Rumsfeld barked nervously and scampered away to avoid being crushed by a clumsy kid.

But Sam remained on his feet.

Dean's reaction quick and his grip firm as he fisted the front of Sam's coat and held his brother steady.

Sam swallowed as he held onto Dean as well; his instinct having been to reach for his big brother when he had begun to fall...and his small gloved hands still grasped Dean's forearm even now that the accident had been prevented.

There was a beat of silence.

Rumsfeld cautiously crept back to stand beside the brothers.

Sam swallowed again, his eyes wide as he stared at Dean. "That was kinda scary," the four-year old needlessly commented; his expression and shaky voice already testifying to how momentarily frightened he had felt.

Dean glared, freshly annoyed by the too-close call. "What were you saying about getting it yourself?" he asked sharply about Sam's intention to retrieve the Frisbee, shaking his head at his impatient, stubborn little brother.

Sam blinked back at him, looking appropriately embarrassed by his foolish attempt to climb on the truck. "M'sorry."

Dean ignored the apology, his anger fueled by the fear of what might have happened. "You could've gotten hurt, Sam," he pointed out. "What if I hadn't been here? What if you had fell and hit your head or something? Then what?"

Sam nodded shyly. "I know," he agreed, taking a step back as Dean released his hold on his coat. "M'sorry."

"You should be," Dean snapped as he turned and effortlessly stepped up on the truck's bumper, snatching the Frisbee from the hood and shaking the snow from the red disc.

Sam watched, glancing at Rumsfeld as the dog whined at Dean's harsh tone.

The strained silence stretched on as Dean pinned Sam with a hard stare; the older brother effectively communicating how pissed he would've been if the kid had gotten hurt over something stupid.

Rumsfeld whined again.

Sam squirmed beneath Dean's gaze as he stood in the snow. "M'sorry," he said once more, unable to stop himself, and then coughed. "Please don't be mad, Dean."

"Too late," Dean returned, because he was mad.

He hated it when the kid scared him like that.

"Here..." Dean told his brother, handing the four-year old the Frisbee.

Sam accepted it and sighed, the congested sound ending with another cough as he nervously shifted from one foot to the other...and then coughed again.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That's it," he announced. "We're going inside."

Sam's eyes widened. "Why?" he protested. "'Cause you're mad?"

"No," Dean returned, having made the decision before Sam's I-can-do-it-myself stunt, and grabbed the four-year old's hand as he started walking toward Bobby's house. "'Cause I don't want you to get sick again."

Sam shook his head as he trudged through the snow beside his brother with Rumsfeld following behind them. "I'm not sick," he countered, even though his throat was kinda sore...and his voice was slightly hoarse...and his chest maybe hurt a little from breathing cold air all morning.

Dean cut his eyes at the four-year old. "Maybe not," he allowed about Sam's denial that he was sick. "But you were sick two days ago. And I don't like the way you're sounding now, so we're going inside. It's time for lunch anyway."

"But Uncle Bobby's not back yet," Sam pointed out, knowing they had been waiting for the old hunter to return from the grocery store since there was no food in the house. "What are we gonna eat if Uncle Bobby's not back yet?"

"I'll find something," Dean assured as they walked.

The eight-year old knowing there was at least one more serving left in the cereal box from earlier that morning. Dean having intentionally not given himself as much breakfast as usual because he had wanted to save a little for Sam in case something like this happened – Bobby's trip to town taking longer than expected – and the kid had to eat cereal for lunch, too.

It was Plan B, but it would have to suffice.

Because Plan A had been chicken and stars soup for lunch, which Dean really wanted Sam to have now that the kid was cold and possibly getting sick again.

But whatever...

Dean was used to Plan A rarely working out.

The eight-year old sighed and then frowned as he noticed that even though he was still holding Sam's hand, the four-year old was lagging behind as they walked.

"Hey..." Dean called to his brother, shaking the kid's hand to further attract Sam's attention. "What's with you?"

"I'm tired," Sam complained, rubbing the back of his gloved hand across his runny nose.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the admission, slightly concerned that the four-year old would voluntarily confess that.

"And you're walking too fast," Sam added, the whine in his voice further proof that it was definitely lunchtime, promptly followed by naptime.

"Fine," Dean allowed – because maybe he was walking a little too fast in his eagerness to get Sam inside. He stopped walking. "There," he told his brother. "Better?"

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, the snow splattered on the front of his jeans offering evidence for how quickly his short legs had been moving through the ankle-deep snow as he had tried to keep up with his big brother's pace.

Dean quirked a smile at the cute kid blinking up at him as they stood in Bobby's yard and then glanced over his shoulder, surprised by how far they still had to walk to reach the house.

Guess John had sent them even further across the salvage yard than Dean had originally thought...and for some reason that irritated the eight-year old.

Were he and Sam so obnoxious that their dad had to ban them to the opposite side of the yard to get any peace?

Geez...

Dean frowned, directing his attention to the garage where John continued to work and feeling freshly annoyed by how their dad had acted earlier – both at the breakfast table and when the Frisbee had accidently ended up in the garage.

Would it kill John to remember that he was a dad for five minutes and actually play with them instead of focusing on a hunt or working on the Impala?

But Dean guessed that was too much to ask.

After all, people were dying – Dean could never forget because John reminded him constantly – and the Impala was important.

The car apparently being more important than him and Sam...along with those dying strangers being more important, too.

Dean sighed, shaking his head in frustration, and then glanced back at his brother as Sam gasped softly.

"Rummy..." the four-year old scolded as Rumsfeld suddenly snatched the Frisbee from the kid's grasp; the puppy having bided his time until the exact moment of surprise attack.

Dean twitched a smile as Rumsfeld ran through the snow with the red plastic disc securely held in his mouth, the puppy clearly proud of his ability to steal a Frisbee from a four-year old.

"Stupid mutt," Dean commented fondly and rolled his eyes.

"He's not stupid," Sam immediately defended. "And he's not a mutt, neither. He's a Rottwheeler."

Dean laughed at the four-year old's attempt to pronounce the breed's name. "Rottweiler," he corrected.

Sam scowled. "I know. That's what I said."

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he agreed with another laugh, watching Rumsfeld continue to frolic by himself in the snow with the Frisbee before glancing back at Sam and squeezing the kid's hand still held in his grasp. "You ready, Sammy?"

Because Dean could see his brother getting more tired and grumpier by the second and standing in the yard wasn't getting the kid fed and settled for a nap.

Sam didn't directly respond to Dean's question but made a strange sound as he yawned and coughed at the same time.

Dean snorted. "Guess I'll take that as a yes..." he commented and gently pulled on the four-year old's arm. "Let's go."

Sam nodded, obediently walking with his brother as he glanced over his shoulder at Rumsfeld still playing by himself in the snow with the Frisbee. "C'mon, Rummy..."

"He'll come," Dean assured, knowing wherever Sam went the puppy was sure to follow.

The brothers walked for several seconds before both halted and turned at the sound of John's voice calling from across the yard, proof that their dad had been paying at least partial attention to them throughout the morning since he had noticed they were currently on the move.

"Where are you going?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes at their dad's question and return a smartass reply.

Because wasn't it obvious where they were going? Inside.

And why did John care where they went as long as they left him alone?

Wasn't that what their dad wanted – to work in a world uninterrupted by the inconvenience of kids, puppies, and rogue Frisbees?

Dean sighed.

"Where are you going?" John asked again, his tone implying he didn't like Dean's delay in answering.

Sam glanced at Dean, recognizing their dad's tone, and then unexpectedly leaned his beanie-covered head against his big brother's arm and sighed – the sound tired and congested while the gesture was that of a four-year old who got clingy when he didn't feel good.

Dean frowned at the new symptom of clinginess and squeezed his brother's hand as the kid continued to rest against him. "Hang on a sec, Sammy..." he quietly urged the four-year old and then refocused on John still staring at him expectantly from across the snow-covered yard. "We're going inside," he told their dad as John stood at the edge of the garage.

Behind them, Rumsfeld barked as the puppy romped in the snow.

John nodded at Dean's explanation, his gaze flickering to Sam as his four-year old rested against his eight-year old. "Sammy..." he called, his expression and tone slightly concerned as he seemed to realize all was not well with their youngest.

"He's fine," Dean assured quickly, sometimes hating it when John suddenly wanted to act like a father. "I've got him."

John nodded again; having no doubt that whatever was going on with Sam, Dean had it under control and would take care of the kid.

But still...

John sighed, often regretting he had been so slack about claiming his role as Sam's caretaker...and Dean's, for that matter.

But it was too late now.

Four years into this hunter's life, all roles had been firmly established – Dean looked after Sam...Dean looked after himself...and John was left wondering where he fit in.

Not that John could blame anyone except himself for their family dynamics.

After all, he had been the one to routinely leave a six-month old infant in the care of a four-year old kid while he had drank excessively, researched obsessively, and hunted too damn much.

It was no wonder that Dean had become so self-reliant at the ripe old age of eight and so possessive of his little brother – "I've got him," being the most repeated phrase Dean used when talking to John about Sam.

I've got him.

Meaning don't touch him, don't worry about him, and don't try to help me with him because I've got him.

John smiled sadly as he continued to stare at his kids across the yard, knowing he should be proud of how reliable his oldest was, of how protective Dean was of Sam.

And John was proud.

He was damn proud of Dean.

But John also felt a deep sense of regret for things that were too late to change now.

And being a father to his boys was at the top of his list of wishes for second chances.

John sighed, blinking as the telephone suddenly rang on the far wall of the garage...and then blinking again at the remembered possibility that it might be Pastor Jim finally returning Bobby's call.

Ignoring the fact that Bobby wouldn't like him answering the phone at his house, John crossed the garage; tossing the socket wrench he had been holding onto the work table before picking up the receiver of the phone that was in the middle of its third ring.

"Hello?" John asked, knowing Bobby would also scowl at him not saying "Singer Salvage".

But whatever...

Bobby wasn't there...and what the old hunter didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Hello...?" John asked again, glancing over his shoulder at his kids still standing in the middle of the snow-covered yard staring at him.

Dean being clearly curious as to who was calling while his expression was also disapproving of John's blatant disregard for Bobby's known rule of nobody answering the phone at his house except him.

And Sam just looked tired and cranky as he continued to lean against his brother's arm.

John sighed, his attention flickering to Rumsfeld as the puppy came to sit beside the boys and stare at him as well.

"John...?" a familiar voice called from the opposite end of the line.

John blinked, instantly refocused on the phone call. "Jim?" he returned and smiled with relief. "Damn, I'm glad you called back," he heartily told the Pastor and then paused, rolling his eyes as he endured Jim's well wishes that were common in the holiday season. "Yeah, yeah...Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and all that crap. Listen..."

John paused again, turning back to his sons and motioning for them to come to the garage.

Dean narrowed his eyes in obvious annoyance at being summoned but obeyed John's nonverbal command, gently shrugging Sam's head off of his arm and pulling the four-year old forward as they began to walk through the snow.

"I thought we were going inside," Sam whined, glancing at Rumsfeld as the puppy followed them.

"We are," Dean assured his little brother. "As soon as we see what Dad wants, we're going in. And then you can eat lunch and take a nap, okay?"

Sam coughed as they walked "'Kay," he agreed.

Dean frowned at how easy that was.

"M'hot," Sam complained, tugging at the scarf still wrapped around his neck.

Dean's frown deepened. "Leave it," he told his brother, sweeping the Sam's hand away. "You can lose the layers in a minute when we go inside."

Although Dean was suspicious that a returning fever was the reason Sam was suddenly hot, not the layers of clothes the kid was wearing.

The eight-year old sighed, hoping he could tap at least one more dose of children's Tylenol out of that practically empty bottle he had left in the kitchen...and hoping that Bobby came home soon with a fresh supply of the medicine.

They were probably going to need it.

Dean sighed.

"Did you find out anything new about the case?" John was asking over the phone when the brothers and Rumsfeld finally reached the edge of the garage and then nodded his approval as Jim confirmed that he did have new information to share.

Dean sighed again, the sound loud enough to attract John's attention, and then blinked expectantly when John turned to look at him.

Because if their dad wanted him to do something, then John needed to hurry the hell up – after all, Dean had a potentially sick kid to take care of and didn't have time to waste running errands for John.

John arched an eyebrow, sensing Dean's attitude, and then refocused on the phone he still held. "Wait a minute, Jim..." he stalled, interrupting the Pastor as Jim launched into a detailed explanation of what he had found out about the case John was working.

John redirected his attention to Dean, lowering the receiver from his mouth as he spoke to his oldest. "Go inside and get my journal."

Dean glared at the order...because he knew John was going to send him on a stupid errand like this. And why couldn't John just take the call inside and get his own crap?

John glared back. "Go," he told his oldest. "And bring that folder of articles, too..." he added.

Dean sighed harshly, wishing he could coolly advise his dad to go get his own damn journal and articles...and then live to tell about giving such a reply.

But Dean knew better than to sass John.

And John knew that Dean was still considering doing it anyway.

Father and oldest son stared at each other.

"Go," John growled, his tone promising unpleasant consequences if he had to say it again.

Dean sighed once more – knowing he was pushing his luck as he continued to stall – and glanced at Sam standing beside him; the kid uncharacteristically quiet, still holding his hand and leaning against him.

John followed Dean's gaze, slightly softening at the realization of why Dean had not yet followed his order – because his oldest was concerned about Sam.

And John had to admit the four-year old looked tired and flushed.

...which would be just John's luck for his youngest to get sick again the day before they were supposed to leave Bobby's and get back on the road.

John sighed. "Yeah, I'm here," he spoke into the phone when Jim asked if he was still there. "Just hang on a sec..." He glanced back at Dean. "I'll watch him," he told his oldest about Sam.

Dean looked doubtful, resisting the urge to snort dismissively at such an offer – because no way was he going to leave Sam outside with John.

"He'll be fine," John assured, still talking about their youngest.

Dean glanced at his brother, thinking maybe he would just take the kid inside with him now; would get Sam warm and fed and settled and then come back outside with John's journal and those articles.

John shook his head, knowing Dean's thoughts. "I'm not waiting that long," he informed. "And I'm not telling you again."

Dean swallowed, recognizing the annoyance in their dad's tone and expression at his continued hesitation to leave Sam in John's care. Not to mention the resulting implication that Dean didn't think John could be trusted to watch a four-year old.

"Go get what I told you to get from Bobby's house," John continued, pinning Dean with a hard stare even as he kept his voice eerily calm. "I'll watch Sam." He paused. "Go..."

And Dean knew his time was up; that the only reason their dad had been this patient for this long was because Pastor Jim was indirectly listening on the opposite end of the telephone John still held.

Dean sighed. "Fine," he reluctantly agreed – realizing the sooner he went, the sooner he could come back for Sam – and turned his attention to the sleepy, clingy kid leaning against his arm. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked up at him.

"You stay here with Dad for a minute and be good, okay? I'll be right back..."

Sam glanced at John like he was a stranger and then glanced back at Dean, clearly not liking the idea of being left with their dad.

"I know," Dean quietly agreed. "But I'll be right back, okay?"

Sam sighed and nodded, because had heard the conversation between John and his brother and knew this wasn't a choice. "Okay," the four-year old replied. "But hurry..." he added; his voice a hoarse, congested, whiney whisper.

Dean quirked a smile at his bossy little brother. "I will," he promised, pulling his hand away from Sam's and affectionately rubbing the kid's beanie-covered head as he turned away from the garage and began running across the snow-covered yard toward Bobby's house.

As he ran, Dean hoped he wasn't making a mistake by leaving Sam in John's care, even if it would only be for a few minutes.

TBC