November 2nd, 1983
Mary stirred from a light sleep, a new mother attuned to the sounds of need, such as those currently emerging from the monitor. She had mumbled John's name, but having discovered she was alone in the bed, had roused herself to tend to Sam herself. Half asleep she had been grateful to see the dark silhouette over the crib. When it shushed her in response to her inquiries of Sam's needs, she had been happy enough to stumble back the bed and slip quickly into a much-needed sleep.
August 1984
She couldn't help but smile at the spectacle of her three boys running around the yard. John and Dean tossed a ball back and forth. Sammy buzzed around them, laughing and generally getting in the way. He was barely big enough to run without tripping over his own feet, and on a turn that went a little too sharp, that's exactly what happened. His small, inexperienced legs tangled up beneath him, and his delighted squeals became an outraged wail as he belly-flopped onto the grass.
Years of raising Dean had taught John and Mary the difference between a serious fall and a harmless tumble. Neither panicked, nor rushed to him. Sam wasn't hurt. He was just upset. Dean, however, had a slightly different world view. At the sound of his little brother's distress, he forgot all about the incoming ball, which landed bouncing on the ground as he turned to see Sammy on the ground, loudly expressing his displeasure at this unpleasant turn of events. The game forgotten, he rushed to Sam's side.
"Sammy, hey Sammy," he cooed to the distressed toddler, "It's all right. You're not hurt." Sam wailed. Dean started to pull him onto his lapped to cuddle. Sam was not calmed. Sam escalated. It was true. He wasn't hurt, and he wasn't crying. He was mad, and he was just yelling, outraged that the world was such an unfair place that awful things like falling down could happen.
Mary took a tentative step forward, debating if the time to step in had arrived. John caught her eye and gave a shake of his head, wordlessly saying, "Give him a minute. Let him learn this lesson."
Dean meanwhile, working his own plan, had retrieved the ball from where it lay abandoned on the ground. "Hey Sammy, you want the ball?" he coaxed. Sam's yells quieted as Dean pressed the ball, easily as large as Sam's torso into his arms. He looked at Dean, his baby face asking, "Can I really have it?"
"That's right, Sammy." Dean pulled the toddler up to his feet. "Now throw it! Throw it to Daddy."
Sam rewarded his brother's efforts by thrusting the ball away from himself with both hands, in John's general direction. The happy squeals returned, and he jumped in place, clapping pudgy hands.
"You did it, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, rushing forward to scoop Sam up in a hug that yanked him of his feet. "Good job!" he spun, twirling Sam around, raising more happy squeal.
Across the yard, John smiled proudly. "You did it, Dean." he said quietly, "Good Job."