"But Dean! That'll hurt!"
The obnoxious creak of the trailer door opening was nearly drowned by the wails of six-year-old Sam.
John Winchester released the latch quietly, curiosity rising as he listened to the exchange in the shag-carpeted living room.
"...Maybe a little bit," -Dean's voice- "But you have to learn this. Honest."
Stealthily crossing the kitchen to the small table, John seated himself where he could watch his boys, unobserved.
Sam and Dean stood in the middle of the living room, expressions tense. Clearly a battle of wills.
John discovered his morning coffee - now cold - and took a thoughtful sip.
Dean stepped away from his brother and dropped his hands from his hips in resignation. "Okay, Sammy, watch me."
John's eyebrows shot up as his eldest son collapsed to the floor, his skinny ten-year-old body hitting the ground with a soft *thump*.
A grin threatened to crack the hunter's stoic demeanor.
Dean sprung to his feet with the agility of a frog and dusted his hands. "That's how you do it. Your turn."
The fighting spark appeared in Sam's eyes for a second, but John watched it vanish as his gaze rose from the floor to his brother.
The six-year-old sighed in resignation. Dean grinned.
"Remember what I told you - buckle your knees, and don't try to catch yourself with your hands. You'll break your wrists."
This admonishment seemed to dampen Sam's resolve, and Dean had to demonstrate a few more times before the youngest Winchester was ready to give it a try.
Dean held up three fingers. "Ready, Sam? One...two…"
On three Sam received a shove that sent him to the floor like a bowling-ball.
"That's great, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, his enthusiasm pre-empting the possible sniffles of his younger brother, "Here, take my hand."
Sam regained his feet, his expression shocked rather than pleased. However, as John rose and entered the room, all injuries were forgotten as the pair turned, eyes alight.
"Dad!"
"Hey, boys. What have you been up to?"
Sam's eyebrows lowered. "Dean pushed me."
"-Did not!" Dean contested, freckles scrunching around his nose, "I was teaching him…"
Sam dropped the argument instantly as he saw the bag of groceries beside the door. He bolted from the room with a squeal that sounded something like: "Maaaaagggiiiiicccccsssshhhaaaappppeessssss!" - John couldn't be quite sure.
Dean remained beside him, his green eyes dark. John crouched.
"Wanna tell me what you were doing, Deano?"
The boy's expression lightened immediately. "I was teaching Sam how to fall," he explained. The sound of rustling plastic from the kitchen seemed to distract him for a second, but John regained his attention with a hand on his shoulder.
"What for, Dean?"
The soft plink of cereal against ceramic echoed. John almost told Sam to wait until dinner, but his curiosity trumped discipline today.
Dean's eyes regained seriousness.
"Because I can't always catch him."
Somehow the way Dean said it hit John like a train. It was a second or two before he prompted: "Why not, Dean?"
"Someday he's going to be too big, or I won't be there; and I thought if I taught him how to fall, it wouldn't hurt so bad."
The splash of milk and an "oops" from the kitchen finally tore Dean away, and John was left alone in the living room.