta and then takes a seat. “Cookies too,” Sam says, nodding toward the cooling rack. “For dessert.”
“You spoil me, man. Makin’ me fat.” He leans back in his chair and pats his stomach, which is certainly rounder than it’s ever been-a plump curve that’s formed over the months. It pushes over the waistband of his jeans and strains the fabric of his t-shirt a little, but it suits him.
“Just a little more of you,” Sam comments. “Not a bad thing at all.”
Dean chuckles and the sound morphs into a groan as he takes a bite of the pasta. Sam takes a bite of his own and it’s pretty good. Not sure if it’s worthy of the orgasm moan but he’ll take the compliment.
“How was work?” He asks.
Dean shovels another bite into his mouth and then launches into a story about some guy who dropped in without an appointment and got pissed when he found out it’ll take a day or two. “He’s yelling about how he’s supposed to get to work and I’m like I don’t know, a bus? A friend? I don’t know your life but every minute you waste bitching is a minute I’m not working on your damn car.”
He listens. Laughs a little and when they finish Dean brings the cookies over. One for Sam and three for himself. He sits back in his seat and unbuttons his jeans. His t-shirt rides up a little as his stomach expands and he gives it a light pat.
“Need to get you some new jeans,” Sam comments. Then adds, “Maybe some stretch pants.”
Dean lifts his middle finger. “Fuck off,” He says through a mouthful of cookie.
Sam laughs and takes a bite of his own. He feels… happy. Relaxed. Which is something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. They haven’t talked about it, but both know that hunting’s out. He’s a candidate for surgery-eventually-but even with it his back will never be the same. This is their life now.
A house.
A job.
Home cooked meals and an increasingly chubby brother.
It’s weird, but more than anything? It really isn’t that bad.
He pulls the tray from the oven.
The cookies look good. The sight and smell reminds of Jess a little. She loved to bake. Tried to teach him, but most lessons ended with floury handprints on somebody’s ass and a lot of giggling. He must have absorbed some of the information though, and he smiles a little.
The clock tells him it’s half past five. He should get dinner going; Dean will be home soon. He heads for the pantry and decides on something simple. Grabs a couple boxes of pasta and he can whip-up a quick Alfredo sauce.
His back is beginning to ache. A dull pain that tells him he might be pushing himself a little too hard. He can already hear Dean’s voice in his head, telling him to take it easy. He puts a pot of water on the stove and then sits down at the table. Takes a quick break before diving into the next task.
It was five months ago that he fell. He was chasing a goblin through an abandoned warehouse and wasn’t watching the floor as carefully as he should have been. Missed that the wood was completely rotted out in an area and it was twenty feet to the unforgiving concrete below. He recognizes that he’s lucky to be walking, not to mention alive. He broke three lower vertebrae and was laid up in the hospital for three weeks before they let him go home. Only home was a shitty house Dean had been squatting in, and they knew change was on the horizon.
It came the form of a house. A house with both their names attached to it. Dean got a job at a garage and otherwise busies himself with motherhenning Sam. Arranges his schedule around his. Goes to every doctor’s appointment and brings him to and from physical therapy.
It’s their routine. A terrifyingly normal routine.
By the time Dean gets home he’s got dinner almost ready.
“Five minutes,” He shouts back over his shoulder.
“Looks good.” Dean is behind him. Moves like a friggin’ ninja sometimes and he can feel Dean’s hand subtly brush against the hem of his t-shirt. His fingers dip beneath and it could be interpreted as an affectionate touch, but Sam knows better. He’s checking to see if he’s wearing his brace. Which of course he is, but Dean is Dean and always needs to check.
“You wanna change? Everything’ll be ready when you come back.”
“How about you sit down and I’ll finish everything up.”
Reply
Dean begins guiding him toward the table. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t object. The dull ache hasn’t let up and he’s learned to listen to his body or pay the price. He takes a seat and watches Dean move to the counter. He fills both their plates with pasta and spoons the thick, creamy sauce over the noodles. “Fuck, Sammy,” He groans. “Smells awesome. You make all this yourself?”
“Everything but the pasta.”
“Can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me. Who’d a thought you could cook.”
He doesn’t respond but smiles a little. He might have picked up pieces from Jess, but most of his skills are thanks to hours of cooking shows and time spent pouring over websites and cookbooks. Not that he’d admit it.
In the first weeks out of the hospital he began to feel helpless. He watched Dean devote every free moment to him and needed to do something. After a little thought it clicked. If there was one thing that could rival Dean’s love for him, it was his love for food.
That was when he decided to learn to cook, and the meal in front of them is proof it’s been going pretty well.
Dean sets the plates down. Sprinkles a little of the parmesan he’d grated earlier over the pasta and then takes a seat. “Cookies too,” Sam says, nodding toward the cooling rack. “For dessert.”
“You spoil me, man. Makin’ me fat.” He leans back in his chair and pats his stomach, which is certainly rounder than it’s ever been-a plump curve that’s formed over the months. It pushes over the waistband of his jeans and strains the fabric of his t-shirt a little, but it suits him.
“Just a little more of you,” Sam comments. “Not a bad thing at all.”
Dean chuckles and the sound morphs into a groan as he takes a bite of the pasta. Sam takes a bite of his own and it’s pretty good. Not sure if it’s worthy of the orgasm moan but he’ll take the compliment.
“How was work?” He asks.
Dean shovels another bite into his mouth and then launches into a story about some guy who dropped in without an appointment and got pissed when he found out it’ll take a day or two. “He’s yelling about how he’s supposed to get to work and I’m like I don’t know, a bus? A friend? I don’t know your life but every minute you waste bitching is a minute I’m not working on your damn car.”
He listens. Laughs a little and when they finish Dean brings the cookies over. One for Sam and three for himself. He sits back in his seat and unbuttons his jeans. His t-shirt rides up a little as his stomach expands and he gives it a light pat.
“Need to get you some new jeans,” Sam comments. Then adds, “Maybe some stretch pants.”
Dean lifts his middle finger. “Fuck off,” He says through a mouthful of cookie.
Sam laughs and takes a bite of his own. He feels… happy. Relaxed. Which is something he’s not sure he’ll ever get used to. They haven’t talked about it, but both know that hunting’s out. He’s a candidate for surgery-eventually-but even with it his back will never be the same. This is their life now.
A house.
A job.
Home cooked meals and an increasingly chubby brother.
It’s weird, but more than anything? It really isn’t that bad.
Reply
Reply
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Reply
Leave a comment