A/N: This is a bit of silliness written in dedication to Jared Padalecki's new movie 'The Christmas Cottage' where he plays the painter Thomas Kinkade.

Thanks to Wild Wolf Free17 for beta'ing this!

Fetish

Senselessness turned to realization which, in turn, transformed into agony over the mess Dean Winchester had made.

Pillows were overturned, strewn across the dinky hotel room. The bedspreads on his and Sam's beds were wrinkled, lying lifelessly on the carpet, sneering at his childishness. The top mattress on Sam's bed was now adjacent from where it should have been. The lone, pink-shelled lamp was overturned on the nightstand in-between the two queens.

Yes, Dean Winchester had finally made a mess. The once neat-freak-apple-pie-ordered-meticulous-fussbudgety-persnicketty-demon-hunter had somehow created a man-made, or, in his case, hand-made train wreck.

Sure enough, when Sam walked in, he would have a cow.

Dean scowled. Sam. The person that his birth certificate declared was, indeed, his sibling.

Sam was the cause of this mess. It had, after all, been Dean's brotherly right to make it.

Indeed, he knew his brother was hiding something from him. And, God as his witness, the twenty-eight-year-old-sucker was determined to figure out what it was.

He knew that when he found out, it would embarrass his brother to oblivion. He knew because whenever he questioned Sam about the topic, Sam merely turned in the opposite direction, more or less the Impala's passenger window, cross his arms, and turn red. Then he'd burp. Belching was a favor to Winchester Sr. and Winchester –er, middle person. As Sam did as he pleased with the gas, it led the men to find out that Sam was keeping an embarrassing something from them. It led them to know exactly how and when Sam hit puberty, when he accidentally misused Peroxide for shampoo, the first drink he snuck, the first girl he kissed, and so on.

So, from the second his brother passed the gas from his mouth, Dean knew there were skeletons in Sam's closet. This time around, with relief, it was the metaphorical kind; or so he hoped.

The closet. Dean shuddered, warily staring at the mess from his position next to the nightstand, in-between the two beds. Feeling tiny, spider-like legs maneuver over his bare foot, he jumped; landing successfully on his bed, which now seemed to be sliding. Dive-bombing the top-mattress-slide, he rolled off, landing with a sold thunk on his back. Groaning, he stood up, one hand massaging the small of his back, the other his temple. This is certainly not my day.

And where the hell is Sam?

It should never take over thirty minutes to get food, yet Sam's little journey with the Impala had taken precisely two hours. Heck, they were in Tulsa.

Had my so called 'brother' made way with my car? Is Sam out getting…No! Shuddering again, Dean decided not to finish that thought. Have I gone out of my mind? He moved towards the closet, refusing to give any train of answer to that one.

As he expected, the white-shuttered doors creaked like chalk on a chalkboard as they opened. Sam had slid something in there in the middle of the night, and he was going to find out exactly what it was.

There, glaring up at him from the closet's ground, was the back of two canvases.

Just as he was bending down to retrieve them, he heard the motel room's door slide open, and his brother noisily prod his way inside. Then, with the smell of burgers flowing through the air, he heard:

"What the…" and "Dean, how could you?"

Dean gulped; he was dead.

SJN

Ten minutes had passed, and Sam found himself mechanically chewing his way through his second hamburger.

His brother looked humble, innocent, weak, and defenseless sitting amongst the mess under his younger brother's gaze.

"Sa— " Dean had swallowed the French-fry and was now fully prepped to lay the excuses on his brother.

"Stuff it, Dean," Sam interrupted, and Dean found himself obeying by sticking another fry in his mouth.

"I find it hard to believe that you made this big of a mess. Usually, the closet is the first place you look." Sam paused, plucking the last fry from his brother's hand. "Guess I did good putting them in there."

"Wha— "

"Don't start with me."

Dean's hazel-green eyes widened, and he looked down at his feet. Since when did Sam turn into a Trickster?

"How many of them did you find?" The accusation was bitter, and Dean realized it was his turn to speak.

"Just the two. Wha— "

"And did you look at the two of them?"

Dean thought carefully, cautiously on this matter. Should he go for sarcasm, or the whole truth, nothing but? "No, I didn't." He shot for the truth.

"Ok, good," Sam burped, leaving Dean to wonder if it was because of the embarrassment he was about to put on Sam, or the onions on the overcooked burger. "Excuse me." He was still, at least, a very polite Trickster.

"Sam." It was a peep from a duck, a baby's whisper, a grandmother's secret. "Could you at least tell me what took you so long?"

Looking up, Dean noticed the Adam's apple in his brother's throat moving up and down.

"I was…" Sam shifted on his now straightened bed. "I was at a pawnshop."

Dean frowned, nodding his head. "For what?"

"I— " Sam went from his lawyer-mood to that of his five-year-old-self, quickly looking Dean in the eyes. "Please don't tell Bobby?"

"Okay."

"I was uh..." He shifted again. "I was buying more paintings."

Dean stifled a snort. Deep down, he knew that was what was in the closet. "Okay."

"I'm…trying to feel out my abilities. I like painting."

Dean nodded, knowing Sam needed him to understand.

"So…" Sam belched once again. "I'm trying to follow after Thomas Kinkade."

His face transformed from serious to a grimace, to what looked to be a laugh, then back to serious and caring. It was a wide range of emotions that he could have followed, but still, his brother needed him. Who the hell is Thomas Kinkade?

"Good for you."

Sam beamed at this statement. "Would you like to see?"

Dean nodded shakily.

Bypassing the closet, Sam moved to the dresser and gently shoved it away from the wall. He bent down, picking up two-by-three canvases; after that, he moved to the closet and picked up the ones in there.

Sooner or later, they were spread out across the bed. Dean looked on with admiration; there were pictures of cottages, his favorite – the Christmas Cottage, pictures of lighthouses, seascapes, inspirational paintings inscribed with Bible verses. Anything and everything was sprawled out across Sam's bed.

The paintings, Dean observed, were Sam's new pride and joy. They were all wonderfully beautiful and unique. They made his brother happy.

So who didn't have a little obsession over something? At least Sam's wasn't horrible.

"What do you think?" His voice was now uncertain and shaky. It was the puppy-dog look that Dean couldn't stand.

"They're good, Sam. You've got a good fetish."