This will be a collection of oneshots featuring the teen!chesters. Each will be inspired by a single event and will vary in length, rating and structure. Expect fluff.

Chapter 1: Coffee

Ages: Sam (13) Dean (17)

POV: Dean

Rating: T (for language and mild sexual references)

Inspiration: French Vanilla Coffee

Dad's been gone for a couple of days now. He's been doing that a lot now, leaving for days on end and not telling me and Sam where the hell he's going. It pisses both of us off, although I try to make sure that Sam doesn't see how much it bothers me. But he knows. In that God damn way of his, he just knows. Even at thirteen he's a lot more observant than Dad and I give him credit for.

We're stuck in this shit motel in the middle of Wisconsin and its fucking snowing like there's no tomorrow. Guess they've never heard of late autumn here before 'cause it's only the beginning of

November and it shouldn't be this fucking cold.

The morning is the worst cause the people who run this motel don't seem to believe in heat registers. But that's what you get when you pay dick for a place to stay for a few days. I guess it also doesn't help that I don't wear a lot to bed. It's a habit born from waking up in nothing after a night of fun with the lucky ladies that I pick up at the bars I sneak into.

Sam's still asleep when I get up, but that's to be expected when it's too dark outside for seven in the morning. Sam's too damn stubborn to get up in any case. On any other given day I'd probably yell in his ear or punch him in the arm to wake him up. But he looks too damn peaceful when I look across the room barely big enough to hold the two of us. He's all curled up into a ball with the covers all over the place, too small and skinny for thirteen.

I can't help but smile sadly at him while he sleeps, breathing evenly. It's really not fair to him that we live like this, but I'll be damned if I'm going to get into that with Dad again. It's bad enough that they get into it enough as it is. Despite his size, Sam's got some pretty big cojones when it comes to telling Dad how he feels about all the shit going on. Maybe that's why Dad leaves so much. And Sam's too damn stubborn to tell me what's going on anymore.

Even though we're both too old for it, I miss when Sam would crawl into bed with me and sleep cause of a nightmare or something Dad said to him. He needs it more now, I think. More now because he's growing up and he's probably got a shit load of questions but is too damn scared to ask me or Dad. It bothers me...no it fucking stings when I think of Sam being scared of me. I know we jerk each other around a lot, and I guess I can be a bit of a dick to him sometimes, but he's my baby brother and all I wanna do is be there for him, especially since Dad's treating him like some kind of leper half the time.

Sam stirs but doesn't wake up just yet. He's too happy wherever he is right now, far from a bunch of school kids bullying him and even farther away from a father who blames him for something he didn't do.

I close my eyes when I think of that night that Dad, too drunk for his own good, told me it was Sam's fault for Mom being gone. God damn it I wanted to beat him into a pulp for saying that. I've tried real hard to tell myself that it was just the beer talking. But booze has a way of making people say things they're really feeling. I would know. I've tried hard to deny that Dad said that, but I know there's no use. There's also no use in trying to tell myself that Sam wasn't standing in the dark doorway in his jammies while Dad slurred on completely ignorant to his presence. I heard him crying that night and I was so damn close to just springing out of bed and cradling him like a baby and telling him that Dad was a jackass and Sam did nothing wrong.

Well, that much is obvious. Sam was just a baby when Mom died. Dad needs to understand that. But there are times when I look at him looking at Sam and the way he stares at him, so hard and accusing just pisses me off.

I shiver. It's damn cold in here and I'm only wearing a loose pair of old sweats. My eyes are still puffy from waking up too early and I could really go for some coffee.

I grin, thinking about a nice cup of java in this cold. There's a convenience store a couple blocks from the motel. Still grinning like a Cheshire Cat, I kneel down and gently shake Sam by his narrow shoulder. Jesus he needs to be fed more.

He groans fitfully and tries to roll over and turn away from the waking world where too much crap waits for him. I'm tempted to just leave him and go by myself, but if Dad comes back in the few minutes that I'm gone and finds Sam here alone then we're both gonna get it. Sam more so than me even though it's not his fault again. And that's why I want him to come, so he can get out of this shit motel that smells like old socks and stale beer and out into some air and forget about Dad for a few precious moments.

"C'mon sunshine," I say, prodding him in the arm, "we're going out."

"S'too cold." Sam mumbles.

"Yeah, well we're gonna fix that."

Sam doesn't move for a few seconds and I think he might have gone back to sleep just to piss me off. But then he stretches like a cat and sits up, his hair standing up on all ends and his eyes puffy. He looks around, almost confused and then kicks off his covers, pulling the old t-shirt he uses for a pajama top down over his stomach and running a hand through his untidy hair.

I can't help but grin even wider.

"What?" Sam asks, still looking pissed that he had to wake up.

"Nothing." I reply. Then, just because I know he'll bitch about it, I ruffle his already messy hair and say, "It just looks like someone jizzed in your hair, Sasquatch."

Sam pushes my hand away, frowning like a thunderstorm. It just makes me grin even more. He can be such a bitch sometimes and I can't resist pushing his buttons.

"Better not have been you." Sam mutters.

"The hell are you talking about?" Damn he's getting good at these come backs.

Sam snickers. "Kinda hard not to hear when we're sharing this sardine can, Dean. Maybe you should try the bathroom like a normal person."

I give him a cuff on the arm for this. Not too hard. He hasn't really pissed me off. I'm actually happy that he's in a mood like this after all the shit he's gone through. It doesn't really bug me that he's heard either. We breathe the same air twenty four – seven so it's expected that not everything is going to be private.

"Why'd you wake me up so damn early?"

"Watch your mouth." I say in my best imitation of Dad.

He just rolls his eyes and hops off his bed. His teeth chatter the second his feet touch the floor only reminding me of how cold I actually am.

"Get dressed. We're going to the store."

There's nothing from him but the sound of his bag unzipping. We both dig through our clothes until we can find the warmest things we have and throw them on. I see Sam stop and cock his head to the side when he pulls out a big red sweater that used to be mine. He knows it was mine and that I snuck it in there for him but there's not a chance in hell I'm letting him give it back.

He doesn't say anything as he pulls it over his t-shirt but I see the small smile of gratitude while he looks for socks in the mess of his bag. Its little things like this that make me feel like I'm doing something right. I know he's not a baby but there are so many times when I can't help but look out for him. And I know, no matter how badly he gripes that he's thankful.

"Where're we going?" He asks after we're both dressed and sitting in the crappy little kitchenette that badly needs a new layer of linoleum. One look out the window tells me it's still snowing like a bitch. Not exactly a blizzard but still enough to make the whole damn outside look like a snow globe.

"Seven-Eleven." I tell him, pulling my boots on.

"S'too cold."

"Don't be a bitch, Sammy."

"Watch your mouth." Sam can't keep the triumphant grin off of his face when he throws my words back at me.

"I can say whatever the hell I want. I'm a grown up."

"Are not."

"Real mature, Samwich." I know he hates that nickname. He glares daggers at me and crosses his arms over his chest with a big pout on his face that almost looks too damn funny to be serious. "Like I said," I say, shaking my head at his expression, "real mature."

He huffs out a big sigh and then gets to his feet.

"You sure Dad's gonna let us outside?" His voice is so sour that I'm surprised the room doesn't smell like lemon.

"Dad's not here, Sam." I remind him.

"Right." He's still not happy. The sooner we get out of here the better.

"C'mon." I say, jerking my head to the door. "We'll need snowshoes by the time you're done moping." It's not supposed to sound nasty or like I'm accusing him of something. But I guess he takes it that way because he bows his head, his bangs falling into his eyes and mumbles, "I'm sorry."

"Hey." I cross the kitchen a two strides and kneel down in front of him. "I didn't mean it like that Sammy. I just want to get over there before the snow comes down harder, kay?"

Sam nods but doesn't look cheered.

Fuck. Real brilliant. I know he doesn't like to make a big fuss out of Dad when it's just the two of us together. I'm mentally kicking myself for making that jab about moping. Without a word, Sam gets to his feet and puts a scarf around his neck before standing patiently by the door. I watch him from the kitchenette for a second before we finally head out

It's even colder outside and the snow is up to our ankles. I'm really gonna kill Dad for leaving us here. Sam still isn't looking at me and I feel like a real schmuck. It's not his fault Dad's acting like total asshole all the time. Sam just wants - what's the word - normalcy. He tries so hard not to complain but I'd rather he let it out than bottle it up. Guess that's why I like it better when it's just us.

The Seven-Eleven is only a couple blocks from the motel but it's a shitty journey there. People around here don't seem to get the idea of shoveling the sidewalk. And those decent enough to do so have never heard of salting for ice. When we're across the street from the store, Sam slips on a patch of the slick crap and just about falls on his ass.

I steady him with a hand to the small of his back and try to convey what I'm thinking without speaking cause I know he's still not gonna talk right now.

Its okay, I try to tell him with my eyes and a quick pat on his back as he steadies himself, I've got you. For a second he just looks up at me with those big eyes of his wide and surprised. He smiles softly and we walk across the street a little more cautiously, making sure to avoid anymore ice patches.

The store smells like meltwater and rubber boots. There's a bored looking cashier behind the till who barely glances at us when we walk in and stomp our boots on the mat. Sam takes off to the magazine rack right away but stops when he sees I'm not following.

"What're you doing?" He asks.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"I thought you were gonna get a Penthouse or whatever the heck it is you like to read."

I just about laugh at that. My bro knows me too well. But I'm not here for me today. I'm here for both of us.

"Let's get something to take this damn chill out." I tell him, nodding to the coffee machines. Sam's eyes light up like its freaking Christmas and he follows me as I walk around the till and to the row of humming machines.

"Really?" He looks a little nervous but totally stoked.

"Really really little bro. What size?"

Sam bites his lip and then looks back at the lone cashier like he thinks the guy's going to bust us for smuggling booze or something.

"Dad says I can't drink coffee." Sam says in a small voice, looking down at his boots.

I roll my eyes impatiently. This whole "Dad Says" shit is really starting to bake my potatoes. Sam's acting like a refugee not like a kid. Then again Dad acts more like a drill sergeant than a father half the time. And thinking of that just makes me uneasy. I know Dad's not perfect. Hell after that night when he ranted about Sam I could care less if he never came home. But he's still our father, however fucked up he might be.

"Sam," I say in a low voice, putting my hand firmly on his shoulder, "Dad's not here, okay? And I'm not going to say jack shit about this. Send me the crap to hell for it, but I'm trying to do something nice for you to make you feel better while we're stuck at that shithole of a motel. So pick something, damn it, or I'll kick your ass." I smile when I make that little empty threat. I'm not really going to do anything but I want Sam to enjoy himself in some small way and if having his first coffee is the way I choose then he'll do it and be damn grateful.

For a second he looks at me, his eyes wide like they were at the street when I stopped him from falling on his tailbone. Then he smiles so bright and wide that I just about go blind. Before I can think two skinny arms are thrown around my middle in a tight hug and Sam's got his face buried in the arm of my jacket. I can't shake him off 'cause he needs this and I think I do too. I pat his back a few times and grin like an idiot into the top of his head. Stupid brat. He knows I can't resist a Sammy hug.

"C'mon Sasquatch," I murmur, "People are staring."

Sam laughs and lets go, looking up at him still with that big dopey smile. His face is a little pink but he doesn't care. The whole damn world could watch and he wouldn't care.

"There's nobody here." He says, ignoring the cashier who's still got his back to us. This store must get shop lifted a lot if they've got this guy in charge.

I ruffle Sammy's hair and he giggles in a way that makes me melt just a little. Not too much 'cause melting is for chicks. But it's enough to let me know it'll be okay between us.

"Chose your poison." I say after he picks a large cup. Its $2.99 and I've only got a five so I take a small, but I don't give a shit 'cause this is for Sammy. He bites his lower lip and then sets his cup under the French Vanilla dispenser. At any other time I'd give him some line about the girly flavor but not now. He's too damn happy. Besides, there's really nothing wrong with French Vanilla.

Sam keeps his hand on the button too long and some of the hot coffee overflows and splashes his finger. He draws his hand back with a hiss and sucks on his burnt knuckle, glowering at the machine but it's all good. When Sam's back is turned, I get a French Vanilla too.

The cashier looks half asleep when we get to the register. When I pull out my five, I see comprehension dawn on Sam's face and for a second I think he's gonna drag up me being all sacrificing big brother once we leave but he doesn't. He knows I wanted to do this. For him.

Once we're back in the snow and cold, the warmth coming from the coffee cups seems to spread through our bodies and the walk back isn't as bad. Sam doesn't drink until we're outside the motel when he stops and puts the lid to his lips. He closes his eyes, obviously digging the sweetness and when he finally lowers the cup he beams at me.

"It's yummy." He says.

I grin at him. Outside our motel room in this shitty little town, in this God forsaken weather, with a hot cup of coffee to warm me, I feel one of those moments that I'm starting to seriously believe only Sam and I can have. It's everything. Love. Understanding. Hope. Uncertainty. Happiness. But most of all, its comfort. Comfort in the fact that no matter what happens Sam's always going to be there needing a sweet cup of coffee once in a while. And I'll always be there to give it to him no matter what Dad says or thinks.

And you know what? That feeling makes me feel warmer than a hundred cups of coffee ever could.

D'aww! Hope that warms you up. Even though it's summer. Let me know what you think.