Title: Snapshot

Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.

Warnings: pre-series; slight AU

Pairings: none

Rating: G

Wordcount: 570

Point of view: third


"Poopyhead."

Dean turned, mouth opened in shock. He sat on the couch, flipping through a magazine, and glanced up to see Sam, ridiculous in pj's too big and holding an old stuffed dog, with his dark, too-long hair flopping into his eyes. "What did you call me?" Dean asked, too stunned to even be offended.

His little brother stepped forward defiantly, clutching the dog close. "Poopyhead," he growled again, trying to imitate their dad as he challenged monsters. "You're a big, mean, old poopyhead!"

Dean raised an eyebrow and slipped off the couch, moving toward Sam, who instinctively backed up. He could barely keep the grin from his face; of all the things to call him, all the bad words both of them knew—Sam picked poopyhead? "What'd I do this time, Sammy?" Dean queried, keeping the mean look on his face.

"You ate the last of the macaroni!" Sam yelled, his anger at the offense overcoming his fear of Dean's retribution. "You didn't leave any for me!"

Dean turned his laughter into scoffing. "You baby," he sneered, moving back to the couch, rolling his eyes and picking up his magazine. At ten, he was decades ahead of little six-year-old Sammy.

He never saw the shoe coming and it hit him in the head. He threw the magazine down and lunged for Sam, an incoherent yell filling the room around them. It wasn't even that the shoe hurt, because it didn't; he needed to maintain his no-nonsense big brother image.

Dean wouldn't hurt Sam, of course, just teach him a lesson.

The dog was shoved aside as they tussled, Dean doing his best to keep from wounding his baby brother, but Sam felt no inclination, and fought tooth and nail. Dean pinned him quickly of course; four years gave a lot of advantages. "What do you say?" he whispered menacingly in Sam's ear.

"Get off," Sam replied, trying to match Dean's tone and failing. He squirmed and wiggled, attempting to loosen Dean's hold; that venture failed, too.

Dean tightened his grip. "Say it, Sammy," he continued softly, but this time in a wheedling voice, "and I'll make you more macaroni."

"But Dad doesn't let you use the stove," Sam said, shocked into pausing his movement.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," Dean answered, purposely ignoring that things people didn't know killed them all the time. Sam didn't need to hear about that, not yet.

Dean's innocence may have shattered years before, but he could let Sammy keep his still.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam gave in. "You're the best brother in the whole world." Dean let him go and stood, pulling Sam to his feet.

"I thought you were done eating," Dean said, picking up the dog and handing it to Sam. "You didn't tell me to save some for you." He led the way into the kitchen, Sam padding behind him.

"Oh," Sam muttered, guilt flooding him. "Sorry."

Dean grinned at him, grabbing the pot to wash it so he could make more. "'s'alright, Sammy." He placed the pot in the sink after shuffling some dishes around; once Sam was finished eating, it was time for another load. "But where did you hear the word poopyhead?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who answered, proud and ashamed at the sametime, "I made it up."

Dean looked back the pot and turned the water on, hiding his grin from Sam.