"Turn, turn, turn!" Sam chanted, as if the Frisbee he had just thrown would respond to his commands.

But the green plastic disc maintained its course, gliding through the air before floating down and coming to rest on the roof of one of the many sheds cluttered around the yard of Singer Salvage.

"Ugh," Sam groaned, tossing his head back in frustration. "Why did it do that?" he demanded, as if the Frisbee had intentionally disobeyed him.

Dean chuckled at his brother's reaction, knowing Sam was getting tired by the way the kid's mood had started to nosedive.

The overreacting, the whining...paired with the decreased tolerance for Rumsfeld's playful lunging and the increased tendency to lean on Dean.

Just like Sam was doing now...

Dean ruffled Sam's floppy hair as the four-year old's head rested on his shoulder while they stood together in the middle of the yard.

"Dean..."

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean answered before Sam could ask him again about the reason a Frisbee would purposefully defy him. "Sometimes Frisbees can be a little tricky."

...as if Frisbees were the shady characters of the toy world.

"But I throwed it good?"

Dean nodded, always strangely touched whenever Sam sought his approval. "Yep. You threw it just like I showed you," he confirmed, patting his little brother's back. "The wind just took it, buddy. Can't help that..."

Sam yawned.

Across the yard, Rumsfeld barked, prancing in circles as he stared up at the Frisbee still stuck on the shed's roof.

A Frisbee that would stay on the shed's roof until Dean climbed up there to get it.

The eight-year old sighed, shrugging his brother's head off his shoulder and stepping forward to complete his task.

Sam followed, still wearing Dean's Batman shirt under his coat; the emblem on his chest framed by the edges of his zipper.

Dean's coat had been discarded on the porch steps almost an hour ago, the crisp spring air warm now that the sun was higher in the sky.

But Dean's cape remained tied around his neck, because Dean was a good big brother who would keep his end of the deal to dress like Superman today...even if wearing the old red sheet made him feel and look ridiculous.

But who cared?

It was just him and Sammy.

And Sammy seemed to be having fun in spite of becoming tired.

Dean smiled as he remembered promising Bobby that he would play with his little brother and wear the kid out so the four-year old would nap this afternoon.

And judging by the way Sam kept yawning, that mission was almost accomplished.

"What's for lunch?"

Dean arched an eyebrow at the question, Sam rarely asking about mealtime unless the kid was hungry...which would be no surprise since the four-year old had barely eaten breakfast and then had run around the yard for most of the morning.

"Dean..."

"I don't know," Dean replied about the menu for lunch. "Bobby didn't say. Why...are you hungry?"

"Kinda," Sam admitted and paused. "Can we have hotdogs?"

"For lunch?"

Sam nodded.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. We'll have to ask Bobby."

...though Dean knew if Sam told Bobby that he wanted hotdogs, then they would be having hotdogs.

Because much like Dean, the older hunter rarely refused to give Sam whatever he wanted.

After all, the four-year old was theirs to spoil.

Dean smiled.

"When's Bobby coming back?"

It was a good question; one that Dean had also wondered as the morning had progressed.

"Soon," Dean responded vaguely, not knowing a specific time and figuring whatever job Bobby had gone to look at was just taking longer than he had expected.

...which meant Bobby was going to be grumpy as hell when he finally returned to Singer Salvage.

Dean snorted as he imagined the older hunter bitching about people wasting his time.

The brothers continued their trek across the yard, Sam's little legs moving twice as fast to keep up with Dean's longer strides.

"Are you gonna climb on the roof?"

"Yep."

"Can I help?" Sam asked, the four-year old always eager to do whatever his big brother was doing.

"No," Dean replied, because the last thing he needed was clumsy Sam on the roof of a shed.

That scenario was just begging for trouble.

Besides, Dean could retrieve the Frisbee faster if he didn't have to worry about what Sam was doing.

"But why?"

And of course Sam would want to know why he couldn't help.

"I'm a good helper," the four-year old pointed out, like he was applying for the position.

"You are a good helper," Dean agreed. "...which is why I need you on the ground, helping to keep a lookout."

Sam wrinkled his nose as if he could smell the bullshit. "A lookout for what?"

"Danger," Dean stated as though it was obvious. "Danger is everywhere, right?"

Sam nodded, because he didn't know much about this life...but he had lived long enough to know that.

Danger was everywhere.

John and Dean and Bobby were always talking about it, especially when they thought Sam was asleep.

But the four-year old sometimes heard them whispering about scary things...and it was a dangerous world indeed.

"So, while I'm on the roof..." Dean continued. "I need you to keep a lookout for danger down here on the ground. And if you see something, I need you to give me a super-secret signal."

Sam's eyes widened at this important responsibility. "Like what?"

"Can you whistle?" Dean asked, knowing his brother couldn't but always getting a good laugh every time the kid tried.

"Kinda," Sam answered – which was an optimistic appraisal of his whistling skills – and then stuck out his lips, making a kissy face and producing some kind of wheezy, squeaky sound.

Dean chuckled. "Good enough," he approved, realizing he would eventually have to teach the four-year old how to really whistle.

But for now, Sam's version was too adorable to correct.

"That was good?"

"It'll do," Dean allowed and stared up at the roof as they finally reached the shed.

Rumsfeld continued to pace, pausing long enough for Sam to rub him but then resuming his back-and-forth march as he pined for his Frisbee.

"Alright. Wait here..." Dean instructed his brother, pulling himself up on one of the crates stacked beside the shed.

Sam nodded and watched as Dean climbed, the eight-year old reaching the roof in a matter of seconds.

"Good job, Dean!" Sam praised as he stared up at his brother. "You really look like Superman now."

"Yeah," Dean agreed sarcastically, even as he could feel his cape fanning out behind him as the breeze blew.

"I bet you could fly," Sam predicted with the kind of rock solid faith that little brothers had in their big brothers' ability to do anything.

Dean snorted, appreciating the vote of confidence but...

"I don't think so, Sammy," he replied and turned away from his brother, spying the errant Frisbee on the opposite corner of the shed's roof.

Sam watched Dean disappear from view, petting Rumsfeld and humming some made-up song as he waited. The four-year old's gaze roaming the yard and then settling on the crates stacked beside the shed; wondering if he, too, could climb up...just like a superhero.

Just like Dean...

Sam smiled at the thought.

"Shhh..." he quietly warned Rumsfeld, as if the dog would tattle on him, and grunted as he reached to pull himself up on the crates...just like Dean had done.

A few seconds passed.

"Got it!" Dean announced, crossing back to the edge of the roof and frowning when there was no sign of Sam in the yard.

Just Rumsfeld blinking up at him in anticipation of receiving his toy...

Dean's heart immediately sunk to his stomach and then rose again with panic, beating wildly in his chest as dozens of possibilities buzzed through his mind.

None of them good.

Because danger really was everywhere.

And although Dean knew that, he had still left his little brother unprotected on the ground.

"Sam..." Dean called, his gaze frantically sweeping the yard.

Rumsfeld barked.

"Shut up!" Dean snapped at the dog, feeling close to hysteria. "Sam!"

"Here I am!" Sam surprised, appearing behind Dean; his head full of floppy hair popping into view over the edge of the shed's roof before he climbed up to join the eight-year old.

Dean scowled as his little brother approached, unsure if he wanted to hug Sam or shake the crap out of him.

"What the hell, Sam?" he demanded, glaring at the four-year old.

Sam's smile instantly melted. "I..." He pressed his lips together, knowing whatever he said could potentially make Dean even angrier. "I just wanted to be up here with you."

"But I told you to wait," Dean reminded sharply. "Those crates barely supported me. What if you had fell?"

"But I didn't," Sam countered, like that made everything okay. "I climbed up here just like you did. Just like you, Dean."

The four-year old obviously proud of himself for being just like his big brother.

But Dean shook his head, still pissed. "I told you to wait," he repeated, flinging the Frisbee across the yard with the force of his anger.

Rumsfeld took off after it.

Sam watched the dog before glancing back at Dean. "I'm sorry."

"You should be," Dean snapped. "It's my job to keep you safe. But how can I do that if you don't do what I tell you?"

Sam nodded, his eyes beginning to brim with tears. "I'm sorry," he said again, hating it when Dean was mad with him.

Dean sighed harshly, rubbing his hand over his face as he tried to calm down.

Because he didn't want to make Sam cry...but the reminder that anything could happen to his little brother while his back was turned was unnerving.

Dean sighed once more, feeling the rush of panic and anger begin to drain as Sam continued to stare at him with those huge eyes.

The kid's lashes wet as he blinked against threatening tears.

Dean couldn't take it.

"C'mere..." the eight-year old called, holding his arms out to his brother.

Sam immediately lunged forward, wrapping himself around Dean. "I'm sorry."

"I know," Dean soothed. "I'm sorry, too. I didn't mean to yell at you. But when I tell you to do something, I mean it."

Sam nodded, his face rubbing against Dean's stomach as he held onto his brother.

Dean patted Sam's back. "It's alright," he murmured, offering forgiveness and reassurance to his sensitive kid.

Sam exhaled a shaky breath, hugging his brother for several more seconds before pushing away and staring up at Dean through his fringe of bangs.

Dean smiled down at his little brother, thumbing lingering tears from the four-year old's cheeks. "You ready to get down now? Maybe go inside and wait for Bobby?'

"Mmhmm" Sam hummed and glanced at Rumsfeld as he barked.

The dog having returned with his Frisbee and now growing impatient for one of the brothers to throw it again.

"Okay..." Dean sighed, approaching the edge of the roof and deciding it would be quicker if he just jumped down.

After all, it wasn't that high.

And jumping down was probably safer than trying to climb down on those rickety old crates...

Dean nodded, decision made, and glanced at Sam standing behind him. "I'm gonna jump."

Sam's eyes widened.

Dean chuckled. "Don't look at me like that. I've jumped from way higher."

...which was true.

But Dean's little brother still seemed uncertain about his plan.

"It'll be okay," Dean assured. "And then once I'm down, I'll help you down."

Sam blinked. "I gotta jump, too?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. But you need to wait until I'm ready to catch you," he emphasized, pinning the four-year old with a meaningful stare.

Because thankfully, Sam hadn't gotten hurt climbing up by himself...but he could definitely get hurt jumping down by himself.

Sam returned the nod, seeming to understand the seriousness of what could happen.

"Stand right there and be still until I call you," Dean ordered his little brother. "You hear me?"

Sam nodded again.

"Good," Dean replied and then sighed, shaking off the twinge of nervousness that fluttered in his stomach as he prepared to jump.

Rumsfeld stared up at him, barking his encouragement.

Dean pulled a face. "Move!" he yelled at the dog and then inhaled deeply, gathering his courage and just doing it – jumping and landing like he was born to do it.

Forget Batman or Superman...he was a freakin' jungle cat.

Dean smiled at his success and then turned, staring up at Sam. "I'm okay," he reported, spinning in a circle as if to prove it; his red cape swirling around with the motion.

Sam smiled back...but then shook his head as Dean held his arms up to him, the four-year old refusing to jump.

"Don't be scared, Sam," Dean told his brother. "You'll be okay. I'll catch you."

Sam shook his head again. "But Batman can't fly."

Dean snorted. "You're not gonna fly, Sam. You're gonna jump. And then I'm gonna catch you."

Sam said nothing but continued to linger on the edge of the roof, twisting his hands nervously.

Dean sighed. "Sammy. C'mon, buddy. You can do it. Just jump. You know I won't let you fall."

"I know," Sam agreed and released a shaky breath. "Okay. I'm gonna do it."

"Good," Dean praised. "I'll count to three."

Sam nodded, familiar with that routine.

Dean double-checked his stance, widening his feet to better balance himself and locking his arms in preparation to accept the weight of his little brother.

"Here we go, Sammy..." he called up to the roof. "You ready?"

Sam nodded, his forehead wrinkled with concentration.

Dean smiled at his brave kid. "Okay...one...two...three..."

And with that, Sam jumped.

TBC