Disclaimer: Still own nothing.

Author's Note: It was supposed to be a one shot...now I suppose it's a double shot.

"Mom! John's crying again!" is the first thing he hears when he walks through the door.

No, welcome home. No, hi daddy. No, how was your day? In fact, after spending a good, long twelve hours at the office, the only greeting Sam gets upon arriving home, other than the sound of his nephew sobbing and youngest daughter screeching, is a firm headbut from a little boy in a pink bike helmet.

"Whoa, there," he says, grabbing a hold of Michael's shoulders as he rears back, preparing for another ram. "Take it easy, killer."

The six-year-old's face splits with glee as he turns and hops away, singing at the top of his lungs, "Killer, killer, killer!" And Sam merely drops his eyes and shakes his head.

"I's just trying to help," he hears John hiccup through tears as he enters the kitchen. Sarah's bent low over the table, soft, long fingers kneading the little boy's shoulder.

"I know," she says simply, sincerely.

Sam leans on the doorframe, asks, "What happened?" but is thoroughly drown out by Maya.

"I don't need your help!" she shouts with as much eight-year-old annoyance as she can muster. "I didn't ask for your help!"

And before the warning, "Maya," falls from Sam's lips, before Sarah's silencing hand drops onto her daughter's arm, John lets out another ear splitting, heart wrenching shriek.

"Okay, it's okay," she coos in his ear, glaring daggers at her young daughter. "Maybe we all just need a break, huh?" John continues to whimper, but ceases the sobs as he takes in his aunt's cheery tone. He was getting frustrated, with his homework, with his cousin, with his cousin's homework. A little bit of pre-dinner television certainly seemed in order.

"Finally," Maya huffs, slamming shut her book and heading for the door. She stops short when Sam's hand falls to her shoulder, and when she looks up at him she knows exactly what he's thinking. Because Daddy doesn't have to say a word to tell you he's disappointed in you. He doesn't have to utter a single syllable to let you know that you were wrong.

She lets out a sigh and turns slowly, looking bashfully at still-teary John. "Sorry," she mumbles, as much of an apology as her pride will ever allow her to offer. "C'mon, let's see if Oprah's on."

John jumps up and follows hot on his cousin's heels, smile perking the edges of his face into two deep dimples. Sam and Sarah both are so relieved by the sight that neither even think to prohibit the viewing of Oprah. What are the odds this episode will be about living on the down-low again anyway?

"There's something wrong with that kid," he says under his breath, careful not to be overheard from the other room, as he moves toward his wife, unknotting his tie.

Sarah stands up and leans into him exhaustedly. She'd only been home for two hours herself, taking off a bit early to make sure she was home by the time the kids got off school, and already she was craving the manic predictability of work.

The girls usually weren't too bad. Once Rachel hit twelve, and a mature twelve she was, what with being labeled two-going-on-thirty just ten short years ago, they decided that the girls could spend that hour between getting home from school and Sarah coming home from work, alone. Which actually rarely happened anyway, both girls being involved in so many after-school activities it would make your head spin.

But this week Sam and Sarah were watching the boys, and no way were they going to entrust those two to a twelve-year-old. There were times they barely trusted themselves with them.

"There's nothing wrong with him," she murmurs into his chest, eyes falling shut as she drifts further into his solid frame. "He's just emotional."

"Ava's not even that emotional and she's nine months pregnant. And, you know, crazy."

Sarah pulls back and slaps him playfully in the arm. It was true of course, but, "That's not nice."

"Seriously though," he starts, heading over to the counter to peruse the vegetables Sarah had been chopping, abandoned to quell John's shrieks, "Maybe he needs some therapy."

"Sam, he's just expressive. And he's going through a tough time right now, new baby and all, that's an adjustment."

"He's thrilled about the baby, and he's always been…like this."

She pushes him out of the way so as to return to her cooking, hip checking him and knocking him off balance. Snickering to herself she asks, "How do you know?"

"Uh, I've been around him his whole life. And I can barely remember a single day that he hasn't gone from big smile to fat tears in the drop of a hat. Or a plate," he finishes with a smirk, recalling the events of last Christmas when John accidentally dropped a plate, breaking it at his feet. He cried even through dessert, despite everyone telling him it was no big deal. Later he insisted that they bury the felled piece of china, even though the ground was frozen and covered in eight inches of snow, because he at least owed it that.

"No," she says, ignoring his little recollection, "I meant, how do you know he's so excited about the baby?"

"Oh, he told me." Steam rises from the pot of boiling water on the stove as Sam lifts the lid, inspecting, as he so often does, every detail of her preparation methods.

She turns to him, raises one eyebrow in that knock it off way she has, and he replaces the lid, crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the counter, careful not to touch or inspect anything else. Turning back to her zucchini, she rolls her eyes in mock annoyance. "Ava wasn't so sure how either of them would react. She said Michael seems unfazed, but she couldn't read John too well. I think that's part of the reason she was so concerned about leaving them for a few days."

"Not like she has much choice," he offers. "They've got enough to deal with right now."

This little vacation from the boys had been planned for months, ever since they scheduled the C-section. With Ava being laid up for a bit after the surgery this evening, and Dean no doubt wanting to be by his wife's side, as well ogling the new baby, Sam and Sarah keeping the boys for a few days seemed like the best option. Besides, they'd see them in the morning when the whole family would head to the hospital to meet the newest Winchester.

"I know," Sarah agrees, dumping the veggies into a skillet. "It's just an adjustment, and I think she's concerned about how he'll handle it."

"You mean because he's special?" he says, coy smile on his lips.

"He's not retarded, Sam," she counters, trying to be stern but unable to keep the grin from her own face.

He laughs. "I know, I know. He's sensitive."

"You know," she begins, waving a slotted spoon in his general direction, "some of the other Winchesters could probably take a lesson from him on how to express their emotions."

Snorting indignantly, he says, "Crying incessantly over everything is not a healthy way of dealing with your emotions."

"Neither is bottling it all up until…"

"Stop right there." He straightens himself up and looks her tensely in the eyes. "I don't bottle – "

"Yeah right, and neither does Dean. Which is hysterical really, since he's just as emotional as his son."

"Please."

"It's true, he just – "

"Controls it?"

She sighs, turning back to the stove and lifting the lid off the simmering pot, preparing to dump in the spaghetti. "I wasn't really talking about either of you anyway. You're daughter's the one who has real difficulty expressing herself."

"What?" he asks incredulously.

"She's not dealing with this learning disability very well, Sam. You know that."

His posture stiffens, muscles tensing, torn between being simply offended or downright angry. "She's eight-years-old."

"I know how old she is, Sam. I gave birth to her, remember?"

"She's eight-years-old, she shouldn't have to deal with anything."

"This coming from the guy who had his first handgun by eight."

"Exactly my point."

"Look," Sarah says, setting aside all the cooking and turning to her husband with a calm expression. "I know you want things to be different for our kids, different from how things were with you. But life's not perfect. And neither are they. And the fact of the matter is that Maya has to learn how to deal with this if she's ever going to learn."

He drops his head and mumbles, "Maybe if they stopped giving her so much homework."

"Yeah, or maybe we could talk them into giving her no homework at all. That way she'd never have to suffer through any of it, unlike every other kid on the planet."

"She's not every other kid on the planet, Sarah."

"I know that."

"She's my kid."

"I know." She presses herself up against him, rests her head on his chest and listens to his steady breaths as she repeats, "I know." And he lets out a long sigh, tension filtering from his body, leaning further into his wife, his home.

They remain for a moment, each finally beginning to relax when a large crash sounds from upstairs causing them to jolt. Before either has a chance to react they hear the thumping scamper of little feet moving quickly down the stairs as "I'm gonna kill you!" resounds through the house in echoes of their eldest daughter's voice.

Michael scrambles quickly into the kitchen, pink helmet slipping off his head to one side, held on only by the strap, as he loops around Sarah to hide behind her legs. "What happened?" she asks with a giggle, one she has to quickly stifle when Rachel slides into the room, thick-socked feet slipping on the hardwood.

"He was climbing my bookshelf!" she screams, high pitched, preteen, blood-curdling squeals. "He was climbing my bookshelf!"

It wasn't hard to imagine. Ever since he'd seen a documentary on TV about rock climbers, Michael had been trying to scale anything and everything his little feet and fingers could wrap themselves around. That was why he'd chosen to wear the helmet all the time – and he did wear it all the time, including in the bath and on to bed – for safety.

Sam maneuvered his way out from Sarah's grasp and backed out of the room, saying only, "Gotta change," with a shit-eating grin on his face, as Rachel continued her rant and Michael clung to poor Sarah's leg. On his way up the stairs he glanced over into the living room to see two little heads, one dark brown, the other light and sandy, peeking up from over the back of the couch, close and still and surprisingly peaceful.

000000000000000000000000000000

The shower felt great. The clothes were wonderful, no starched shirt or too tight tie. A T-shirt and jeans, the way he was meant to be. And the bed, even still made, for the two and half minutes he was able to flop down onto it, was the most comfortable, cozy thing in the world.

But dinner was ready, or so Maya was screaming up the stairs at him, and his family beckoned. So relaxation would, as per usual, have to wait.

Having four children gathered round the table created a different dynamic altogether. At least when there were still only two adults there to command control. On their Winchester family dinner nights – one big happy family, two sets of parents, two sets of kids – they were still mostly on par. But there's something about that juvenile mind, some sort of internal dial that can detect just how much potential there may be for getting away with stuff. Like when the kids out number the adults, two to one.

So imagine Sam's surprise, shock really, when all four children remained calm and relatively quiet throughout their meal. "Did you slip them something in their milk?" he leans over and whispers to Sarah as they finish clearing the table.

She chuckles softly, but doesn't deny it.

"Uncle Sam," he hears, meek voice from behind.

He turns and looks at the eight-year-old boy, still rather small for his age, with legs dangling long and loose over the kitchen chair. "Yeah, buddy?"

"You know what time it is?"

He looks up at the clock and smiles. "Seven."

John mirrors his grin with one of his own, surprisingly similar in its shy awkwardness and deep dimples. "My little brother or sister's here."

Of course, that was why they'd been so quiet and well behaved, they were watching the clock, waiting for their lives to change. "Yeah," he says, "I know."

And just like that, the spell is broken, pandemonium taking over once again, as Michael jumps out of his seat and begins screaming, "Jim or Steve! Jim or Steve! Jimorsteve!"

"Shut up," Rachel lets out with a dramatic eye roll. "God, you're so annoying."

"Jimorsteve!"

"He thinks it's one word," John says softly, barely perceptively over his little brother's screams. "But it's not, it's two."

Maya leans over and shares, in her wonderfully know-it-all voice, "It's two names, not two words."

"Duh," Rachel huffs. "That's what he meant."

Michael, who had been getting quieter, slowly loosing steam midway through his repetitive shouts, takes in a deep breath and yells louder than anyone his size should be capable of, "Jimorsteve!"

And in one quick move, Sam has him up off the floor, small legs kicking frantically as slurred mumbles fall out from between the huge hand he has cupped over his nephew's mouth.

Seemingly unfazed, because, hey, he lives with this kid everyday, John simply looks up at his frazzled Uncle and says, "I don't think Mommy and Daddy really like either of those names anyway. But they said we get to help pick."

"Bet they'll live to regret that," Rachel mumbles as she sets out pieces of cake for desert.

"Rachel," Sarah chides, glaring from the corner of her eye.

A quick, heavy thud sounds, little boy body falling to a heap on the hardwood, as "Ow! Son of a bitch!" shoots out of Sam's mouth.

Michael hops up and hustles back into his chair, "Cake!" being squealed with delight.

Sarah simply raises her eyebrows at her husband, whose face is contorted in pain. "He bit me," he spits out through gritted teeth.

"Maybe you shouldn't have been manhandling him," she teases while walking over to the little boy and quickly swiping his cake.

He stabs at air with his fork, emitting odd little, "uh, uh, uhn," sounds.

And she looks down at him sternly. "Did you bite Uncle Sam?" she asks.

He makes one more discernable sound before sighing deeply and breathing out, "Yes."

"And is that a nice thing to do?"

"No."

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks, one brow cocked.

Michael turns in his seat, legs and feet folded up underneath him so that he's really squatting in his chair, and looks Sam in the eyes. "I'm sorry Uncle Sammy," he says, sweet sincerity dripping from his little voice.

How could he not accept that apology?

Sarah returns the cake and takes a seat, Sam joining her, though with a bit of mope in his demeanor. "Don't call me Sammy," he says as he sits, then quickly follows it up with, "Please."

"I like that name," John perks. "Sammy."

Michael, mouth full of chocolate cake, the boys' favorite, because, hey this is a special day, begins, "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," in garbled singsong.

Pointing his fork in the direction of the too amused little boy, he counters with a firm, "Don't."

"Dude, chillax," Maya utters under her breath from the far end of the table.

"Excuse me?" Sam says.

And in a tone rarely matched by anyone but Sam, all daring, self-assured, insolence, she slowly enunciates, "Dude, chill-ax."

"Don't," he begins slowly, same measured manner, as he leans across the table towards her, "call me dude. And don't tell me to chillax."

"Chillax!" Michael shouts, bits of icing falling from his lips.

Sam leans back, content with the quasi-remorseful look on his daughter's face. "What does that mean anyway? Chillax. That's not a word."

"It's slang, Dad," Rachel answers.

"Yes, Rachel," he says in that duh voice. "Thank you."

"Combination of chill and relax," she goes on, coy smile perking the edges of her mouth as she tries to avoid her father's eyes.

"Yes, Rachel, I know," he responds full of annoyance.

"Is it slang though?" Sarah inquires, a humorous lilt to her voice. She hides her smirk as best she can behind her coffee cup when bringing it to her lips, but Sam knows what she's doing. "I mean," she goes on, "chill is slang too, right? So if you mix a slang word with a common colloquial word, like say relax, is that still considered slang?"

"You're really doing this," Sam asks in a low whisper. She only shows him an innocently gleaming smile. Teaming up with a bunch of rugrats to annoy her husband, how cruel.

"It's like…double slang," Maya says.

"Psuedoslang," Sarah offers.

Then Rachel steps in again, countering with, "Quasislang."

"Oh, I like it," Sarah claims with enthusiasm.

Sam remains still, leaning back in his chair, arms folded in flesh-colored armor across his chest. He will not be baited. "Can we stop please."

"What, you don't like it?" she asks, innocent as pie.

"Sarah," he warns, no real threat at all attached.

"Dude," she says, bright blue eyes shining, "chillax."

"You're hilarious," he deadpans. But try as he might, he can't keep from letting out a small smile.

"You need to loosen up a little, Sam."

"Yeah, Dad," Maya confirms.

Then Michael too, "Yeah, Dad."

Maya turns on him, glaringly. "He's not your dad."

"Oh, right," he says with a smile and a nod before diving into what's left of the sugary mess on his plate. "Cause my Dad's not here," he slurs through crumbs. "Cause of Jimorsteve! Jimorsteve! Jimorsteve!"

"Would you shut up," Rachel hisses, yet again. Because, yeah, she loves her cousin, but knocking over all her books and trophies earlier was enough to make her despise him for at least the rest of the night.

Sam closes his eyes, the kind of headache he hasn't felt in months, not since getting screwed over by an appellate judge on a case last November, rising into his temples. "Can we please?" he mutters hopelessly.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, John begins to shriek and ball, "Stop fighting!" which only makes Michael scream louder so as to overcome the sound of his brother's wails. Sarah pets John's arm while glaring at Michael, who, upon seeing her fierce look actually quiets down.

But no matter how much she coos and comforts, "We're not fighting. Look, no one's angry," the little boy remains red in the face, puffy eyes refusing to run dry.

The phone rings, and Sam knows he has to get it, knows it's probably Dean and he has to talk to him. But his brain's in a vise and his reactions have stilled as a result. So there's nothing he can do but watch as Rachel jumps up from her seat, long legs closing the distance in two easy strides, and answers the phone.

Other than the excited, "Hello," which was just soft enough to be effectively drown out by John's wails, no other words were spoken. Until the awful, shrill shriek came out her, sounding something like, "It's a girl! It's a girl!"

And again Sam knew he had to grab the phone. Again he knew he had to get up and pry the receiver from his daughter's hand, try to prevent Dean, hell, the whole family, from going deaf. But he still wasn't fast enough, Sarah sweeping in and grabbing the phone to gush ecstatically in Dean's ear.

After a few moments of excited chatter, "Your dad wants to talk to you," she says to John, whose mood shifts from utterly despondent to sheer joy in the drop of a hat.

He races over to take the phone, talks briefly to his father, several, uh huh's, and yes sir's, and finally a miss you too, before turning to Michael and asking, "What should we name her?"

"Jimorsteve!" he yells, making Sam cringe and John smile.

"No, Mikey," he says, still holding the phone in a tight grip. "She's a girl." As though that were the only reason the conjunctive Jimorsteve wouldn't work.

"Sammy!" he then responds with. "Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!"

Causing Sam to leap up, "No," booming out of him.

Michael stills, looks to his brother and shrugs. John turns back to the phone, tells his father, "Dunno, we'll think about it," before handing the phone over to his distressed uncle. "He wants to talk to you."

"C'mon guys," Sarah says, rounding the kids up and out of the kitchen as Sam moves for the phone. "Let's go chillax in front of the TV."

Sam takes the phone, rests it against his ear for a moment before breathing out an exhausted, "Hey," once they all left, echoes of shrieks and giggles and sobs still resonating through the room.

"Hey, man," he hears, Dean's voice so full and bright he can almost see that lopsided smile he surely had plastered on his face. "I have a girl."

"Yeah, I heard," he says, an enthusiastic grin of his own taking over. "Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"She beautiful?"

"Just like her father."

"Ha, ha, I'll bet," he snickers. "How's Ava?"

"Uh, somewhere between exhausted and excited. Thrilled. But high as a kite."

"That's the way it should be," he laughs, thinking back on Maya's birth, emergency C-section and all.

"Yeah," he says rather dreamily, just before, "How're they doing? Driving you crazy?"

"Nah," he responds, his brother's voice quelling his headache, "They've been great. Little angels." Laughter erupts on the other line and Sam snorts out a chuckle too before that all too familiar, comfortable silence sets in.

"Yeah, well," Dean says finally, "I should let you go. Tell the boys I love them, Ava loves them. And we'll see them tomorrow."

"You got it."

"Hey, Sam," he throws in quickly before hanging up.

"Yeah?"

"You sure you guys are okay?" he asks in that disbelieving, things can't possibly go smoothly without me way of his.

Sam peeks his head around the corner of the room, sees Michael log rolling across the floor, pink bike helmet kathunking as he goes. John and Maya are sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching TV while dodging the little boy. And Sarah sits upright, braiding Rachel's hair awkwardly as she lays her head in her mother's lap.

"Yeah, man," he says with a smile. "We're all good."