A/N: Just my take on what the early years of the Winchester boys might have typically looked like. Two things inspired me to write this: one, a visit to a camp I used to work for, and seeing my former boss's now-1yo son running around (I took care of him when he was itty bitty!), and the pure simplicity—and occasional headaches—of having young children. Two, later that night I rediscovered an album to which I fell asleep when I was little, hence the title. Michael Card's Come to the Cradle album, though still religious in undertone, was all about the joys of raising kids. I know, I'm a sentimental dork at times. So here we are; enjoy!

"Waaahhaahhahhh!"

Dean scrunched his nose and rubbed his eyes. The room was still dark. "Sammy, why'd you have to wake me up?"

Sammy continued to squirm and cry, one sock flopping off his chubby foot. Then Dad appeared on the other side of the bed bars. He scrubbed at his stubbly face. Sammy immediately reached out to be picked up.

"What's up, Sammy? I bet you're hungry. Come on, let's find you some cereal," Dad's low voice rumbled. He lifted Sammy over the rail.

Dean scrambled out from under the covers and off the end of the bed. He was hungry too! They all headed for the little kitchenette area with the rickety table and chairs. He hopped into one chair while Dad grabbed the breakfast stuff, Sammy on his hip. Two bowls with milk, one small bowl without milk, and one sippie cup of milk. He also opened the curtains—sunlight poured in. Sammy stayed in Dad's lap as they ate. Dean picked through his cereal, saving all the marshmallows for last. He liked to see how many he could fit in his mouth at once.

"Dad, can we go to the playground?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Dean," Dad replied at first. One of Sammy's wet, cereal-clutching fists bopped him in the chin. "I suppose it's gotten warm enough. After we get some groceries and clean up the motel room, we can go to the playground."

"Yay!" cheered Dean. He almost knocked his bowl off the table.

"Careful, there."

"Sorry."

"Deedee!" squealed Sam, who dropped his handfuls of cereal for the sippie cup.

Dad put Sammy on his chair so he could put his bowl in the sink. "Watch your brother while I take my shower, okay? Help him finish his food and get dressed."

Dean nodded, mouth full of marshmallows. He watched the older man lumber into the bathroom with the shower bag. The sound of water started up. Sammy promptly wiggled out of the chair, babbling. "Sammy! Dad said stay put!"

"Dadadadadadada! Dee! Dee!" Sammy was over by their bags, and retrieved the fat little picture book that he was always clutching. Dean sighed.

"We're not reading Farm Animals right now," he complained, finally abandoning the dregs of his breakfast. He hated having to finish his milk. "You need to eat, and then we have to get dressed." Dean tried to lug his little brother—Sammy was getting heavy, fast—back to the table. But the tot screeched in protest. As soon as they made it to the cracked linoleum, Sammy escaped again.

"Dee! Dee!"

Dean huffed after Sammy, grabbed his chubby hand, and took the book. "Later! We have to do what Dad says first."

"Mah! Mahmah!" Sammy grabbed at Dean's pajama shirt in attempt to reclaim the book. Unfortunately for him, Dean's reach was way taller. Dean took this opportunity to lure Sammy into the kitchen once more, where he tried to give his brother the cereal instead. Sammy batted the bowl to the floor angrily. "Mah!"

"Sammy, look what you did. Now I have to clean it up before Dad sees." Frustrated he tossed the book into Sammy's chest. "Take the stupid book." While he picked the sticky, drooly mess off the floor, Sammy opened the book and began to chew on it with the almost-six teeth he had. Good thing the baby book was made of plastic. Somebody actually thought ahead.

Breakfast decidedly done, Dean pulled Sammy over to their bed. "Stay here a minute." Then he rooted through the smaller duffel bag for clean clothes. There wasn't much to choose from. He settled on a stained pair of blue, elastic-waist shorts and a green t-shirt for Sammy, and a 'Future Rock Star' shirt with his favorite black cutoff jeans for himself. Next to the safety rail attached to the frame of their bed, Sammy (thankfully) was still occupied with his book.

Dressing himself was easy. He was six now, a big boy! He went to school now and everything. His brother, however, was even more obstinate about clothes than with the cereal. The big baby screamed when Dean took the book away so as to get Sammy's little arms through his shirt sleeves. It wasn't in the way when he tried to wiggle the bottoms over Sammy's diaper, so he gave it back, but Sammy kicked and squirmed the whole time.

Dad opened the bathroom door during this last struggle. "Got everything together, little man?"

"Sammy won't hold still!" Dean told him woefully. Sammy just giggled around his drool-covered book. Dad scrubbed at his hair with a towel, which he tossed back in the bathroom, and picked Sammy up. "Bein' a little stinker, are you? Lemme fix that." He tickled Sammy under the ribs, making him squeal shrilly. After a sufficient amount of light wrestling, he stood Sammy on the bed, using the kid's own weight to jimmy the shorts into place. The Velcro sneakers were easy after that. "Thanks for all your help, Dean. Go brush your teeth while I pack up the dirty laundry."

Dean obeyed. The sooner they got chores done, the sooner they could go to the park. By the time he was finished, Dad and Sammy were ready to go.

The town Laundromat was noisy, but both Dean and Sammy liked to watch the clothes tumble in the soapy water. Dean also liked to try to guess which waiting customer had which machine. He didn't know why. It was something to do. Mostly, however, he just chased Sammy around to make sure his little brother didn't get into trouble. That was his job when they went out on chores.

Once their clothes made it to the dryer, they walked down the strip mall to the little grocery store on the end. Dean knew they didn't have a lot of money—only enough for necessities like milk and cereal, bread, peanut butter, and jelly. Most of the time they had some kind of fruit and veggie, usually grapes and carrot sticks. Sometimes, if Dad made a little extra, they could have cookies. Today was not one of those days.

"Hold this for me, buddy, and keep a hold of your brother's hand," Dad instructed as he gathered up the grocery bags. Dean took the bag with the bread and cereal, and grabbed Sammy, who was still charming the pretty cashier lady with his babbling.

They trooped back to the Laundromat. Dad took five minutes to stuff the clean, warm clothes into their laundry bag with the backpack straps; Dean would have helped, but Sammy was getting restless, and wanted to run around. "No, Sammy! We have to stay here, we're going to go soon." He grabbed his little brother by the too-big hoodie, causing the toddler to screech in protest.

"Come on, boys," Dad called over the collective hum of the machines.

Between Dad and Dean, they managed to get laundry, groceries, and family into the Impala. Sammy fought against his carseat, fussing and rubbing his eyes. They went through a fast food drive thru to grab lunch.

"Can we go to the park now?" Dean asked impatiently.

"Not quite yet. We have to put everything away first, and Sammy needs a nap."

"Can't I play while Sammy naps?"

They pulled into the parking space in front of their motel room. "We'll see how long it takes to finish up. Help me carry this stuff done," Dad explained. The two of them climbed out. He helped Dean shoulder the big laundry bag, as well as a couple of the shopping bags. Dean liked to show how much of a big boy he was. Then Dad reached in to unbuckle Sammy, grabbing the milk with his free hand afterward. "Can you open the door.

Holding the keys was an important job! With a little finagling, Dean got the shoulder-level doorknob to work. They piled into the room—groceries in the kitchen, Sammy on his and Dean's bed, the laundry on Dad's. Dean got to work putting the food where it was supposed to go while Dad started folding the laundry. Sammy rolled over, sticking his thumb in his mouth.

"All done!" announced Dean.

"Good job," Dad answered. "Now come over here and pair up the socks for me."

"But I want to go to the park!"

"Dean, I need you to cooperate." Uh oh, the warning voice. Dean did as he was told. Following the laundry, they cleaned up what sparse dishes were in the sink. Since theirs was a room for longer stays, housekeeping didn't come in as often. Next came sweeping. Dad took the broom for the linoleum, and Dean ran the old roller vacuum over the threadbare carpet, one of those rattly things that didn't need to be plugged in. Finally, Dad agreed that they could go to the park, as long as Dean was quiet on the way to let Sammy sleep. They loaded once more into the Impala.

With Sammy still napping his carseat, Dad sat in the open driver's side while Dean sprinted for the monkey bars. He could just now reach them from the top rung of the ladder, though he knew Dad didn't like it when he did that. But he liked the momentary feeling of flying. Ignoring the burning that quickly grew on his palms, he swung his whole body to keep the momentum to reach the next, and the next rung.

A few other kids were running around the jungle gym, and they let Dean join in a game of tag. Unlike most kids, Dean liked being it because he liked finding sneaky ways to tag the others. He'd climb up the far side of the gym, watch through the space under the safety walls, and attack through there before his prey could see him.

"Deee!"

Distracted, Dean stopped running to see Sammy and their Dad coming towards him. The 'it' kid didn't notice and ploughed right into Dean, knocking them both over. "Hey, watch it!"

"Too slow, you're it," laughed the kid as he brushed himself off. Dean wanted to push him back, but Sammy's little arms clamped around his thigh at that very moment.

"Dee! Dee!" Sammy pulled at him toward the rusted carousel, his favorite.

Dean tried to detach his brother. "Not now, Sammy."

"Dean, please include your brother," said Dad. A couple of the parents were close enough to say hi.

"Sorry," Dean told the 'it' kid, "I think I'm done." And he let Sammy lead him over the coarse mulch to the carousel. The chubby kid clambered onto the steel floor of the self-propelled ride. Dean got him situated where the handle bars were closest, so Sammy had support and hand holds on both sides. "You ready?"

Sammy nodded. Dean braced himself on the outer end of one of the bars. The contraption was a little still from the rust; his sneakers dug furrows in the mulch before he really got the carousel spinning. Once he did, it was easy enough to get going. He spun Sammy in circles, smiling in spite of himself at the high-pitched giggles coming from his little brother. He ran until he couldn't see straight, and had to wobble away from the carousel before he could hit his head. Sammy crawled out after him, even more comical with his unsteady toddler legs. They were both laughing now, flopped on the nearby grass, watching the clouds spin over them.

"Dee." Sammy pulled at Dean's sleeve again, and pointed at the carousel.

"Again?" sighed Dean. "If we keep doing that, we're gonna barf everywhere.

Sammy giggled insanely.

"Fine…gimme a couple minutes, and we'll go again."

They did it two more times, actually. Then Sammy finally decided to explore the jungle gym. Dad kindly followed the one-year-old, and let Dean enjoy a break in the grass. Little brothers were tiring! As he regained the ability to see straight, he noticed the bright pink lining of the clouds. The sunset turned everything above him vibrant shades of yellow, orange, red. A wave of purple started to peek out from above the trees opposite the sun. He loved this time of year. Everything exploded from plain white and grey into a whole rainbow.

Slowly, more of the red and orange gave way to purple and darker blue. The breeze suddenly became chilly. Dean realized he was laying in the shadow of a tree. He sat up.

Dad lifted Sammy off the jungle gym and swung him around as if he was an airplane. More infectious laughter filled the air. Tucking the wiggling Sammy under his arm, he walked towards Dean. "It's getting late. We need to head back for dinner."

Thoroughly parked-out for the time being, Dean obeyed without complaint.

Back in the apartment, Dad fixed grilled cheese and tomato soup. He let Dean watch the evening game shows while they ate. Sammy wasn't old enough to care one way or another. Night fell outside, masked only by the yellow parking lot light that hung over the Impala, on the other side of the window.

After an hour of TV, Dad clicked the old set off. "Okay, boys, bath time."

Dean groaned, Sammy mimicking him. But he knew there was no use fighting it, so he retrieved his and Sammy's pajamas. Dad picked up Sammy himself and the shower bag. They ran hot water together, added a capful of the motel bubble bath. Dean undressed, and helped Sammy do the same.

Baths weren't all bad. Dean liked making Sammy giggle by building soap sculptures on their heads. It felt good to have Dad scrub the shampoo into his hair. One at a time, they leaned back so Dad could help them rinse under the faucet. Sammy splashed both of them a lot. What Dean didn't like was the moments of cold when he stood up out of the tub, before getting wrapped in a big towel.

"Go ahead and step out so I can get your brother."

Once dry, they bundled into their old flannel pajamas. Dean had declared himself too old for bedtime stories, so he climbed right into bed. Sammy was just the opposite. Dad sat with the toddler on his lap, reading farm animals, and then just rocking him. Sammy never liked actually going to sleep. Sleepy tears rolled down his chubby cheeks.

It was this time, every night, that Dean saw another side of Dad. The quiet, solemn side that held onto Sammy like his life depended on it. The side that sometimes cried, sometimes whispered for Mom. Mary…Mary, I wish you were here. We miss you so much… As Sammy gave in to sleep with the rocking of the creaky armchair, and Dean watched secretly from under the covers, Dad was left alone.

Dean wished his dad didn't have to feel that way, but he couldn't stay awake long enough.

Busy hands, busy feet
Busy mind go to sleep
Now let go of your fight
Say hello to the night
Close your eyes, go to bed
Give it up, sleepyhead
Teary eyes, shaky chin
It's a fight you can't win…

'Busy Hands, Busy Feet;' Come to the Cradle
Michael Card, 1993 (anachronistic, I know, but the spirit is there)