"Deeeeaaan!"

Sammy bellowed for me from Bobby's kitchen. He was three - three and five-eighths - and I could tell it was his 'prepare to be amazed!' bellow, not his 'my head is in danger of being traumatically removed' bellow, so I walked rather than ran there.

"Wook!" He shouted when I was barely in the room. He was pressed hard back against the cupboard, bouncing to keep one foot as high as possible. "Wook Dean! Wook! I tieded my sneader, Dean! All myself I didded it Dean! Wook!"

Sammy had been bound and determined for weeks that he was going to learn how to tie his sneakers and he was gleefully showing me his progress, with his right sneaker on his left foot, and his left sneaker on his right hand.

His stocking foot finally lost purchase on Bobby's floor and he slid splat onto his butt on the floor. That didn't stop him of course.

"Wook, Dean! Wook!"

I looked.

There was no bow, just knot upon knot upon knot until the whole tangle was at least an inch square and I figured I'd be spending the rest of the day getting it untangled.

"Yeah, Sammy. You sure got it tied all right."

He grinned, and his floppy hair flopped even more as he nodded.

"Know whum dunna do nest?"

"No, Sammy. What are you gonna do next?"

"I munna say 'yes' toocifer n'munna jump inna pit widim."

"WHAT?"

And full grown Sam was in front of me, standing in front of Bobby's sink, boots neatly tied, floppy hair still floppy, his grin gone into a grimace.

"I know it's a long shot, Dean. But think about it -."

Think about it? The only thing to think about was how many exclamation points to put on the end of the 'NO!' I was going to shout in his ear.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Dean - ."

"No, don't 'Dean' me." How many hundreds of times have I said that to Sam in our lives? "I mean, you have had some stupid ideas in the past, but this - did you know about this?" I asked Bobby. I had to turn away from Sam and that look that has been making me cave for twenty eight years.

SPN*SPN

"I didded it good, din I, Dean?" Little Sammy asked me, all those years ago, slamming the heel of his sneaker again and again against Bobby's floor. "I can tided my sneaders all myself!"

"I hate to break it to you, Sammy, but that's not exactly how you're supposed to tie sneakers."

His face went blank. The only sign of his distress was how fast he started blinking his eyes. Out came the lower lip. His foot stopped slamming against the floor.

"Okay."

SPN*SPN

"What?" Bobby asked me.

What? What did he mean 'what' ? How could he not know what I was talking about?

"About Sam's genius plan to say 'yes' to the devil?"

Bobby nodded.

"Well thanks for the head's up."

"Hey, this ain't about me."

"You can't do this." I turned back to Sam. End of story.

"That's a consensus." Sam said.

"All right. Awesome. Then - end of discussion." My phone rang then and I gave Sammy my parting shot before I answered it. I was going to harangue him from here to Christmas for ever having such a stupid idea. "This isn't over."

SPN*SPN

Sammy's blinking and pouting turned to sharp breaths, holding his untied sneaker close to his chest and turning his foot impossibly awkwardly so that the offending knot was mostly hidden from view.

"Don't want you hafta tieded my sneaders no more anymore Dean. I wanna tieded my sneaders."

He sounded upset, and I knew – he was upset at himself for not knowing how to tie his shoes. Three and five-eighths years old and my little brother was already trying to charge his way into growing up.

"You know what, Sammy?" I told him and sat down next to him on the kitchen floor. "It doesn't matter if it's not how everybody else ties their shoes. All that matters is that your sneakers stay tied and you did a really good job with that. Don't let anybody tell you that you didn't, not even me. Okay?"

He leaned against me and nodded.

"'Kay."

Then he squirmed himself under my arm and we sat there a long time.

The End.