A/N: Just an overgrown drabble sprung from memories of a long car ride stuck in the back seat with my infant nephew, who is now six foot five. One shot, complete. Kid!Winchesters fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'd feed them soup.
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Why Sam is Taller than Dean
by CaffieneKitty
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In the rear view mirror, a small hand reaches over and feeds another fry into the baby's open mouth.
"Eat your own dinner, Dean. Sammy's not ready for big-boy food yet."
"Yes, Daddy," says Dean, not quite meeting his father's eyes in the rear-view mirror.
John returns his eyes to the road, but can see Dean watching him from under that mop of hair. Baby Sammy bounces in his car seat, hands opening and closing in fists, reaching towards Dean, who hasn't stopped turning most of his hamburger into baby-sized bites. John says nothing, keeping his eyes on the road, watching sidelong in the rearview mirror. This one little stubborn point of Dean's, John doesn't mind so much.
Ever since Sammy's started eating solids, Dean's been stuffing half his own dinner into his brother's mouth, like he's feeding a baby robin. Not that it all stays in Sammy's mouth. John had scowled, and warned, and flat-out told Dean to stop at first, but Dean still does it.
Dean sneaks a bite of burger across the back seat and into Sammy's mouth. The baby grabs Dean's arm and gnaws on the burger, fingers and all. Dean extricates his arm from the baby's clutches with a silent "Yuck" face and wipes the baby slobber and burger bits off onto Sammy's sleeper.
Sammy had still been breast-feeding when Mary was taken from them. After the fire, every busybody and know-it-all had made it very clear that keeping Sammy properly fed at this young age was vital to his mental and physical development. As though John would starve his youngest son without the benefit of the child-rearing opinions of strangers.
Dean, listening avidly, had absorbed the 'feed Sammy' part, but the properly... well, at least John's youngest would develop a tolerance to grease, and a fortified immune system. The five-second rule is a myth in the backseat of the Impala.
"Guh-plach!" says Sammy, and something moist ricochets off John's ear.
"Wow!" says Dean before clamping his hands over his mouth, remembering he was trying to be sneaky. Sammy giggles and gurgles.
"Do I want to know what that was?" John says, leveling a stare at Dean in the rearview mirror.
Dean's eyes meet John's and then slip down towards the floor, but there's a little grin the boy can't hide. "Um. Daddy? I don't think Sammy likes pickles."
"Hm. Noted," says John gruffly, and keeps driving.
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(end)