FIC - 64
Title: When I’m Sixty Four
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: for a silverbullets prompt “If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you lock the door, Will you still need me, Will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four”
Sam never liked the cold. He used to just bitch about it. Which he still did, but found himself more and more often covering himself with a blanket while he read, and enjoying the warm glow of their gas-powered fireplace and sipping at a mug of hot chocolate.
The place where they’d ended up was beautiful. A bit farther south of the Mason-Dixon line than Dean would have agreed to usually, but he didn’t do much arguing these days. Their home was in a remote area of southern Virginia, two bedrooms because they liked to pretend that maybe one day they’d have a guest, surrounded by trees and with a screened in porch off the back of the house. It was one-story, no way around that, and it was perfect.
Today was the first day that it seemed like winter might be loosening its grip and spring was trying to wiggle its way into its spot on the Northern Hemisphere. Still chilly, yes, but not cold enough that Sam’s arthritic knees were giving him too much trouble.
He glanced down at his wristwatch (and no one wore wristwatches anymore, but Sam had just never gotten out of the habit) and noticed it was around lunchtime. Shaking off his blankets and putting down his book, marking his page with a bookmark, not folding it over at the corner like Dean always had, he made his way down the hall and looked in on his brother.
Dean was stirring awake, his first nap of the day still lingering a bit. His eyes opened and grew bright at the sight of his brother. And damn it, that just never got old. Everything else got old. The two of them got old. But Dean’s smile when he saw that Sam was still there with him was a sight that Sam would never tire of, never see without still feeling that flutter in his heart and that flipping feeling in his belly.
“You hungry? I can heat you up some of that chili I made last night. There’s cornbread left, too.”
Neither of them ever imagined there would be a day when Sam learned to cook, but he’d gotten so much practice over the past few years that he was pretty freaking good at it now.
A sleepy voice responded, “Thanks Sammy, I’d like that. I’ll come out to the kitchen in a minute.”
“I’ll bring it to you in here, Dean, you don’t have to get up.”
“I can make it to the kitchen, bitch.”, Dean replied, no heat behind the words at all.
Sam smiled. “All right, jerk. I’ll heat it up and make you a plate.”
Within a few minutes, the chili and cornbread were heated, and Sam was thinking they were even better the next day than they’d been the night before. Seconds after he noticed the time passing again, Dean appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, making his way across the room slowly and relying on a cane to keep his left leg from giving out on him. Sam had already pulled out his seat, and Dean sat down slowly, leaning the cane against the table and giving it a look that would have turned it to dust if Dean had his way. But he didn’t put up a fuss when Sam scooted his chair closer to the surface of their kitchen table, and dug in to the chili and cornbread with a gusto that hadn’t changed since they were in their twenties.
“Thanks, Sammy. You take good care of me.”
Sammy. Still. Not Sam, never Sam anymore, just Sammy, what Dean had always called him when they were kids. Apparently it was acceptable for old people because Sam didn’t correct him or bitch about it now. It made Dean feel better, and making Dean feel better was what he did.
Dean had spent the vast majority of his life protecting Sam, looking out for his pain-in-the-ass little brother, giving him everything he had and more.
It was Sam’s turn now. Dean’s complexion grew more pale by the day, and even with the cane, it got harder and harder for him to get around even in their small house. They still watched bad movies together, still argued pointlessly, still shared a bed and even still got up to some action in bed on occasion. But they both knew the truth. Sam was staring down the barrel at his sixtieth birthday, and neither of them thought they’d make it this long. Dean’s last injury had put them into permanent retirement from hunting, but their lifestyle had taken a toll. Dean had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure two years ago, and it was only a matter of time now.
They didn’t talk about it. Just went along with the domestic routine they’d set up for themselves for the past ten years, when even the occasional hunt had become too dangerous for either of them.
Dean sopped up his chili with his cornbread and hummed an old Beatles tune he’d grown fond of since his last birthday a couple of months ago. Sam smiled and worldlessly answered his question. Yes. Yes, yes, always yes.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: for a silverbullets prompt “If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you lock the door, Will you still need me, Will you still feed me, When I'm sixty-four”
Sam never liked the cold. He used to just bitch about it. Which he still did, but found himself more and more often covering himself with a blanket while he read, and enjoying the warm glow of their gas-powered fireplace and sipping at a mug of hot chocolate.
The place where they’d ended up was beautiful. A bit farther south of the Mason-Dixon line than Dean would have agreed to usually, but he didn’t do much arguing these days. Their home was in a remote area of southern Virginia, two bedrooms because they liked to pretend that maybe one day they’d have a guest, surrounded by trees and with a screened in porch off the back of the house. It was one-story, no way around that, and it was perfect.
Today was the first day that it seemed like winter might be loosening its grip and spring was trying to wiggle its way into its spot on the Northern Hemisphere. Still chilly, yes, but not cold enough that Sam’s arthritic knees were giving him too much trouble.
He glanced down at his wristwatch (and no one wore wristwatches anymore, but Sam had just never gotten out of the habit) and noticed it was around lunchtime. Shaking off his blankets and putting down his book, marking his page with a bookmark, not folding it over at the corner like Dean always had, he made his way down the hall and looked in on his brother.
Dean was stirring awake, his first nap of the day still lingering a bit. His eyes opened and grew bright at the sight of his brother. And damn it, that just never got old. Everything else got old. The two of them got old. But Dean’s smile when he saw that Sam was still there with him was a sight that Sam would never tire of, never see without still feeling that flutter in his heart and that flipping feeling in his belly.
“You hungry? I can heat you up some of that chili I made last night. There’s cornbread left, too.”
Neither of them ever imagined there would be a day when Sam learned to cook, but he’d gotten so much practice over the past few years that he was pretty freaking good at it now.
A sleepy voice responded, “Thanks Sammy, I’d like that. I’ll come out to the kitchen in a minute.”
“I’ll bring it to you in here, Dean, you don’t have to get up.”
“I can make it to the kitchen, bitch.”, Dean replied, no heat behind the words at all.
Sam smiled. “All right, jerk. I’ll heat it up and make you a plate.”
Within a few minutes, the chili and cornbread were heated, and Sam was thinking they were even better the next day than they’d been the night before. Seconds after he noticed the time passing again, Dean appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, making his way across the room slowly and relying on a cane to keep his left leg from giving out on him. Sam had already pulled out his seat, and Dean sat down slowly, leaning the cane against the table and giving it a look that would have turned it to dust if Dean had his way. But he didn’t put up a fuss when Sam scooted his chair closer to the surface of their kitchen table, and dug in to the chili and cornbread with a gusto that hadn’t changed since they were in their twenties.
“Thanks, Sammy. You take good care of me.”
Sammy. Still. Not Sam, never Sam anymore, just Sammy, what Dean had always called him when they were kids. Apparently it was acceptable for old people because Sam didn’t correct him or bitch about it now. It made Dean feel better, and making Dean feel better was what he did.
Dean had spent the vast majority of his life protecting Sam, looking out for his pain-in-the-ass little brother, giving him everything he had and more.
It was Sam’s turn now. Dean’s complexion grew more pale by the day, and even with the cane, it got harder and harder for him to get around even in their small house. They still watched bad movies together, still argued pointlessly, still shared a bed and even still got up to some action in bed on occasion. But they both knew the truth. Sam was staring down the barrel at his sixtieth birthday, and neither of them thought they’d make it this long. Dean’s last injury had put them into permanent retirement from hunting, but their lifestyle had taken a toll. Dean had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure two years ago, and it was only a matter of time now.
They didn’t talk about it. Just went along with the domestic routine they’d set up for themselves for the past ten years, when even the occasional hunt had become too dangerous for either of them.
Dean sopped up his chili with his cornbread and hummed an old Beatles tune he’d grown fond of since his last birthday a couple of months ago. Sam smiled and worldlessly answered his question. Yes. Yes, yes, always yes.