"Hey, you planning on sharing those potatoes with the rest of us? C'mon."
Simple things, family dinners. Everyone sits down, takes their place at the table as though nothing had ever been more simple. Eyes take in the spread of food in front of them, the variety of familiar favorites and maybe something that no one has tried yet – adventure in the form of culinary experiments. Grace is given, even if furtive peeks at the aforementioned spread might be stolen before its end, and everyone commences filling their plates while they pick which anecdotes from the day they want to give over, which one will be the most interesting. ( Or maybe the least boring. )
Sam glares at his brother sitting opposite from him, over the giant bowl of mashed potatoes sitting between them, spoon still in hand even after he's already dumped a generous potion onto his plate. There are plenty of other things to choose from, because neither of these boys are light eaters, but he'd had to go for the obvious first, and not just because it was right in front of him. He raises an eyebrow, and very purposefully – and slowly – another spoonful plops onto his plate. "Dude, wait your turn."
"I've been waiting my turn for like five minutes. Gimme the spoon."
"I will when I'm finished."
"Well, I say you're finished now so –"
"Boys."
At one end of the table, a soft but firm voice rings out over their brotherly squabbling, bright eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth even when their owner plays at being authoritative. "There's plenty for both of you. I made extra, just in case."
Mary Winchester does not tolerate arguing at her table. She rarely tolerates arguing anywhere in her house, and across from her – at the other end, sitting silent sentinel as the head of the table – her husband is in agreement. John Winchester is very rarely a man of many words unless there is something important to be said, and letting the mother of his two sons handle the business at her table is one of those times in which he opts to stay out of it entirely.
Dean sulks. And by sulk, it of course means that he drops his gaze, glaring at his so far still-empty plate like it's somehow managed to offend him, absently picking at the edge of the tablecloth. It's not until the spoon clinks delicately back into the bowl that he picks his head back up, and while his little brother is busy grinning like the cat that's just gotten the canary all for itself, the older Winchester brother simply turns that glare in his direction instead.
( At least, now, the plate is safe from scrutiny. )
Sam chuckles a bit under his breath as he reaches for the basket of rolls, grabs one for himself and then passes it along to his father, who takes two.
What's a family dinner without a bit of good-natured banter, anyway?
it's still not real; ( hope )
Simple things, family dinners. Everyone sits down, takes their place at the table as though nothing had ever been more simple. Eyes take in the spread of food in front of them, the variety of familiar favorites and maybe something that no one has tried yet – adventure in the form of culinary experiments. Grace is given, even if furtive peeks at the aforementioned spread might be stolen before its end, and everyone commences filling their plates while they pick which anecdotes from the day they want to give over, which one will be the most interesting. ( Or maybe the least boring. )
Sam glares at his brother sitting opposite from him, over the giant bowl of mashed potatoes sitting between them, spoon still in hand even after he's already dumped a generous potion onto his plate. There are plenty of other things to choose from, because neither of these boys are light eaters, but he'd had to go for the obvious first, and not just because it was right in front of him. He raises an eyebrow, and very purposefully – and slowly – another spoonful plops onto his plate. "Dude, wait your turn."
"I've been waiting my turn for like five minutes. Gimme the spoon."
"I will when I'm finished."
"Well, I say you're finished now so –"
"Boys."
At one end of the table, a soft but firm voice rings out over their brotherly squabbling, bright eyes crinkling at the corners with mirth even when their owner plays at being authoritative. "There's plenty for both of you. I made extra, just in case."
Mary Winchester does not tolerate arguing at her table. She rarely tolerates arguing anywhere in her house, and across from her – at the other end, sitting silent sentinel as the head of the table – her husband is in agreement. John Winchester is very rarely a man of many words unless there is something important to be said, and letting the mother of his two sons handle the business at her table is one of those times in which he opts to stay out of it entirely.
Dean sulks. And by sulk, it of course means that he drops his gaze, glaring at his so far still-empty plate like it's somehow managed to offend him, absently picking at the edge of the tablecloth. It's not until the spoon clinks delicately back into the bowl that he picks his head back up, and while his little brother is busy grinning like the cat that's just gotten the canary all for itself, the older Winchester brother simply turns that glare in his direction instead.
( At least, now, the plate is safe from scrutiny. )
Sam chuckles a bit under his breath as he reaches for the basket of rolls, grabs one for himself and then passes it along to his father, who takes two.
What's a family dinner without a bit of good-natured banter, anyway?