Finger Painting

In walked the Winchesters, all four of them. John holding four month old Sammy, who was awake and babbling, Mary holding Dean's hand, and they parked themselves on the carpet for story time.

The local library was hosting a story time/arts and crafts day in the afternoon. Granted, four month old Sam couldn't do the arts and crafts, but he could spend time with his family, and that seemed like enough to make him grin. Dean listened to the story attentively and when it was over he went around to all the stations, pinning the tail on the donkey, and balancing a book on his head, and building arts and crafts out of popsicle sticks that would get thrown away in a matter of weeks, but Dean held it up proudly and proclaimed, "Look, Mommy!" and Sammy reached out just to touch Dean's project and Mary laughed, saying, "It's been Sammy approved! I guess we'll have to open a gallery, huh, Dean?" And Dean just shrugged, probably because he didn't know what "gallery" meant, and moved on to the next station.

And John. He glowed.

Just a little over a year later. A new town. A new library. John no longer glowed. Mary no longer laughed. Dean no longer shrugged. Dean had just turned six. Sam was about twenty months.

But still, once in a while, John took time out of hunting evil to take Sam and Dean to story time. Dean would nestle quietly up against John, and Sam would settle down against Dean, and the three of them would listen to stories about little boys and girls, just like Sam and Dean, who got to do exciting things. And even with all the other kids, it was still quiet and it killed an hour on the weekends when Dean wasn't at school. An hour with small children is an eternity.

After the story, there was a craft, or in this case, several crafts, and John tried to put it off as long as he could, he really did, but Dean saw it as soon as they walked in the door, and he kept pestering John to let him do it. "Please, Dad," he said quietly. "I want to."

And so John sighed and put Sam down to help Dean roll up his sleeves, and he said, "Knock yourself out, kiddo."

"Yes!" said Dean and he ran over to the finger-painting table, run by a high school student who had a nametag that read Anna. Sam and John followed him and all three of them took a seat at the kid-sized table, and John did his best to help Dean and watch Sam, but before he even got a good look at what was being made, John was being handed a wet painting covered in red fingerprints. "Do you like it, Dad?" asked Dean.

"It looks great, Dean," said John distractedly. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said, taking the painting and looking to make sure Sam hadn't gone too far. When he turned his attention back to Dean, the volunteer had handed Dean a wipe for his hands, and John took it and wiped all of the paint off of Dean; the only think covered in more finger-paint than Dean was that volunteer. Or Sammy.

Sammy.

"What're you doin', Sammy?" asked John, placing Dean's painting on the table.

"I paint too!" he said, holding up his own painting.

Dean laughed. "Looks great!"

John sighed. The volunteer handed John another wipe. John took Sam's painting. "You too, huh, Sam?" he said. Sam stuck his hand in the paint. The volunteer handed him the box of wipes. "Let's see those hands," he said. Sam held out his hands and John wiped them off. His hands, and his face, and his arms. Then he scooped Sammy up before he could try finger-painting again. "Ready to go, Dean?"

"Yes, sir," said Dean. He piled his crafts into his little arms.

"You, Dad," said Sam, pointing to John's arm. It was covered in green paint.

"It's okay, Sammy," John assured him. "I'll get it off."

"Paint like Dean," Sam said.

"I noticed," said John.

"Like?" he asked. He asked Dean.

Dean nodded. John put his hand on Dean's head as they crossed the street. John didn't even mind that the two of them got paint in the car.

So they killed an hour that afternoon at story time, and John hung their artwork on their tiny fridge at their tiny apartment, and every morning Sam looked at it and said, "I paint too," and John smiled and said, "Yup. Just like Dean."