#THERE IS GREEN MOLD ALL OVER MY LUNCH BOX WHAT DO I DOO

[ramshitposts]

I just opened my school bag for the first time since May. I forgot I never emptied my lunch.

[thebrotherswholoved]

dreaming a festive little dream

summary: You always look back on the bad times when you're standing in front of everything you've always wanted. Perhaps Santa brought him that astronomy book he wanted as a kid, or maybe his gift already arrived and he'll be reminded of how lucky he truly is.

content: dadchesters, parent!wincest, family bonding, only fluff/a bit of saddening nostalgia I guess, kiddos causing trouble, domestic bants

read on Ao3

Sam would be lying if he said he'd always adored Christmas.

 For the longest time, it was the complete opposite. He abhorred the holiday and those stupid ornaments, tacky trees, and annoying carolers that would come to the motel door every year without fail, even though they never spent any two Christmases in the same place. Class parties were upsetting and made seven-year-old Sam run to the bathroom with tears rolling down his pudgy little cheeks at the sight of all the parents surprising their children at school. The teachers would forget about him and continue pouring green and red Kool Aid into cheap Dixie cups while he plucked at the strings of his short-sleeve, too-thin-for-winter shirt in a dingy restroom to make the tears stop. In fact, the only reason he'd return to class at all is because those candy apples, mince pies, and dollar store chocolates would make up the only meal he'd had in two days. Dean would try to feed him at the room after school but he'd say that he had lunch there so his older brother would feed himself at last in lieu of sacrificing yet another meal for his chubby little sibling.

 Sam would ignore the rumbling in his stomach when he woke up on Christmas Day to find stolen presents under the dining table and an air freshener tree taped to the side before rushing to hug and kiss Dean's eleven-year-old cheeks and watching as he tried to hide his frost-nipped fingers from view, which happened without a doubt the night prior when he stole gifts from the neighbors. He wasn't as oblivious as Dean had hoped, after all.

 John would call them for four and a half minutes tops and tell them to clean the guns and pack their things to leave in a few hours when he'd return, but not after a trip to a dive bar decked out with tinsel and Nat King Cole playing on the radio, which would be the only thing to remind him that he missed another Christmas with his sons—not that he cared. The blood of some ghoul or monster would stain his hands when he handed over a twenty dollar bill to pay off his tab, which is twice as much money that he gave to his boys for a few days. He beat the monster and to him, that's all that mattered.

Twenty-eight-year-old Sam Winchester wakes up with a start from his nightmare and shudders at the lingering feeling of cold numbness in his nose from the blizzard his mind had flung him into for the night. He sits up and expects the familiar chilly air and lack of insulation in another podunk motel room and to feel the abrasiveness of scratchy ninety-nine cent sheets on a Dateline oh-god-I-hope-that's-paint mattress, but finds nothing of the sort. Thirty dollar flannel sheets layer over him and shield him from the thermostat-regulated seventy-six degree room, which is painted a nice grey instead of the peeling wallpaper he saw in his dream.

 The clock on his bedside table reads just before ten o'clock, a time which is verified by the gentle sweeping of sunshine bleeding into the room through the curtains. The room is splashed a golden yellow by the rays of light and this bright intrusion prompts him to stand up onto his feet and begin walking through his house. His dream created a film inside his mind and he feels foreign in this beautiful home—no empty beer bottles or pizza boxes, no flickering lights or broken taps, no neighbors going at it like animals in heat or pipes squeaking under the pressure of water coursing through their copper interiors. The chair rail is painted white and matches the molding strips; there are pictures framed on the walls of children—their children—taken professionally for birthdays and Christmases and anniversaries; and there’s a clanging sound coming from what’s presumably the kitchen given the open layout, followed by a gruff voice laughing and shushing the source of the sound.

 Sam looks down at what he’s wearing and it all starts coming back to him: his red and white striped pyjamas were pointed out to him as a joke by Dean in a Pottery Barn catalogue but were bought anyway, the smell of pine needles and spice are coming from the tree in the corner of the living room, and the noises are indeed resonating from the kitchen. Something is dropped onto the floor with a bang which makes him jump, and he concludes that it’s not just him who’s startled by the sound of the shrill screech and gruff ejaculation that follows.

 “Son of a—a gun!” Dean places a hand on his chest and catches his breath after the scare. He then looks at his and Sam’s children with an incredulous glare. “Which of you little monsters just took twenty years off my life?”

 Sam leans against the entryway wall and watches as their oldest, Caden, smiles with maniacal eyes and raises his hand, making his Dad roll his eyes.

 “Of course!” He swings the four-year-old into his arms as they both laugh, Caden letting out helpless giggles as Dean tickles him. “You are a little rascal.”

 His eyes then shift to his and Dean’s youngest child, Paisley, who shrieks and claps her hands when she sees him, climbing out of her chair and waddling with bowed little legs over to him. She calls for “Daddy” and he meets her in the middle of the room where he scoops her up in his arms and sees her bright green eyes light up with glee when he pokes her chubby middle. Paisley’s tiny hands grasp at Sam’s hair which prompts him to push it back behind his ears and kiss his daughter’s tiny freckled nose. Whenever he has the chance to get a good look at Caden’s and Paisley’s features, it hits him for the umpteenth time how much they resemble their fathers.

 Dean frowns when he sees his husband with their daughter, but not for the reason one may think. Caden pats his Dad’s cheeks with hands coated in powdered sugar and hoists himself onto his back to piggyback ride him and he pouts.

 “You’re supposed to be asleep, Sasquatch.”

 Sam hums when Paisley starts to bite at her little chewy bracelet they have her wear for oral stimulation, per suggestion of her pediatrician. “You guys aren’t exactly quiet, are you?”

 Caden shakes his head and lets wavy hazelnut hair fall into his eyes. “Dada’s letting us cook.”

 “We decided to make you breakfast before opening what Santa brought last night,” Dean explains and rubs his neck when their son drops down off his back.

 He claims it’s because he has “cervical spine issues” that just decided to surface at age thirty-two but he gets just as flustered and nervous around Sam as he did as a teen and as a young adult when they first started “dating.” Admitting that to his husband, however, would be like admitting to murder—murder of his masculinity, that is, which is already fragile since the season of PETA adverts began. Sam still curls the longer pieces of his hair around his fingers whenever he finds himself more vulnerable than usual to Dean’s cuteness and susceptible to seduction after the kids are in bed. Nothing’s changed since their first date—with the exception of a house, marriage certificate, and two kids, of course.

 “Aw,” Sam puts Paisley down on the floor and she runs as fast as her stubby, bowed legs will carry her to whatever her brother is doing in front of the TV. “I am loved after all.”

 Dean lets out a huff and snakes his arms around his husband’s waist. “We have suspiciously fluffy pancakes, some extra crispy toast, scrambled eggs with a bit too much milk, and some actually decent hot cocoa.”

 “I’ll take whatever’s edible, “ he knocks their foreheads together, “if you give me a kiss.”

 “Ugh, I guess I can comply,” Dean rolls his eyes and leans in to kiss the love of his life, sleepy eyes fluttering shut in the safety of each other’s arms and in the security of the life they’ve built together.

 Sam pulls back with some blue frosting on his nose and gives his brother a questioning eyebrow raise. He exhales with a soft laugh in reply. “We also baked cookies. Blue trees and green snowflakes like Pais wanted.”

 “You’re such a great dad, De,” he rubs the other man’s shoulders with a grin. “I love you.”

 “I know. You got lucky, Sammy,” Dean kisses him again. When they part, he whispers against his lips and runs his pointer finger over his chin. “Now the kids might actually kill us if we don’t let them open their presents, so can you go distract them while I get breakfast ready?”

 Sam can’t help but laugh at his comment yet nods nonetheless. “I’ll keep you safe from our four and one year old children, I promise.”

 “You’d better!” He calls over his shoulder as he walks back into the kitchen to clean up the mess and plate the viable food. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

 “Yeah, Merry Christmas, Jerk,” Sam shouts, walking to the family room to watch the Scooby Doo Christmas special with a kid under each arm, all four of them wearing those hideous matching pyjamas.

 After all, he’s got the best gift ever already. That said, he still wants those matching flasks they saw at the store to take to the more boring little league games. Oh shit, he’s not supposed to mention that.

 Merry Christmas from the Winchester family—the most dysfunctional clan on earth.