Home Fries (Domestic Drabble)
Summary: Sam gathers the first harvest from the brother’s new vegetable garden.
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Warnings: Domestic Fluff and Nonsense
WC: 368
A/N: So this is sort of a sequel or call-back to a couple of the other drabbles. LOL. I love these idiots so damn much. And YES, I had to put that line in there. But, it's okay 'cause it's all fluffy this time. : )
Domestic Drabbles
Dean’s head snapped up as Sam entered the kitchen, a huge smile on his face and a large wooden farmer’s basket carried in his strong arms. The strain of his muscles under his dirt-covered shirt told Dean it was quite a haul. Sam set the basket on the stainless steel counter, let out a long breath, and turned to Dean with a grin.
“What’s this?” Dean asked, rising from the dining table and satiating his curiosity as he looked inside the basket, reaching a hand slowly inside and pulling up a golf-ball-sized brown orb.
“It’s a potato,” Sam offered.
“I can see that,” Dean responded, turning the tiny potato in his fingers.
“We’re still learning,” Sam hastily explained as he began pulling out a variety of vegetables, some small, some misshapen or discolored, but all fresh and homegrown. “I got some books and we can try some different things. Next harvest will be even better.”
The silence stretched out as Dean examined the sad vegetables. Sam was worried about this, worried that Dean would get disappointed and discouraged. There was a science to these things, they took practice and time, and skill. Sam knew that, but Dean wasn’t always patient or willing. But when Sam looked at his brother, he was instead greeted with a warm smile.
“I’m proud of us, Sam,” he said, patting Sam on the back and smiling wider as Sam beamed from the praise. “In fact, I know just what to make,” he said as he gathered several of the potatoes, “Home fries.”
“Yes!” Sam responded with glee, rushing around the counter and grabbing down Dean’s skillet, ready to help make the delicious concoction.
“Eh, eh, eh!” Dean chastised, dropping the potatoes that scattered over the counter and floor, rushing around and snatching the cast-iron skillet from Sam’s hands. “What did we talk about?”
Sam scoffed and slumped but Dean’s firm look made him sigh, “I’m not allowed to touch the cast-iron cookware,” he grumbled out petulantly.
“That’s right,” Dean agreed, setting the skillet on the stovetop.
“I’ll clean and cut then,” Sam offered with a shrug, turning and getting to work.
“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” Dean said softly to his skillet, “I’ll protect you.”
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DEAN WINCHESTER:
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SAM WINCHESTER:
@b3autyfuldisast3r
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