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Motel Days

Wee!chesters one-shot AKA brotherly fluff

Little Sammy wants Mar'noni and Daddy and apple pie, but most of all, he wants his Dean.


"Dean!"

A high, childish squeal pierces the doldrums. He turns and watches his baby brother clamber up the bed and settle against his shoulder. The warmth of his brother's small body crawls up his side, and he leans back lethargically. Sammy nestles his head against Dean's neck, and sucks in a deep breath.

Dean knows Sammy's hitching up the courage to say something, so he stays quiet, and runs a hand through his brother's hair soothingly. The comforter's at the other edge of the bed, but he doesn't want to jostle Sammy away, and besides, he's so tired.

His stomach has been rumbling insistently, and he knows he has to get up soon.

"Where's Daddy?"

The question, like buckshot, slams into Dean's chest, his heart thudding because that question is the only one Dean can't answer. He swallows, and tilts his brother's face up and looks into his wide eyes. He taps Sammy's chin, running his gaze over his little brother's too thin and too pale face.

"What do you want for dinner, Sammy?"

Dean's fingers scramble for the remote before Sammy can think about how he changed the subject right away. The television pops on, and they can hear the static pull at the air before the AC rumbles again.

He feels Sammy's stomach gurgle at the mention of dinner, and watches as a grin lights up his small face—not like Christmas lights or anything like that because he's not even sure when the last time he saw Christmas lights was, or if Sammy even knew what they were—kind of like the soft, golden glow of that ghost glimmering against the dark, rainy night back in Madison before it disappeared.

"I want Mar'noni, De." The younger boy nods his head emphatically, a lock of hair falling over his eye. He scrunches his nose up and rubs his eyes.

Dean knows there's only a bit of Macaroni left—and not much else besides the milk and the fruity chunks of the apple pie in the fridge he's saved for Sammy (and he knows he will shove his fingers in and lick the taste off his fingers before turning his eyes up at Dean and silently asking if there's any more), and salt, of course—and the cheese he's saved from his own boxes because he knows Sammy likes about a whole packet and because the box says there's lots of calcium in there and he kind of remembers his mommy telling him that big boys need lots and lots of that.

"Do we gots lots of Mar'noni, De?"

"Sammy, do we have lots of Macaroni?"

"'Kay," he says and snuggles up against his chest, curling his fingers in his shirt.

Sammy tells him that he wants to be a big boy when he grows up, every night, right after Dean reads him a well-thumbed copy of Jack and the Beanstalk and shows Sammy, whose eyes go really big, how to spell his name by sliding his finger through the dust spread across the drawers (his little brother can even do a crooked M now, and he's so proud—he can't wait to show Daddy).

"Your tummy's makin' noise, De!"

Sammy pokes his stomach, and pokes him again when he doesn't do anything back. He sticks his tongue out and pokes back gently, twisting around and full-out tickling his baby brother until he's giggling and kicking the air and squirming in childish delight. They both fall out of the bed out of breath.

"De," his little brother starts, hiccupping. He stands up, and then crouches at eye-level, the intensity of his gaze, at this age, startling.

"Yea?"

"Love you!" And he launches himself at Dean—and for some reason, although it's supposed to be embarrassing to act all mushy like a girl, Dean wraps his arms around his baby brother and holds him close and never wants to let go.


Hope you liked it!

Mersedes