'Gimmie your hand, Sammy,' Dean snapped, ignoring the stubborn expression on his baby brother's face.
'Don't need you to hold my hand, Dean. I'm a big boy now.'
:
With a tired huff the nine-year old grabbed for his sibling's hand which Sam was studiously keeping close to his side.
'Ow,' Sam whined, as Dean grasped it nonetheless, clasping it tightly in his own.
Sam's little face scrunched up in an embryonic version of the bitch-face which would accompany the child into adulthood.
'You do as I say,' Dean grumbled. 'We shouldn't even be out here. If anything were to happen to you, dad would whup my ass.'
:
Immediately Sam's expression morphed from stubborn to preoccupied.
'Dad wouldn't do that. He loves us.'
'That's exactly why he'd do it, doofus. If you got lost on my watch he'd be afraid something bad had happened to you. When you love somebody, you're scared for them too, in case they get hurt.'
Sam was silent for a moment, digesting Dean's words. 'I'm always gonna hold hands then, I don't want to lose you, Dean.'
:
The older boy choked back the lump in his throat.
Just recently his dad had revealed the supernatural to him and the thought of some nightmarish monster hurting his baby brother made him grip Sam's hand even tighter.