The next morning Sam goes out to get the newspaper and Josh is sitting on their curb. Sam freezes, then cuts the kid a quick wave. He waves back, hand fluttering like a hummingbird.
Sam goes back inside with the newspaper and kisses the back of Dean's neck. Dean grunts and sips his coffee. "We've got a new lawn ornament," Sam says.
Dean looks at him quizzically.
"If it gives you a hint, he's wearing a T-shirt with the car on it."
"Aw, hell," Dean says. "Just the one kid?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "We better say something. Make sure he doesn't go run his mouth off on Facebook."
Dean gives Sam a pained look that, in defense of Sam's backbone, only wins him over about sixty percent of the time. "You're better with kids," he says, which is total bullshit, but Dean keeps his hand warm on Sam's knee all through breakfast and Sam admits defeat.
It's been a cold autumn and the kid doesn't have a coat, so Sam makes hot chocolate. He hides a smile when Dean wordlessly drops in a handful of the mini-marshmallows that he hoards in the cupboard and won't share with Sam.
The kid's eyes get progressively wider as Sam crosses the lawn. Sam waits for Josh's hands to stop shaking before he passes him the mug. Sam likes that mug. Sam lowers himself to the curb, too tall with nowhere for his knees to go. He nods hello.
"I have all of your comic books," the kid says in a sudden torrent of words.
"Well," Sam says, "they're not really ours."
Josh looks stricken. "Right, no, of course not." He looks down at his cocoa.
Sam doesn't really know what to do with a nervous, starstruck kid. "The marshmallows are from Dean," he says, and immediately feels stupid. The marshmallows are from Dean, really?
It's worth it for how the kid's face lights up. "Dean's my favorite," he says, and a second later a look of horror crosses his face. "But I mean, you're my brother's favorite," he backpedals. He seems to run out of nervous energy and stares at Sam. "You are so cool."
Sam wishes Dean could be here for this. He'd bitch about it later, but he'd fucking eat it up with a spoon. The last thing either of them had expected, their whole lives, was to ever be thanked for what they did, what they went through. It seems to hit Dean particularly hard, some soft place in him that lost its brittle protective shell right around the time the Winchester brothers were posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor and people started naming kids after them.
Sam leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me?" He smiles. "Dean's my favorite, too." He points to the mug. "You done?"
The kid swears up, down and sideways that he won't tell any of his friends who's really living here, but Sam knows the temptation must be almost unbearable. He needs to break out the heavy artillery.
Sam turns back when he's halfway across the lawn, empty mugs in hand. "You know, Josh, it just occurred to me," he says, as if in afterthought, "if you ever want to make a little pocket money, we've got one hell of a dirty car sitting in that garage." He gestures with a mug. "Dean would really appreciate it. It'd be a big favor."
Josh's eyes are locked on the garage and he looks like he's going to faint dead away right there next to their mailbox. Yup, that oughta do it. Sam's not above a little bribery to make sure their peaceful, unbothered life stays that way.
Sam rinses the mugs in the sink. He can hear a laugh track filtering in from the living room. Sam grabs the rest of the mini marshmallows and goes to make out with a national hero on the couch.
2/2
The next morning Sam goes out to get the newspaper and Josh is sitting on their curb. Sam freezes, then cuts the kid a quick wave. He waves back, hand fluttering like a hummingbird.
Sam goes back inside with the newspaper and kisses the back of Dean's neck. Dean grunts and sips his coffee. "We've got a new lawn ornament," Sam says.
Dean looks at him quizzically.
"If it gives you a hint, he's wearing a T-shirt with the car on it."
"Aw, hell," Dean says. "Just the one kid?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "We better say something. Make sure he doesn't go run his mouth off on Facebook."
Dean gives Sam a pained look that, in defense of Sam's backbone, only wins him over about sixty percent of the time. "You're better with kids," he says, which is total bullshit, but Dean keeps his hand warm on Sam's knee all through breakfast and Sam admits defeat.
It's been a cold autumn and the kid doesn't have a coat, so Sam makes hot chocolate. He hides a smile when Dean wordlessly drops in a handful of the mini-marshmallows that he hoards in the cupboard and won't share with Sam.
The kid's eyes get progressively wider as Sam crosses the lawn. Sam waits for Josh's hands to stop shaking before he passes him the mug. Sam likes that mug. Sam lowers himself to the curb, too tall with nowhere for his knees to go. He nods hello.
"I have all of your comic books," the kid says in a sudden torrent of words.
"Well," Sam says, "they're not really ours."
Josh looks stricken. "Right, no, of course not." He looks down at his cocoa.
Sam doesn't really know what to do with a nervous, starstruck kid. "The marshmallows are from Dean," he says, and immediately feels stupid. The marshmallows are from Dean, really?
It's worth it for how the kid's face lights up. "Dean's my favorite," he says, and a second later a look of horror crosses his face. "But I mean, you're my brother's favorite," he backpedals. He seems to run out of nervous energy and stares at Sam. "You are so cool."
Sam wishes Dean could be here for this. He'd bitch about it later, but he'd fucking eat it up with a spoon. The last thing either of them had expected, their whole lives, was to ever be thanked for what they did, what they went through. It seems to hit Dean particularly hard, some soft place in him that lost its brittle protective shell right around the time the Winchester brothers were posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor and people started naming kids after them.
Sam leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me?" He smiles. "Dean's my favorite, too." He points to the mug. "You done?"
The kid swears up, down and sideways that he won't tell any of his friends who's really living here, but Sam knows the temptation must be almost unbearable. He needs to break out the heavy artillery.
Sam turns back when he's halfway across the lawn, empty mugs in hand. "You know, Josh, it just occurred to me," he says, as if in afterthought, "if you ever want to make a little pocket money, we've got one hell of a dirty car sitting in that garage." He gestures with a mug. "Dean would really appreciate it. It'd be a big favor."
Josh's eyes are locked on the garage and he looks like he's going to faint dead away right there next to their mailbox. Yup, that oughta do it. Sam's not above a little bribery to make sure their peaceful, unbothered life stays that way.
Sam rinses the mugs in the sink. He can hear a laugh track filtering in from the living room. Sam grabs the rest of the mini marshmallows and goes to make out with a national hero on the couch.