A/N: For those of you who enjoy the whole 'hurt-Dean' scenario, this chapter may be a little disappointing (but take heart - its short!). But, I felt the need to change things up at this point... after all, I don't want to bore anyone. So, here is the (short!) chapter that was thrown in just for fun... let's call it comic relief. Hope you like it!

7

January, 1995

Eeyore... Grumpy Smurf... Oscar the Grouch... Sam Winchester...

No, Sam's current peer group was not exactly one he would have chosen... given a choice... which, apparently, he wasn't. He was grumpy and grouchy and he couldn't seem to not be.

He rolled over in his bed to face the window – another dreary winter morning in another gloomy town. And though sometimes he wondered if he had a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder, he was pretty sure the weather had nothing to do with his mood. After all, yesterday was sunny... the day before was pretty nice, too. And Sam's bad mood had persisted all week.

He groaned at the memory and threw his arm over his face to block out... everything. He could hear his brother singing – cheerfully! - as he made breakfast in the kitchen. From the smell, Sam could tell that the normal bowl of cereal would not be in store for him this morning. No, Dean was making something – he could smell brown sugar and cinnamon, and it smelled wonderful. The smell alone would usually have Sam up and out of bed and dressed and at the kitchen table in mere moments – but today he couldn't force himself out of bed.

Dean had been trying all week to cheer him up...

Monday: Hey, we seemed to have missed the snow that was coming our way – lucky for you, huh? You like school!

Tuesday: Wow Sam! Another A... that's great! And wasn't this the test that was worth 2/3s of your final grade?

Wednesday: So, how do you like having your own room, Sammy? Must be nice to have a quiet place to do your homework and just relax.

Thursday: Study group after school? No problem. I'll wait for you and then we can head over to the pizza place afterwards. You can ask your study-buddies to go... as long as they buy their own food.

And now it was Friday and Dean was making him breakfast that involved more than just two steps: pour cereal in bowl, add milk. But, try as he might, Sam could not muster up any enthusiasm. And worst of all, there was no reason Sam could come up with to be in such a funk.

And he felt bad for his rotten attitude. Really he did. But, whenever he opened his mouth, out popped rude comments or sarcastic retorts – without his intension or permission. He found it best to just keep his mouth shut, which worked at school... but at home, Dean was doing anything and everything he could think of to erase Sam's sullenness. And all Sam could do was shut his brother out or insult him.

It was just a good thing that Dad was on a hunt. If Dad had been home... well, trying to imagine what he would have done about/to Sam was about the least pleasant way he could think of to pass the time. But that was another thing – if anyone had the right to be moody right now it was Dean. Not only had he been left behind (as the hunt was delayed and school started back up again after the holiday break), but Dean was stuck without an adult around to (legally) practice for his up-coming driving test... not that he really needed it, as he had had a fake license for more than a year for those 'just in case' times.

'Morning Sunshine!

Dean's up-beat and well-intentioned voice broke into Sam's melancholy as the older brother entered the bedroom. Sam grumbled an unintelligible response from behind the arm still covering his face but Dean carried on, telling his little brother to hurry up and get to the kitchen before his French toast and mushroom and mozzarella omelet got cold. Arg! Sam didn't deserve this – didn't deserve all of Dean's efforts (which now included making his favorite breakfast items) efforts to make him feel better.

Well, there's your problem, Sammy.

Dean told him, only marginally serious, but without real ridicule, as Sam crawled slowly out of bed. Sam simply gave a huffy 'huh?' and Dean continued.

You're getting out on the wrong side of the bed. You're supposed to get out of bed on the same side that you got in on or you're bound to have bad luck, Sammy.

Sam clamped his mouth shut so he wouldn't give voice to his thoughts: that that was the stupidest thing he had ever heard... even coming from his brother's mouth. No, he definitely didn't want to say that. But, while passing Dean at the doorway, he did complain about the ever-present use of his childhood nickname.

Dean, please, stop calling me Sammy!

Dean just allowed his brother passage without his smile even faltering. But he did answer...

Sure thing... Shorty.

oo0oo

note: Dean proceeded to call Sam 'Shorty' for over a year. Then, at around the time of Sam's fourteenth birthday, he hit growth spurt after growth sport... like they were going out of style. Before Sam was fifteen, he had nearly matched Dean's height – and Dean went back to calling him 'Sammy'.

By sixteen, Sam had grown taller (much taller) than Dean... even surpassing Dad. Dean, meanwhile, had stopped growing all together by his sixteenth birthday (in January, 1995).