Title: To Bounce or Not to Bounce
Summary: Six-year-old Dean and two-year-old Sam pass an afternoon in a motel room.
A/N: This is pure fluff (I seriously did not think I was capable). The situation is based on a real-life situtation I wtinessed involving my nephew--so it's kind of personal in that way. I wrote this for geminigrl11, who heard my account of the situation and told me to make it Sam and Dean. Beta'ed by Lisette who is nothing if not careful :)
Dean was too old to really enjoy playing with Sam, but Sam was too little to really know the difference. Besides, the poor kid didn't have anyone else to play with, and the meager collection of toys that had survived their transient lifestyle were worn, frayed, and broken.
Sam wasn't a bad kid, Dean figured, but a regular one. One who needed attention and time and a meaningful way to expend his energy. He knew he shouldn't really complain too much. Overall, Sam was pretty self-sufficient, especially for a kid who had just turned two less than a week ago. He rarely threw tantrums, mostly because he knew they wouldn't get him anywhere. Sam had learned at a young age that he would not be indulged by his father, and Sam had adapted accordingly. Sometimes that made Dean feel guilty—to see his little brother having to entertain his own inquisitive mind—but not quite that guilty.
After all, it wasn't like Dean wanted to spend all his time trying to teach his little brother. Sure, he wanted Sam to grow up and prosper, but he had his own things he wanted to be doing.
Not that he usually got much say in the matter.
Watching Sam was always his responsibility. Whether he was watching TV, reading a comic book, ormaking dinner, he had to watch out for Sam.
Like now.
Sprawled in front of the TV, he had managed to confine Sam to the living room. While he flipped the channels, he was able to keep a distant eye on the kid, watching his brother toddling back and forth across the room. He was accumulating what few items were in the room and arranging them neatly in a row on the coffee table, the pattern making sense only to Sam's young mind.
Sam had been at it the better half of the afternoon, and the only way Dean had managed to watch the TV at all was by pushing Sammy's collection to the ground as soon as Sam finished it.
The game amused Sam, who clapped and squealed every time Dean did it.
Sam was hefting a tattered throw pillow to the mix, placing it next to the plastic cup Dad had left there the night before. Carefully, Sam moved the cup on the other side of the coaster, placing the lone army man he had rustled up from somewhere right on top of it.
The two year old stood back, proud, as he glanced eagerly at Dean.
Dean rolled his eyes and leaned forward, sweeping them all off the table.
Sam yelped gleefully. "Dee! Dee!" he said.
Dean had hoped the boy would start his process again, but apparently even Sam had his limits. Happily, the toddler galloped around the table and climbed on the couch next to Dean. His little hands padded up Dean, resting on him, propping Sam up so the younger boy could look him in the eye.
Sam had grown—a lot, it seemed, and the unruly hair was overgrown. He was wearing only a stained dark green t-shirt that Dean remembered vaguely from his own toddler years. Yet his eyes were still the same as ever—wide and curious and happy.
The smaller boy tugged on his brother, his eyes suddenly serious. "Up!"
Dean groaned. "I'm watching TV, Sammy."
Sam didn't seem to care. "Up!" he said again. Then the boy remembered himself. "Up, pwease."
The please was his father's latest lesson to Sam, his attempt to make his youngest son's demands less offensive. It was a hard lesson for Sam to learn, and the boy had used it unprompted. Dean could not leave that unrewarded.
Sighing, he pushed himself up. Standing on the couch, Sam was nearly as tall as Dean, and his eyes sparkled as his small fists gripped Dean's shirt. "Bouncy!"
Sam looked so happy, so eager, so adorable, that Dean couldn't resist. It was supposed to be parents who were wrapped around baby's fingers, not older brothers.
But Sammy's powers knew no bounds, and their father was often too self-absorbed to fall victim.
Glancing around the dirty motel room, Dean figured he could grant the kid this much.
"Okay," he said with a sigh, bracing himself as he took on Sam's full weight.
It was an arduous process, since Dean wasn't all that big himself, but there were few other things that made Sam giggle quite so hard.
Using the cushion as leverage, the older brother grasped the younger boyaround the waist, holding him steady so the little face was close to his own. Making sure his grip was solid, he hoisted Sam straight up into the air, bringing him down again, before bouncing him back up. Sam, familiar with the activity, knew enough to push off with his legs to gain more hang time. It was a hard process—easy for his father with his height and weight, but difficult for Dean.
Sam's face, however, lit up, and Dean couldn't help but feel satisfied as his brother's fine hair flopped and unabashed laughter broke free.
Dean did it again and again, until the strain in his arms was too much, and he crashed Sam down to the cushion where his brother writhed in breathless giggles.
Dean was exhausted, but he wasn't surprised when Sam scrambled to his feet, and put his hands imploringly on Dean once more. "Bounce!" he said.
"Sammy, I'm tired," he began, feeling the weariness in his bones. He'd been taking care of Sam all day, and hoisting his two-year-old brother's weight around was no easy feat, no matter how much training he did.
Sam's eyes widened, distressed and pleading. "Bouncy, pwease?"
The look was heartbreaking and the please was soul rending. With a sigh, he collected his brother in his arms again.
Sam's laughs were louder this time, more jubilant, hardly aware of the fact that Dean wasn't capable of bouncing him as high this time. But that was how Sam was. It wasn't so much about how good Dean did something, but just the fact that Dean did it at all. Sam was easy to please if someone just paid attention to him.
He didn't last as long this time before he ended with Sam down on the cushions, reeling and laughing heartily. Dean sagged, his back aching, and he slumped on the couch next to his brother.
But Sam wasn't done. He sat up and leaned over, nearly falling on Dean. "Bouncy, pwease!" he requested, as carefully as a two-year-old could.
But Dean didn't have the energy. He didn't have the stamina. "Sorry, Sammy," he said sincerely. "I need a break."
Sam's eyes went wide for a minute, temptingly pleading, but then they softened and Sam surprised him.
The two-year-old leaned in farther, wrapping his chubby arms around Dean's neck. There was a brush of wetness on Dean's cheek and the nuzzle of hair on his neck.
"Love you, Dee," the toddler said.
All of Dean's defenses melted. He missed hearing that. He missed it more than he even realized. His father didn't really have time for that kind of thing, not anymore, and his mother wasn't around to tell him like she used to. He said it to Sam often enough, but Sammy was just learning to talk, and he'd never heard his brother say it back.
When Sam finally pulled away, Dean grinned at him and stood up. "Ready for one more, Sammy?"
The little boy's eyes were aglow and his smile had never been wider as he cheered and jumped into his brother's arms.