Chapter Two: Trying Not to Laugh

AN1: This installment is brought to you, today, by the EO Challenge WOW: Clip.

AN2: Kailene wanted me to write a Sammy-gets-his-first-haircut story, but I told her nuh-uh, no way, ain't gonna happen. I love you, but Sammy's hair is off limits. :-)

AN3: Thanks to everyone who responded, favorited, and alerted this story. I really appreciate it the support. A special thanks to my new beta-reader, OtherPromise13. Any remaining errors are totally my fault because I can't leave anything alone.

Setting / Spoilers / Warnings: Pre-series Wee!chester. Sam is 4 and Dean is 8. And John is no exception. ;-)

~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Dean!"

It was something that every parent had to face. No matter how strict or serious you tried to tell yourself you were, how in control and unflappable you tried to convince them you were; there was going to come a time when your child was going to do something so unexpected and so innocently inappropriate that instead of giving them the stern dressing down you knew you were supposed to give them, it was going to be all you could do just to keep a straight face.

John Winchester wasn't just any parent; but in this, he might as well have been.

"Yeah, Dad?"

John bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. It helped somewhat, so when he turned to face his older son standing so innocently in the bedroom doorway, his face was properly composed.

"What..." He had to clear his throat to get the right tone of voice. "What...is...that?"

Dean's brows dipped low over his green eyes. He looked past John, leaning slightly to the side so he could see the wall at which John was pointing. John couldn't bring himself to look at it again. If he did, he knew he was going to lose it for sure.

"Oh, crap," Dean uttered at the sight, his eyes shooting back to John's with probably a little more horror than the sight should have warranted. That proved more effective at helping John regain his composure than biting his cheek.

"He was watching you clip those articles and pictures outta the paper for a week," Dean explained hastily. "He must'a snuck in here when I was in the bathroom, or something. I swear; I didn't show 'em to him."

"I know, Dean," John assured. "Sammy is getting curious." And clever, apparently, though John kept that to himself. "Looks like we're both going to have to be more careful about watching what he's up to, huh?"

"You're not mad?" Dean asked.

Seriously, how could he be? He looked back at the wall, on which he'd meticulously tacked articles and pictures of the unusual sightings reported in the local rag-mag; and immediately, he felt the same surge of emotion well up inside of him.

An overwhelming urge to laugh.

Over every single blurry and questionably-authentic photo of the large, bi-pedal creature plaguing the local state forests, Sammy had stuck sloppily-cut-out images of bunny and kitten heads. Some he'd drawn and some he'd clipped from magazines or from his coloring books, and all he'd positioned in such a way as to appeal to his own four-year-old sense of artistic style.

John shook his head and gave in to his humor. "No, Sport. I'm not mad."