Okay, this is probably almost the silliest thing I've ever written. But I go where the muse takes me. I just may hear all the groans when y'all reach the end.

Just some wee!chester fluff.

But the Children He Adored

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"Dee? Dee, wake up!" Five-year-old Sam Winchester whispered as he bounced on the bed next to his older brother, Dean. A low grumble was his only answer so he tried again, this time adding a pointy poking finger to Dean's side. "Deanie, wake up!"

The poking finger garnered a response as it discovered just the right ticklish spot, and the older boy quickly rolled away with a growl. "What?" He pried his eyes open to glare at his kid brother, who looked at him wide-eyed through chestnut-colored whirls, swirls, and floppy bangs.

Sammy stopped bouncing and drew his legs up underneath the oversized t-shirt—one of Dean's hand-me-downs—that he'd worn to bed. Only his toes were left peeking from beneath the worn hem. "Are you mad at me?"

Dean huffed out an exaggerated breath. "Sammy, why're you awake?" muttered the disgruntled nine-year-old, "It's only like six o'clock in the morning."

"You are mad at me!" Sammy's voice quivered ever so slightly.

"No, I'm not!" Dean rolled over and drew his own knees to his chest. But I will be if you don't tell me why you woke me up so early."

Young Sam bit his bottom lip for a moment lost in thought. "I wanna bake a cake."

"Wait—what?"

"I wanna bake a cake. For Uncle Bobby's birthday today."

"How do you know it's Uncle Bobby's birthday?"

Sammy shrugged. "I heard him and Daddy talkin' b'fore Daddy left."

It was the end of June, and John Winchester had left his boys with their de facto uncle, Bobby Singer, a little over a week ago while he headed off to a job. He was expected to be gone at least another week. In the meantime, Uncle Bobby assigned them little chores around the house, or junkyard where it was safe, and the boys were each delighted to earn a few dollars in an allowance.

"So you heard Uncle Bobby say it was his birthday today?"

"Uh huh. I think so."

"And you want us to bake him a cake?"

"Uh huh. Be-cause—umm—'cause—I dunno—I thought we could prize him."

"You mean surprise him."

"Yeah! SUH-PRIZE him." Sammy was back to bouncing. "You think he'd like it?"

Always up for an adventure no matter what kind, Dean nodded. "I bet he would. We can't surprise him if he's around all day though."

Sam's round- and rosy-cheeked face started to crumple into a frown.

"We'll figure somethin' out, Sammy. Maybe he'll have lots of chores to do, 'n we can sneak into the kitchen! First you better take a bath though—your hair's stickin' out all over the place!" Dean made a funny face and gestured wildly with his hands, and Sammy erupted into giggles. "So's yours, Dee!"

(SN) Wee!Chesters (SN)

Mid-morning Bobby found the Winchester boys in the living room quietly entertaining themselves; Sam enthusiastically coloring with the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and Dean deeply, and surprisingly, engrossed in a book, a tiny frown marring his brow. He cleared his throat to get their attention.

"You boys' think you'll be okay for an hour or two while I run into town to get some parts I need?"

Sammy glanced at his brother and smiled before nodding his head, bangs waving to and fro. Dean carefully marked the page in his book before setting it aside. "Yes, sir," he nodded thoughtfully, "we'll be fine."

"You know the rules, right? Stay inside, don't answer the door…"

"…don't answer the phone, keep the salt lines intact, the salt-loaded shotgun is on the right hand side of the door, and the regular shotgun's on the left." Dean finished the litany easily.

"All right, all right, smarty pants. I've left out the peanut butter and jelly if you young'uns want lunch. Drink milk, none of that pop in the fridge, ya hear?" Bobby tugged at his well-worn trucker's hat as the boys nodded. "I'll be back as quick as I can." The hunter jogged out of the house to his battered truck.

When the rumble of Bobby's truck faded, Sammy grabbed a hold of Dean's hand and tugged. "C'mon, Dee. Time to make birthday cake!"

"Okay already, shrimp. All these books around, one of 'em's gotta be a cookbook." Dean's gaze scanned the shelves while his impatient little brother fidgeted by his side. "Found one!" he crowed and pulled a long-forgotten book of the shelf. A quick perusal yielded a recipe for a "Chocolate Dream Cake" that didn't sound too hard. He led Sam into the kitchen.

"What'da we do first, Dee?" Sammy was practically vibrating with excitement.

"You find a bowl and a spoon. I'll start finding the other stuff."

The five-year-old easily located a big, if dented, metal mixing bowl in the cupboard. He proudly deposited it on the table along with an over-sized wooden spoon he found in the dish drainer next to the sink. That done, he climbed on a chair and watched Dean who approached the table, arms laden with various items.

"Okay, I got sugar, eggs," he consulted the recipe, "and oil. Uh oh."

"What?"

"It says we need cocoa. I didn't see any."

"What're we gonna do?"

Dean thought for a second. "I know! I got a candy bar in my bag upstairs. We'll use that—it's chocolate." The young boy shrugged. "Run up and get it, okay?"

By the time Sammy returned several minutes later, Dean had a mound of sugar resting inside the bowl, and he was frowning quizzically at an egg.

"Dee, what's wrong?"

"I'm trying to figure out how you crack an egg."

"Maybe you hafta hit it with somethin'. Like—like a hammer!"

"Good idea!" The older boy rummaged through Bobby's tool drawer until he found one. Setting the egg down on the table, he raised the hammer and brought it down, watching in dismay as the egg disintegrated into a gooey mess beneath the blow.

Sammy looked from the egg to his brother's face and back to the egg. "Is that right?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno." He took another egg from the carton and tried again with a somewhat lighter blow of the hammer. The result was the same.

"Sure is messy. Maybe I should try, Dee." Sammy grabbed an egg from the carton and scooted off the chair. "Maybe you hafta step on it like I did my Spiderman—he cracked!"

Before the elder of the two brothers could protest at all, Sam laid the egg on the floor and stepped on it, grimacing when the resultant mess squished up through his bare toes. He blinked up at his big brother in consternation.

"Never mind, Sammy, we'll just use these," Dean pointed to the two eggs he'd already smashed with the hammer. He glanced at the recipe then gazed at the eggs, a perplexed look crossing his face. "Now it says to separate them. How do I do that?" With a look of intense concentration, he picked out the larger pieces of eggshell and swiped the rest into the bowl on top of the sugar, pausing to wipe his sticky hands on the legs of his jeans. "Oh, shoot, I forgot to get the flour." Dean snagged the back of a kitchen chair to use as a step stool and pulled it over to the counter, quickly retrieving the big bag.

It was never clear to Dean exactly what happened next. Heavy bag clutched in his hands, he climbed down off the chair. Having forgotten about the egg Sam had stepped on, his foot landed in the gooey mess and quickly slipped out from under him. Desperate to regain his balance, Dean flung out a hand in an attempt to catch himself to no avail. He landed painfully on one knee and the now-unbalanced bag of flour went flying, hitting the edge of the countertop and breaking open. The flour flew everywhere; a geyser of fluffy white powder.

Fine particles were still gently raining down when a gruff voice bellowed, "What in tarnation is goin' on in here!"

Sammy let out a little squeak and froze. In the blink of an eye, Dean was up and standing square in front of his little brother, green eyes flashing. His protective stance was somewhat compromised though when he let out a tremendous sneeze.

"We were just trying to make a cake." He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, smearing the powdery layer.

Bobby eyed the giant mess that now was his kitchen. "A cake? Well, if you rugrats wanted a cake, why didn't you say somethin'? I coulda picked one up in town."

"No!" came a little cry from behind Dean. Sammy stepped around his big brother and marched up to Bobby, huge tears making track marks through the flour coating the boy's cheeks. "It was s'posed ta be a PRIZE."

"A prize?" Totally lost in the face of Sammy's unexpected tears, Bobby looked to Dean for help.

"Surprise."

"SUH-PRIZE," repeated the littlest Winchester, "A birthday cake for your birthday, Uncle Bobby." He sniffled.

"A birthday cake for my birthday? But…" Bobby gazed at the two grimy and apprehensive-looking little Winchester boys and let his voice trail off. He didn't have the heart to tell them that it wasn't his birthday; that he had no idea where they'd even gotten the idea. Instead, the grizzled man stroked his beard and smiled. "Well, now, if that ain't just the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

Bobby dropped down on his haunches in front of Sam and motioned for Dean to come closer. He wrapped his arms around the pair and gave them a quick hug, knowing how much they both craved any sign of affection, even if the oldest had perfected an air of indifference. "Now, I'll tell ya what. Why don't the two of you go get yourselves cleaned up, and when you're done, we'll clean up this mess. Then I'll give you a lesson in kitchen survival. If we're lucky, we'll have a cake to eat for dessert tonight."

The two boys nodded eagerly. Sammy took off for the stairs, but Dean hesitated for a moment. He looked at Bobby solemnly. "You're sure you're not mad 'cause we made such a mess?"

"Nah, son, I'm not mad," Bobby ruffled the kid's short blond hair, "just promise you won't make a habit of turning my kitchen into a disaster area, huh?"

"I promise." A rare, brilliant smile broke across Dean's usually too-serious face. He hurried away to catch up with his baby brother.

Bobby watched them go and shook his head, a heartfelt sigh rushing past his lips. He and his wife had wanted children badly but she'd died before they had the opportunity. And while his friend, John Winchester, often deserved a knock on the head or a kick in the ass, it sure didn't mean that Bobby Singer couldn't adore his two children.

Fin