Lawrence, Kansas, May-November 1983

Mary Winchester leaned back against the highly stacked pillows, looking down at the baby in her arms. Nine pounds four ounces and the doctors had been joking with her about him being the next linebacker for the Wildcats. She'd smiled politely and told them to get their asses into gear and finish her stitches.

She looked up as the door to the room opened, John peering around the edge, and under him, Dean's wide eyes staring at her.

"Do you want to meet your little brother, Dean?" She smiled at him as he nodded and ran into the room, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor, barely stopping himself from crashing into the side of the bed. John followed at a slightly more sedate pace and lifted his son onto the edge of the bed beside his mother.

"He looks scrunchy." Dean looked down at the baby, his expression critical. "And red."

Behind him, John snorted, turning it into a coughing fit as he caught Mary's eye. "He'll smooth out in a day or two, Dean, he just had a tight squeeze to get out."

"You looked like that when you were born too," Mary added, thinking that her firstborn hadn't been anywhere as exhausting, and at the more average birth weight of eight pounds five ounces, a lot easier to get out.

She watched him as he tentatively extended a finger to touch his brother's hand.

"He's going to get bigger, isn't he?" He looked up at her, and she nodded.

"Yes, he's going to get a lot bigger." She glanced at John, peering over her shoulder at his newest son. "It'll be a while before you can play together though."

"That's okay. He doesn't seem to be much fun." He wriggled backwards toward the edge of the bed. "Can I go and play in the toys room?"

John and Mary exchanged a glance. "Yeah, but stay in there, Dean, until I come and get you. No wandering off."

"Yep, okay." He rolled onto his stomach, dropping feet first off the edge of the bed and onto the floor and raced back out the door.

"Well, that wasn't much of a bonding session." John walked to the door and closed it.

Mary rolled her eyes. "He's four. It'll happen, in time."

"Dean, can you wipe Sam's face, please?" Mary glanced at the table, lifting the pot off the stove as she shut the oven door with her hip.

"Mom … it's icky. And gross. And he dribbles." Dean looked at his brother, his nose wrinkling up as he watched two peas re-emerge from Sam's mouth and fall onto the tray.

"I thought you were going to be my helper today?" She set the pot onto the drainer and looked around distractedly.

Dean's brows drew together. He looked at the mess over his baby brother's face and the tray under it and exhaled gustily. "Oh, all right."

"Thanks, baby." She pointed to the counter. "Clean cloth is there."

He slid off his chair and picked up the white and yellow striped cloth, kicking the step over to the sink, climbing up and turning on the tap.

Mary turned the heat down on the vegetables which were about to boil over and looked into the oven again. The chicken was almost done, just a few more minutes. She shut the door and turned around, leaning back against the countertop as she watched Dean wipe Sam's face carefully, the baby staring at him in fascination. It wasn't often Dean got this close to him, and Sammy reached out a chubby hand to touch his brother's hair, long and feathery and overdue for a cut.

"Oh! Yuck! Mom!" Dean leapt back, staring in horror at the pureed carrot that had been transferred from Sam's fingers to his hair.

Mary laughed. "It's just carrot, Dean. It won't kill you. Finish up and I'll do the tray."

Bottom lip stuck out mulishly, Dean approached Sam again, leaning back away from him as he wiped his baby brother's chin and swiped at his hands. Sam gave a throaty laugh and waved his hands at Dean.

Mary watched in amazement as Dean laughed a little too, the carrot in his hair forgotten as the two boys looked into each other's faces. Her eldest son's eyes were as wide as Sam's, and she could have sworn there was some kind of communication between them, silent and for siblings only.

"You have to be clean, Sammy, before you touch people. You gonna make people sick if you got mashed food all over you."

She could hardly hear his voice, the seriously given advice for the baby's ears only. Sam stared at him and smiled. Dean continued to murmur brotherly wisdom as he cleaned him, and didn't say anything at all when Sam's fingers reached out and wiped down his cheek.

"Can I read a story to Sammy, Mom?" Dean sat on the couch, clean and in his fighter plane pyjamas. Mary glanced at the clock. Another ten minutes to bedtime.

"Sure, sweetie, do you want me to get him for you?" She looked at the play mat on the floor, Sam sitting up and batting blocks around the middle of it.

"No, I got him." Dean wriggled off the wide couch and crouched beside his brother, putting his arms around him. At six months, Sam was still a big baby, and Dean held him tightly, his little brother almost half his height. Mary bit her lip as she watched him carefully roll Sam onto the couch, scrambling up beside him and settling them both back against the overstuffed cushions. Dean was more than careful, she thought, he was absolutely focussed on Sam's safety.

"All okay, Dean?"

He looked up at her as he picked up the big picture book, and nodded. "Sure, Mom."

She watched Sam grab at the pages, Dean carefully lifting his fingers off them as he turned them and read slowly. Where had he learned this patience, this care? He took the same care even when he played, she knew, doing everything methodically, organising things so that he always knew where everything was. Nature, not nurture, she thought. Not from her side of the family either. Watching him, she felt a wild emotion in her chest, not sorrow or joy, not fear or guilt or gratitude, but a strange blend of all of them, tightening her throat. They were so beautiful, her boys, so perfect. Maybe that was a mother's bias, maybe every mother felt it, but it resonated through her, bringing tears to her eyes.

Hearing John come in a few minutes later, she looked up and held a finger to her lips as he turned into the living room. He stopped, and listened, walking quietly up to the back of the couch to look at them.

Sam watched his brother's face as much as the pictures on the paper in front of him. Dean pointing to the words as he read each one, his fingertip moving slowly across the page, his sweet child's voice clear and full of expression as he tried to convey the plight of the three little pigs and the intentions of the Big Bad Wolf to his baby brother.

John looked at Mary, sitting curled up in the armchair, her hand over her mouth as she watched them. He could see the shimmer in her eyes, reflected from the lamp beside her, and felt his chest tighten a little at her emotion. She looked up at him, fingers falling away to reveal a smile that wobbled slightly at the corners.

Our sons, her eyes said. Our boys.

Smiling in agreement, he looked back at them, side by side on the sofa. Nothing that had come before in his life could've prepared him for this, he decided as his breath caught in his throat. A surge of protective love flared, tempered and edged with a rush of fierce determination that shook through him. He would do anything to keep them safe. Anything at all.

The feeling dissolved, leaving him feeling empty and light-headed. Glancing at Mary, he came around the end of the sofa, sitting down beside his sons. Nothing bad was going to happen to them, he told himself, not sure why that thought didn't seem to hold the same certainty today as it had yesterday.

Just a long day, he thought, looking down at the bowed heads beside him. Tomorrow would be better.