A/N: My first foray into Wee!chesters. Sam is three, Dean is seven, but I kept changing my mind as to what ages I wanted them to be and it still kind of shows. Dean's got quite a mouth on him for a seven-year-old, I guess, but I guess that's what happens if you have John Winchester for a father.... I also wanted to show John in tender-loving-mode, which is rare enough but has to happen occasionally. Alternates between Dean POV and John POV. Nothing spectacular, in all, but thought I should post in case anyone can offer any suggestions as to how to improve it. Also unbeta'd (but not un-proofread!), so any mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: Don't own Winchesters or Wee!chesters. Although, if I did, I would give them cookies.

Dad was gonna kill him.

Dean groaned and walked a little faster, shouting again: "Sammy!" Even if it was stupid Sammy's stupid freaking fault, Dad would get mad at him, Dean knew. Sam was only three—even Dean admitted you had to be an asshole to blame a three-year-old for being stupid.

Even if he was stupid, running off like that, what was he thinking? Did he even know how many ways from Sunday Dad was gonna tan his hide for this? In the middle of freaking winter, in the middle of freaking South Dakota, or North Dakota, wherever they were. Probably without a jacket. Moron. All because he tot he taw a puddy-tat. Probably nothing. Probably a dog or something.

Like a Black Dog.

Shit.

"Sammy!"

"Da-da-Dean?" came a small, shivering voice. Dean turned to find Sam huddled between two trees, shaking with cold, his nose red as Rudolph's. The eyes, like Bambi eyes, brightened upon seeing his older brother, and before Dean could go to him, the three-year-old rocketed at him and was wrapped tightly around his middle.

"Whoa, kiddo, where's the fire? Why the hell'd you run off like that?" Dean asked, kneeling before his brother and trying to be gentle despite wanting to throttle him. If Sam wasn't gonna be the death of him someday…

"S-s-saw it, Dean," the sobbing little boy moaned. "Got sc-scared. Did you get it?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean tried. "Yeah, I got it. Ain't gonna bother us no more. No way, José—"

A low growl from behind called Dean's bluff. Sam froze in his arms.

"Sam, run!" Dean cried, literally throwing his little brother in the direction of safety and turning around in time to see a massive black claw slam into him. He went down, but drew the revolver he had nicked from Uncle Bobby's sock drawer. Not feeling any pain yet, just righteous indignation that this bully had just knocked him to his butt in the snow, Dean opened fire. The first shot was wild, and the second one lucky. Then he ran, pushing Sam ahead of him, practically carrying him half the way. But the Black Dog got another one in, dragging him by the ankle in a massive maw, worrying his legs until Dean could turn and fire again. Now much closer to the beast, the third and fourth bullets did real damage and the final two were just unnecessary. But Dean was going to make damn sure.

Dean didn't relish in the kill. He had to find Sam. Find Sam, or he'd be sporting a new asshole whenever he got home. If he ever got home. Nothing, supernatural or otherwise, could scare him more than his own dad. Dean was pretty sure that that what the fear of God was all about.

Dean was once again accosted from out of nowhere, and he gratefully hugged the brown curls to his chest. "Thank Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy. You okay?"

Sam nodded, but said, "Cold."

The little doofus was outside in only a thin hooded sweatshirt that Dean had long ago grown out of. Sighing, Dean shrugged off his own winter coat and dressed his brother in it, shivering in his shirtsleeves.

"Dean got owie!" Sam cried, pointing in astonishment.

For the first time, Dean glanced down at his chest, red through the t-shirt. Shit, he thought, but said, "Aw, that's nothin', Sammy. Dad'll take care of me when we get home." He'll take care of me all right, Dean groaned inwardly as an afterthought. But that didn't matter quite so much as the shivering wretch that stood before him. "Okay, soldier," Dean said, "Move on out. Let's get you home."

With a push Sam began marching, but he cranked up the whining as soon as they started. Dean was always a softie for Sam's whining, and he knew it. Worst of all, Sam knew it. He knew he couldn't get anything out of Dad with that tone, but it worked miracles on his older brother. And himself was all the shivering, tired, hungry, cold, thirsty and have-to-potty three year old could think about.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean couldn't believe he'd been wrangled into this. But at least he had his jacket back. Sorta. Sam was bundled into his coat and was in his arms, the sleeves of the jacket tied around Dean's shoulders like one of those stupid new-age baby wraps that hot hippie moms did with their kids. And Sam was no baby. Well, yeah, okay he was a baby, but a big baby. Dean developed a limp, favoring the leg that had been worried by the Black Dog, but that didn't matter much since they were almost home.

Only after twenty minutes did Dean realize he was lost. He didn't want to worry Sam, so he just changed course without stopping. Sam was probably asleep, anyway, if his dead weight was any indication.

After another fifteen minutes, Dean changed course again, ever so slightly. This looked like a shortcut…