Mother's Day came every year like a bad cold that you really didn't want to have to suffer through. Dean dreaded it. The teacher always made him make some stupid picture, or card, or paint a flower pot for his mother. He always did it, because he didn't want to have to remind his teachers that he didn't have a mother. Didn't want the kid next to him to ask what happened to his mom. He didn't want to explain, and he didn't want the kids to look at him any more strangely than they already did.

Today he sat in his seat coloring on a sheet of construction paper that was meant to be a card for his "mother". Mrs. Ridgewood watched and she even told him that he didn't have to participate in the activity. Dean shrugged his shoulders and continued to draw on the card. Mrs. Ridgewood sighed and moved to the front of the room to help the kids who were chatting away and no doubt had moms and dads and siblings and families that weren't destroyed or touched by the supernatural.

He heard a sniff come from behind him and a crayon dropping to the floor. He turned around and Flora, the girl who had difficulties using her arms and legs, was starring down at the crayon beside her desk and fat alligator tears streaming down her face. Dean got up, picked up the crayon and held it out to her. She slowly she reached out her malformed hand and took it from him. She looked up and tried to smile.

"Thank you." She said through slightly slowed speech. He nodded. He hesitated by her desk for a second. I

f she were Sammy, he would sit down and comfort her and help her. He wondered if that was what he was supposed to do, or if he was supposed to leave her alone to struggle like everyone else. He bit his lip for a second in contemplation and then took his chair and sat down next to her.

"Can I help?" he asked. She looked over at him and grinned, her jumble of teeth showing. She nodded. "What color?" he asked and spread out the crayons in front of her. For the rest of the afternoon, Dean colored the pictures that she wanted, wrote what she wanted him to write on the inside and the outside of the card, and he helped her peal the stickers from their protective backs and held the card close to her so she could stick them on herself and held the paper down as she signed her name in her scratchy handwriting.

When they finished she looked at him, smiled, and then said, "What about your card?" Dean shook his head and put her card into the envelope that they had made together.

"Doesn't matter."

"What about your mom?"

"My mom is dead." Flora stopped. Her bright blue eyes began to swim in tears. One fell.

"I'm sorry." Dean shrugged.

"No big deal." He said and put a piece of tape on the back of the envelope. When he looked back up at Flora he saw that to her it was a big deal. She reached out her crippled hand and rested it on his shoulder.

"Thank you for helping me." Dean gave a tight lipped smile.

"Your welcome."

Mother's Day was Sunday, and Dean awoke to his little brother jumping on his bed. "Dean!" his five year old lungs screamed. Slowly opening his eyes he found Sammy's face mere centimeters from his.

"What?" he asked.

"Get up!"

"Why? We don't have school today."

"No! It's Brother's Day!" he announced loudly.

"What in the world are you talking about?" Dean asked and sat up in the bed. Sam scurried off, and Dean heard clanking in the small kitchen of the apartment they were staying in. He came back carefully holding a cookie sheet that had been left by the previous owners that held a bowl of Lucky Charms and a glass of orange juice. Next to the bowl was a little marigold inside of a painted pot. He put it on his brother's lap.

"What is all of this?"

"This is what you do for brothers on Brother's Day."

"Sammy there is no such day."

"Yes there is." Dean closed his eyes frustrated and

"Today is Mother's day. Not Brother's Day. There is no such thing."

"My teacher was making us paint flower pots for our mom's. I told her I didn't have a mom. She asked me if I wanted to make something for my dad, I told her that it wasn't fair for dad to get two gifts, so she asked me who I would like to make it for. I told her you." Dean's eyes stung. "I told her that you take care of me. Read to me every night. That you are the best big brother in the world. So, she told me that I could make today Brother's Day. And Mrs. Taylor is always right. She's the smartest lady in the whole wide world." Dean tried to smile, but the tears in his eyes stopped him from smiling. Sam bounced again, spilling some of the Lucky Charms onto the cookie sheet, neither boy noticed or cared. Sam pushed the flower pot closer to his brother. "You like it?" he asked a little nervously.

Dean picked up the flower. The pot was painted white, and there was a rainbow on one side, a sun on the other, and two stick people in the center. One a little taller than the other, holding hands next to what Dean assumed was the Impala.

"See, that's me and you and the car. I knowed you like the car."

"Knew, Sammy, the word is knew."

"That's what I said." He said as his brows knit together.

"I love it Sammy. It is beautiful. It's the best Brother's Day gift I've ever gotten." Sam smiled.

"Can I have the Lucky Charms if you aren't going to eat them?" Dean burst out laughing.

"You can have em Sammy. You can have em." He put his Brother's Day gift next to his bed, and that night, he starred at it and realized that perhaps Mother's Day wasn't all bad he may not have a mother, but he had a brother that he loved more than life itself and who apparently loved him just as much. God took things away but sometimes he gave you something back more precious than you could have hoped for. He kissed his brother's hair and held him tight as the little boy slept snuggled against his big brother.