Superstitious
Superstitious
Sam noticed the one think about Dean that no one else ever would. He was superstitious. Not like, “don’t walk under a ladder” or “black cat passing your way” sort of thing. Not in the “break a mirror and get 7 years bad luck” way either. (Thank god considering the Bloody Mary job)
When Dean woke in the morning, after getting dressed and taking care of business, he always went out to the car and touched her. Opening her up and getting something out some days or just the whisper of fingers, a trail of memories that pressed into her metal saying ‘you’re still home. No matter where I sleep you’re still home.’
He didn’t salt the windows and doors at night in superstition but in practicality. He did take the bed closest to the door each night though, not to put himself between Sam and danger as their Dad had taught him, but because over the years he had come to believe that as long as he was between Sam and that door nothing would even try to get through it.
He believed that his favorite lighter would never fail him but that if he lost it he would never find another as good, so he rarely took it on hunts, preferring to use matchbooks from whatever crappy motel they were staying in.
He believed his Dad’s faded, beaten leather jacket was a type of emotional armor and when things got tough he reached for it, even if it was too hot.
And he believed that the only way the world was alright, was if Sam was. Sam always knew when they’d finished a hunt when he was in college because his cell would ring. He’d pick it up, unknown number calling through at two or three or four am and he’d just say “I’m fine.” The call would last a moment longer as the person on the other end listened to him breath before it would hang up.
He never mentioned the calls to Dean when he came back to the hunt, but he still did it. No matter what was happening, as soon as the hunt was over he was grabbing Sam, touching him, sometimes embraces that held the world at bay, sometimes just the touch of hip on hip as they walked, sometimes a hand to the back of the neck where his fingers could stretch around just enough to feel his pulse.
At nights, once the hunt was over, Dean had another ritual. He’d wait until they’d both showered and relaxed, resting on their beds with the television on, or Sam at his laptop looking for new leads, and he’d crawl up between Sam’s legs, his eyes begging. Sam never made him ask, never made him say what it was he wanted, but then there were soft, gentle hands and kisses that pressed over bruised flesh. Fingers would play over his pulse just to feel the stead beat as his head rested over Sam’s heart. He would bury himself in his brother and while Sam arched and pleaded beneath him, Dean would whisper promises in his skin that would always start with things like “I’ll never let…” and “I would never…” and “I love…”
Sam was a little superstitious too. When they got up in the morning and got in the car his hands would stroke the door frame like a lover’s arm and he’d let his fingers whisper to her as well. Keep us safe and love him too much and I know you love him like I do.
When Dean looked over the roof at him as he lingered a little too long he shook his head. “Wasting daylight Sammy.”
Sam smiled. Dean would never admit it, but he’s a little bit superstitious.
Sam noticed the one think about Dean that no one else ever would. He was superstitious. Not like, “don’t walk under a ladder” or “black cat passing your way” sort of thing. Not in the “break a mirror and get 7 years bad luck” way either. (Thank god considering the Bloody Mary job)
When Dean woke in the morning, after getting dressed and taking care of business, he always went out to the car and touched her. Opening her up and getting something out some days or just the whisper of fingers, a trail of memories that pressed into her metal saying ‘you’re still home. No matter where I sleep you’re still home.’
He didn’t salt the windows and doors at night in superstition but in practicality. He did take the bed closest to the door each night though, not to put himself between Sam and danger as their Dad had taught him, but because over the years he had come to believe that as long as he was between Sam and that door nothing would even try to get through it.
He believed that his favorite lighter would never fail him but that if he lost it he would never find another as good, so he rarely took it on hunts, preferring to use matchbooks from whatever crappy motel they were staying in.
He believed his Dad’s faded, beaten leather jacket was a type of emotional armor and when things got tough he reached for it, even if it was too hot.
And he believed that the only way the world was alright, was if Sam was. Sam always knew when they’d finished a hunt when he was in college because his cell would ring. He’d pick it up, unknown number calling through at two or three or four am and he’d just say “I’m fine.” The call would last a moment longer as the person on the other end listened to him breath before it would hang up.
He never mentioned the calls to Dean when he came back to the hunt, but he still did it. No matter what was happening, as soon as the hunt was over he was grabbing Sam, touching him, sometimes embraces that held the world at bay, sometimes just the touch of hip on hip as they walked, sometimes a hand to the back of the neck where his fingers could stretch around just enough to feel his pulse.
At nights, once the hunt was over, Dean had another ritual. He’d wait until they’d both showered and relaxed, resting on their beds with the television on, or Sam at his laptop looking for new leads, and he’d crawl up between Sam’s legs, his eyes begging. Sam never made him ask, never made him say what it was he wanted, but then there were soft, gentle hands and kisses that pressed over bruised flesh. Fingers would play over his pulse just to feel the stead beat as his head rested over Sam’s heart. He would bury himself in his brother and while Sam arched and pleaded beneath him, Dean would whisper promises in his skin that would always start with things like “I’ll never let…” and “I would never…” and “I love…”
Sam was a little superstitious too. When they got up in the morning and got in the car his hands would stroke the door frame like a lover’s arm and he’d let his fingers whisper to her as well. Keep us safe and love him too much and I know you love him like I do.
When Dean looked over the roof at him as he lingered a little too long he shook his head. “Wasting daylight Sammy.”
Sam smiled. Dean would never admit it, but he’s a little bit superstitious.