Work Text:
Lacquer cold and smooth beneath your fingertips, you push open the door to the Winchester's saloon and bar open for Sam Winchester. The tavern's light is warm on his skin and displays the sweat that's sweltered thanks to the heat of a summer night and the two crates he's carrying.
Batwing doors swinging shut behind you, you remark on what's on your mind, "I could've carried one, y'know?"
Sam chuckles, the sound so light amongst the clangs and clatters that can only be attributed to the pandemonium of a bar you barely catch it. "And have you spill these potion ingredients all over the place? Thanks, but I'd rather not have something like the glowstick croissant happen again,"
Okay. The croissant wasn't your fault. It was actually Charlie and Castiel's, but whatever.
Clearly, your aim for a cool countenance doesn't pan out so well. Sam is looking at you in sheer amusement as he makes his way into the storage room of the tavern.
Dean Winchester, Sam's elder brother and owner of the tavern, greets you from behind the bar. There's no need for you to step into his space, unlike Sam, who has to so he can enter the storage space.
You think Sam's out of earshot, so you regard Dean in such a way you always do, "tell your snot-nosed brother to stop bullying me, and that the croissant was your boyfriend's fault,"
From what you've heard of the brother's past, smiling was a rarity. You suppose that's why, when the brothers smile, the world feels a little more at peace. Dean is smiling right now. It's the kind of smile he only gives in regards to those he cares for. The crow's feet near his eyes make his pearly white grin meet his eyes.
"Hey, I can't control what Cas does,"
"I'd bet 20 of those fancy bottles of whatever the fuck you keep under that counter of yours that you could," you huff, taking a seat at the bar. Instead of meeting Dean's gaze, your eyes opt for the designs on the counter you've seen thousands of times. "'Hey, babe, don't put the fulgorque pulvis in with the bread yeast!'"
Another lady takes a spot across the counter from you, capturing Dean's attention. He's off in an instant, and you don't protest. It doesn't offend you, really. Dean's passionate; this saloon is a whole lot more than just a business to him. Dilapidation took control of the place ten years ago when Mary Winchester died. Apparently, John Winchester had given up on his wife's dreams altogether, where his son Dean hadn't.
It's hard to imagine such a warm atmosphere looking almost apocalyptic only four years ago. At only 24 years old, you didn't have a doubt in your mind that Mary Winchester would've been proud of Dean.
Dean's space in front of you isn't empty for long. Sam replaces him in an instant, a simple apron tied around his waist.
You grin. "You look like a housewife,"
Sam's expression mirrors yours. The joy is genuine. The world feels a little more tranquil. "Ah," he wiggles his eyebrows, never attempting to suppress his smile. "If I'm the housewife, then that makes you the husband. Tell me why I'm the one serving you drinks right now and after I've taken care of the children all day!"
Dean interferes with your charade, having overheard it all as he pours whiskey into a glass behind his little brother, "please never get into the acting business," he plops a ball of ice into the cup and slides it down the bar to the woman from earlier. Whiskey on the rocks. Not a bad choice.
"And for the love of the Gods, just get together already. You're worse than me and Cas with your lovey-dovey bullshit."