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“Dam.”
Sam Winchester pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off an impending headache. It was too early in the morning for this.
“Sam,” he corrected. “Sam, Dean.”
“Dam!”
“No, that’s wrong. That’s a bad word, do you understand? We don’t say bad words.”
“Actually, you—”
“Shut up, Cas.”
The angel dutifully closed his mouth and returned to preparing Dean’s formula. Sighing, Sam turned back to his baby brother, who was doing his best to rip apart the front of Sam’s flannel in his fists.
“I should’ve seen this coming—not even a year old, and he’s still finding ways to drive me insane.”
“Damdam! Dam!”
“Dean, I swear to God—”
“Dean has always been fond of swearwords,” Castiel interjected from across the kitchen. He tested the milk and then removed the pot from the stove, casting a glance in their direction. “I suppose some things will never change.”
Irritably, Sam huffed, but his eyes betrayed him. He watched his little brother’s intense focus on trying to pick off one of his buttons, murmuring, “damdamdamdam,” in an unending stream. Tiny and perfect and untroubled. Despite his best efforts, Sam’s gaze was soft.
“Hopefully some things will,” he said under his breath.
If Castiel heard, he opted not to respond.