The makeshift swing, fashioned from two lengths of rope, an old tyre and the sturdy branch of a nearby tree, creaked its disapproval at each oscillation.
Sam sat on the tyre, his hands gripping the rubber edges, his short legs dangling while his big brother pushed him back and forth.
:
'Higher, Dean,' he squealed, his gleeful cries rending the air.
'That's high enough,' his sibling warned. 'The whole thing could come to pieces any minute. All we need is for you to break a leg while dad's away!'
'I don't care,' the toddler replied. 'I want to touch the sky.'
:
Instead of doing as Sam asked, Dean, with an upward glance at the tree, blocked the swing and grabbed his brother, just in time before the branch bent, then cracked; rope, tyre and branch falling to the ground in a depressing heap.
At the loss of the swing, tears welled up in Sam's eyes.
'It's okay, Sammy,' Dean consoled his baby brother, rubbing his back. 'I'll find another tree and we'll get it up and running again. Promise.'
:
Sam sniffed, a hand around Dean's neck, the other swiping away the snot under his nose. 'Thanks, Dean. You always look out for me.'
'And I always will, kiddo,' Dean muttered, hugging his baby brother close.