babybrotherdean:

“Why d’you got spots, De?” Sammy asks him with the utmost sincerity, blinking big hazel eyes up from where he’s sprawled out across Dean’s lap. Four years old and he’s all questions, endless inquiries about how the world works and why and when and for how long. Daddy says it’s just part of growing up and that Dean used to ask just as much stuff, but Dean finds that kind of hard to believe.

“What?” Dean wrinkles his nose a little, tries to look at it and goes cross-eyed. Sammy giggles, reaches out to brush soft baby fingers against his cheeks. “I don’t got any spots.”

“Yeah, you do!” Sammy squints a little, then plants one fingertip firmly on Dean’s nose. “Right here!”

Dean furrows his brow and knocks Sammy’s hand away gently before he realizes what his brother is talking about. “Freckles, Sammy. They’re called freckles. Not spots.”

Sammy blows right by that. “Why d’you got ‘em?”

And that takes a little longer to answer. He hasn’t thought about this in a long time. Hasn’t heard it since the fire and it’s made him sad since then. Looks down at Sammy in his lap and finds his brother’s hands to hold, gentle in between both of his. 

“Momma always said they were- were angel kisses.” Snuffles quietly and can’t meet Sammy’s eyes. “An’- an’ that they were keepin’ us safe. Watchin’ us.”

Sammy gets quiet. They never talk about their momma anymore. Never have. 

Neither of them say anything for a couple minutes, and Dean tries to take comfort in the soft hands he’s got caught within his own. Sammy’s the one to break the silence, soft and tentative. 

“I think they’re pretty, De.”

Dean smiles kind of sadly and nods. Whispers. “Momma had ‘em, too. She was the prettiest ever.”

Sammy gives him a hug when he starts to cry. Neither of them say a word about it to their dad, and Dean’s eyes linger a little longer next time he looks in the mirror.

He kind of looks like her, he thinks. It’s almost comforting.

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