Their outstretched hands nearly shook with joy at the proffered offering, the first and only gift Sam could recall given in the spirit of generosity, and for Dean, the first since the fire. He felt a tear stinging his eye but would not let it fall. He could not allow the bearer of their good fortune see the glistening shimmer, oh yes, the shameful evidence that he was unworthy.
Winchesters don't cry. It was a trait Dean swore to uphold.
Truly John Winchester was the greatest father ever. As he dropped the gift in their waiting hands, Sam was enraptured by the smell of sour beer and stale grease and a scent uniquely all his own.
The burlap sack was heavy and itched Dean's delicate skin terribly. (Unspoken between Sam and Dean: the can of shaving cream for sensitive skin he hid in his duffel bag. They kept many secrets from their father, for they knew he wouldn't understand...Dean's sensitive skin, that is.)
"I'm leaving on a hunt now," John said, adjusting the baseball cap he liked to wear for very special hunts that they were expressively forbidden to join. "You two play nice. And by play, I mean, run your laps around the motel and practice your aim."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, hoping to distract John because Dean had shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the angry red marks blistering his manly yet attractive hands.
"Oh and don't you two get it in your heads to clear out that poltergeist harassing the Sullivan's greenhouse. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."
"After you get back from your hunt that'll take you far away from us," Dean readily agreed. "Then we'll meet up at the greenhouse and kick some green giant ghost ass."
"Actually I think it's called an orangery."
John gave Sam one of his loving, paternal looks that made his boys' testicles skeedaddle right back into their bodies. "You're my second least favorite child."
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Sam/Dean The Orangery 1/2
Date: 2009-07-30 08:20 pm (UTC)Winchesters don't cry. It was a trait Dean swore to uphold.
Truly John Winchester was the greatest father ever. As he dropped the gift in their waiting hands, Sam was enraptured by the smell of sour beer and stale grease and a scent uniquely all his own.
The burlap sack was heavy and itched Dean's delicate skin terribly. (Unspoken between Sam and Dean: the can of shaving cream for sensitive skin he hid in his duffel bag. They kept many secrets from their father, for they knew he wouldn't understand...Dean's sensitive skin, that is.)
"I'm leaving on a hunt now," John said, adjusting the baseball cap he liked to wear for very special hunts that they were expressively forbidden to join. "You two play nice. And by play, I mean, run your laps around the motel and practice your aim."
"Yes, sir," Sam said, hoping to distract John because Dean had shoved his hands in his pockets to hide the angry red marks blistering his manly yet attractive hands.
"Oh and don't you two get it in your heads to clear out that poltergeist harassing the Sullivan's greenhouse. I'll get to it when I'm good and ready."
"After you get back from your hunt that'll take you far away from us," Dean readily agreed. "Then we'll meet up at the greenhouse and kick some green giant ghost ass."
"Actually I think it's called an orangery."
John gave Sam one of his loving, paternal looks that made his boys' testicles skeedaddle right back into their bodies. "You're my second least favorite child."