Here is a little, light post season 15 story for you, disregarding all the darkness that none of us wanted to happen in season 15! It's just Dean and Cas and Sam parenting a tiny Jack, and is inspired by some of my experiences with my own children - those pop-up tents that don't want to pop down! Grr! I hope you like it.

Chapter 1

Jack was God.

And God was in Heaven, dressed in a white suit that actually fit him, (unlike Dean's cheap polyester crap) directing a bunch of dumb-ass angels.

But God was everywhere else too. He was watching out for all the people on Earth, (even the assholes that didn't deserve it) and he was also keeping an eye on all the animals and plant life and so on. Dean guessed he was hot on the trail of any impending disasters too - natural or unnatural. Because Jack was basically a Winchester. And if a Winchester was doing a job, they were fucking well doing the job.

Jack, however, had decided to go for the full trinity. Not, as far as Dean knew, to save humanity from their sins - and if that idea was ever put forward, Dean was slapping it down so fast it'd make even a God's head spin - but because if he was going to do the whole God thing properly, then he'd better get to know what made humans tick. And that meant being one for a good long while.

So God was in his heaven and his spirit was spread around everywhere, but Jack… Jack was in the Men-of-Letters bunker, in Lebanon Kansas. And he was three years old and he was tearing around like a wendigo on steroids because some idjit had let him dump a whole load of maple syrup on top of a whole load of Lucky Charms on top of a whole load of Cap'n Crunch and then eat the lot. And now they were reaping the whirlwind.

"Why, Sammy?"

"Because it's his birthday, Dean! And he wanted to!"

"You are such a pushover! Sugar's like rocket fuel to that kid."

Jack zoomed past, his arms outstretched in airplane mode. Dean grabbed for the back of his Dino Ranch hoodie, but the little boy swerved and dived under the table, wriggling between the chair legs.

"Well, all I can say - apart from why the fuck, Sammy? - is it's a good thing you're freakishly tall, cause in a minute you're gonna be scraping him off the ceiling."

"Sorry, Dean."

"You should be."

His brother cleared his throat and played with his stupid hair and shuffled from foot to foot. Dean wasn't going to let him off the hook, though.

"I got him this."

Sammy held out a bulging, round package, wrapped in Spider Man paper. And he looked so much like that long-ago little brother, holding out a newspaper-wrapped gift he'd had to beg, borrow or steal to have something to give to his big brother, that actually, yes, Dean was going to let him off the hook.

"What is it?"

Sammy's tight little mouth relaxed, twitching up at the corners. "It's something for when we take Jack to the beach."

A streak of blond hair and pattering feet zoomed between Dean and his brother. "Beach-a-beach-a-beach! Go to a-beach-a-beach-a beach…"

Jack tore down the stairs and disappeared down the corridor that led to the bedrooms. The slapping of his little feet and his sing-song voice echoed against the brick walls. "Go to the beach-beach-beach! And make sandcastles! And splash in the sea! Splash! Splash! Splash! And fly a kite! And have a picnic and -"

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam.

Sam shrugged. "At least he's having a good time."

"Yeah, until he crashes." Dean yelled, "Hey, Jack-in-the-box! You gonna come open this?"

The little boy bounced up the steps and hurtled into him, wrapping little arms around Dean's legs and squeezing, before breaking free and bouncing up and down. "Dad-Dean! Presents! Presents! Presents! Dadeeeen!"

When baby-Jack had first appeared in their lives, there'd been a long conversation over his tiny fluffy head about names. Dean had been going to be Daddy. Sam had decided on Pa. Castiel had chosen Pops. But Jack had ignored all of this and, when he had got through the babbling stage and onto actual words, had quickly made up his own names. Which were fine now, even though there'd been an awkward, but hilarious phase where Cas had been 'Dad-ass."

Sammy knelt down, his head bobbing as he tracked Jack's movements. "Jack, look. You can open it now."

"Fank yooOOO, Daddy-SAM!" He bounced and spun and made a few karate-like moves in the direction of the gift. "Pow! Pow! Smash!"

Dean closed his eyes and let a long breath puff out his cheeks. "Jack? Can you cool it down a bit?"

"Smash! Smash! Pow!" He kick-boxed Sam's knee. "Sorry, Daddy-Sam! Pow! Smash!"

Apparently no, he couldn't cool it down.

The blond hair flopped and flapped as Jack bounced and spun. His cheeks were pink, his eyes shining, his whole body bursting with bright energy, not all of it sugar-fuelled. He was a happy kid.

But there was a spot in Dean's chest that nagged at him with a kind of itch. It wanted him to take a firm, deep breath and then use That Voice. It wanted him to bring Jack instantly to heel, to have him small and calm and silent, head down and ready to obey.

That Voice echoed down the years from Dean's childhood, when he was made to be small and calm and silent, when he'd had to keep his head down and obey his Dad's commands: Stay with your brother, salt the doors and windows, don't let anyone in, have your weapon ready.

"Should I open it for you?" Sam still crouched on the floor, holding out the birthday present.

"No!" Jack snatched the gift and tore at the wrapping, keeping up his bouncing and spinning. The colourful paper burst open, and a shiny blue nylon package fell out. "What is it? What is it Daddy-Sam? What-what-WHAT?"

Stand still. Be quiet. Dean, do you hear me?

Yes, sir.

Jack grinned up at Dean and grabbed his hand, pulling him into his crazy dance.

"I've got presents, Dadean! I've got presents cos it's my birfday! Today! It's my birfday today! Happy birfday me!"

Dean danced. He danced and he laughed and he ignored John Winchester's voice. Because he wouldn't be like that with Jack. He wouldn't bark out rough commands and harsh criticisms so that the shining little face lost its brightness and the happy dancing faltered into obedient stillness.

Instead, Dean would do all the things that he'd desperately wanted his Dad to do. He'd love his son just as he was. He'd love him and show his love in hugs and laughter and dancing and silliness - and singing.

Dean scooped Jack up and whirled him around and sang, "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Jacky-wacky-doodle-doo, happy birthday to you!"

"I'm not Jacky-wacky-doodle do!"

"Yes you are!" Dean lifted Jack up and ran around the table making airplane noises, the little boy shrieking above his head.

Stop that right now! Stop making a noise! That's not how a Winchester behaves!

But it was. It was how Dean Winchester behaved, when he was happy and safe and surrounded by people he loved who loved him back. So Dean laughed and switched his jet-engine roar to a machine-gun noise, dipping Jack low to strafe Sammy as he ran past. "Ack-ack-ack-ack!"

Jack squirmed. "Dadean! Put me down!"

"No! We have to take out the enemy troops!"

Jack shrieked. "That's Daddy-Sam! He's not a nenemy! He's a friendly!"

"Okay then, Cap'n Jack. Coming in to land!" He swooped Jack down and slowed him to a halt, holding him just a couple of inches above the polished wooden floor. "Is your landing gear down?"

Jack kicked his legs. "Yes! Put me down!"

Dean plopped him down and Jack dropped to the floor next to Sam, panting hard.

"What is it, Daddy-Sam?"

"I'll show you. Well, I'll show you when I can get the f- when I can get it out."

Dean dropped to the floor next to his son and brother. He smirked. "Get the what-now out, Sammy?"

It wasn't just names they'd discussed over baby-Jack's head. We need to stop swearing, Dean, so Jack doesn't copy us. Like that was ever going to happen. Cas was the only one of them who managed to rein in his words consistently. Dean and his brother slipped all the time.

Sam had unfastened the round drawstring bag and was tugging hard on the contents. He glared at Dean. "They showed me in the store," he said, his tugs getting sharper, the muscles on his jaw sticking out irritably. "The tension makes it stick, but then-"

With a sharp snap the whole thing burst apart.

"Whoa!" Dean took a sharp step back, rubbing his forearm. "What the hell?"

A mass of shiny blue fabric had appeared in front of him - and whacked his arm while it was exploding - some stretched-tight panels and some loose bits trailing down to the floor.

"There we go." Sam spread out his hands, gripping the thing strategically. He gave it a shake and a twist and suddenly there was a little tent, open on one side.

"My house!" Jack dived into the tent, which skidded across the floor, coming to a halt against the shelf housing books on monsters from Fairies, through goblins and as far as golems. "My house where I live with all my toys!" He acrobated out of the tent, forward rolling straight into an all-out sprint. "Get all my toys!"

Then Jack was gone and in the distance a door slammed. He'd be back in a minute with a hundred and one soft toys, each of which had a name and personality. Dean's favourite was the soft, squishy burger which had a cute little face and tiny little arms. Jack called it Burgsy, and at Jack's bedtime Dean would do a squeaky Burgsy voice and he didn't care who was listening in because it made Jack laugh and got him to settle down ready for sleep. And one thing was for damn sure - that creepy sock puppet of Garth's had nothing whatsoever on Burgsy.

"Well that seems like a hit," said Sam.

"Yeah. Good job, baby bro!" Dean slapped his brother on the back, hard enough to rock him forward and make him take a swift step so he didn't lose his balance.

"Thanks, Dean."

Bitchface achieved. Dean smirked. There was a crash and a shriek in the distance followed by manic little-boy laughter. "I wonder when Cas is gonna get here."

"Huh."

"What?"

"You want him here to be bad cop, don't you?"

Dean shuffled in place. "So? You can't do it, can you? Soft-touch Sammy."

Sam cleared his throat. He might as well have said touché.

"You can, though."

"Yeah. But I don't want to."

"Why not?"

Dean twitched toward his own tells - the rub around the back of his neck, the hunch of his shoulders, staring at the ground, his eyes anywhere but on his brothers. But he made himself stand up and look Sammy in the eyes, which were squinched into softness by the peak of concerned eyebrows

"You know why not."

"Because you don't want to be like him. Do you?" said Sam, softly. "You don't want to release your inner John Winchester."

Dean shrugged. And would probably have come out with some crap - maybe would even have descended into a mushy chick-flick moment - but a very full laundry-basket appeared, weaving its way up the steps on short legs, with a stagger and a huff and then a resounding thud as the basket dropped to the floor, to reveal Jack's sweaty, rosy face and broad grin.

"Got 'em all!" he announced.

Dean raised his hand for a high five and was rewarded with a ringing slap - Jack put his heart, body and soul into high fives. "Good job, buddy," he said, rubbing his stinging palm.

"Yeah, full marks for using a basket," said Sam. "Great strategy."

His hands were stuffed right down in his pockets - the coward.

"Now they all need to go in my house!"

Jack gripped the edge of the basket, skidded it across the floor (probably scraping the polished wood, but who cared anyway?) and tipped it up so the toys all tumbled into the little tent. Dean caught sight of Burgsy's flapping arms, the bright yellow of his suedey cheese slice and his little cute smiley face.

Not that Dean was into soft toys or anything. Even though he hadn't been allowed them as a kid. Not after all of his burned in the fire. He'd rescued a teddy for Sammy, though, from a thrift store, and Dad had even paid the few cents for it - because it was for Sammy.

Jack's command voice came from inside the shiny blue fabric. It was the voice he used when speaking to his toys en masse. Was that the way he spoke to his angels? Or had he learned it from one of his three Dads? Or two Dads, maybe - he hadn't learned it from puppy-dog gentle Sammy's parenting style.

"You go here. And you go here. Stop falling over Florentina! It's not naptime yet!"

Florentina was a pink fluffy rabbit with what Dean felt were accusing black shiny eyes. Cas had given her to Jack, though, and she was one of his favourites. She's a kickboxing badass, Dadean! Should Dean let a two-year-old (now three) say badass? Probably not.

Jack burst out of the tent. "They're all 'ranged," he said. "You gotta 'range 'em proper," he leant forward and lowered his voice, "cos some of 'em fight."

"Yeah," agreed Dean. "But you'll keep your troops in order, won't you?"

Jack nodded. "But they're hungry now, Daddies." He looked up appealingly at Sam and Dean. "Can we have snackies now? Please? And then maybe… more presents?"

"Of course you can," said Sam.

"Yeah, cos you're the birthday boy! Come on, Daddy-Sam. Let's go get the snackies."

Sometimes it was a toss-up whether the adults were levelling-up Jack's language skills or he was levelling theirs down. Not that it would take much for his own language, thought Dean. Sam's college-learned vocab should cancel that out, though.

Sam rubbed his hands. "Snackies it is," he said. "Drinkies too!"

Or not.

Dean crouched down in front of the tent and lifted one of the flaps to one side. He winced. The toys were scattered, mixed with cracker crumbs, a few raisins here and there and (he sighed) smears of chocolate hazelnut spread.

He dropped further to his knees and crawled in a little way, reaching forward to pick up Burgsy, turning him the right way up and brushing a few crumbs off him.

"The little guy was so happy with his picnic," said Dean. "So that makes the clean-up worth it, right?"

Burgsy smiled, as usual. And you could say, What does he know? He's stuffed with fluff. But Dean thought he had the right attitude - keep smiling through, even when you get dumped upside down in a mess of picnic remains.

He reached out and dragged the laundry basket closer, then one by one, he worked his way through the toys, brushing off crumbs and baby-wiping chocolate spread stains before dropping them into the basket. Then he swept out the tent with a dustpan and brush. And then he crawled out and sat back.

Burgsy, placed carefully on the top of the toy pile, watched him silently.

"Well, you tell me," said Dean. "Sammy kind of twisted it and it… popped up. How do I know how to get it to go back?" He held his hands about eight inches apart, the same size as the little bag, and looked at the tent and shrugged his shoulders. "We'll leave it to Sammy."

The brother in question slopped his way up the steps, dragging his hands through his hair and rubbing so that it stuck up every which way. He looked at Dean, his eyes and mouth drooping tiredly.

"He go down okay?" asked Dean.

Sammy glared.

"That's a no."

"He went down. In the end."

"Okay. Well, the sugar'll have worn off when he wakes up. Probably."

"Yeah." Sam pulled out a chair and dropped wearily into it. He closed his eyes. "D'you get the clean-up done?"

"Uh-huh."

Sam opened one eye. "Bad?"

"Nah. Well. Coulda been worse anyway." Dean dragged himself up, creaking, and crawled into the chair opposite. "Where the hell's Cas got to?"

Sam shrugged and grunted. "Dunno."

There was silence for a couple of blessed minutes. Dean relaxed and enjoyed it.

"Oh. Could you pack the tent away? I couldn't work out how to do it."

"Couldn't you?" Sam pinged upright, eager to get one over on his brother, Dean thought, sourly. "It's real easy. You just get a hold of both ends and then twist and then it folds right down small. I'll show you."

He sprang up, re-energised. Did four years really make that much difference? Dean was beat.

"So, like this…" Sam spread his orangutan arms wide and took a firm grip of either end of the tent. "And then you just twist like this…"

This was never going to work. Not in a million years. Dean shuffled a bit more upright, linked his hands and watched, attentively, ready to poke big-brotherly fun.

Sammy stood up holding the tent, twisted one hand one way and the other… the other. The tent curled into a figure eight.

"Uh… Okay, yeah. Then you bring your hands together, like this…" Sam's muscles flexed. The figure eight became a circle.

"That still looks way too big to fit in the little bag," said Dean helpfully.

"I know," growled Sam. His fingers were white-knuckled under the strain. "I just need to…" He grunted, twisting the whole lot. "I'm sure it should…"

The tent burst out of Sam's grip.

"Shit!"

"Ha!"

"Dean!"

Sam sucked his fingers and glared at the tent, which had returned to its innocent protect-the-children beach-ready form. He grumbled under his breath.

"Sammy! Did some of those words begin with an f?"

"Jack's asleep, Dean. I can fucking swear if I fucking want to." He inspected his injured fingers. "I'm actually bleeding," he said. "From a tent."

"You should look up tent-related injury statistics, Sammy. Probably happens all the time." He crossed his arms and relaxed back in his chair and plastered on a shit-eating grin, calculated to irritate.

"You try it, then. Let's see you do it!"

"Yeah, I dunno, Sam."

"No, come on! You don't get to sit there with that smug look." Sam jerked his arm irritably at the tent. "Let's see big brother succeed where little brother has failed so miserably."

Dean sighed. How hard could it be?

He pushed himself to his feet. He took a good, long look at the tent, tracing where the sewn-in wires ran, glancing at the little, round bag, lying in a crumpled heap on the table.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked all the way around the tent. No fucking way was that going back in there. No fucking way. But it had come out.

"Okay. Okay, let's do this."

Dean had fought monsters, time and time again. He'd saved the world, over and over. He'd survived forty years in Hell, for fuck's sake. He could put one little kids' beach tent away. Of course he could.

Dean swore. Again. He swiped the back of his shirtsleeve across his brow and down the sides of his burning-hot, sweating face. He flexed his fingers, stinging from tent wires that had pinged free and whipped across his knuckles.

He growled at the tent which, yet again, had returned to its beach-ready status.

"Give it up, Dean."

"No. I'm not letting this thing beat me."

Sam had worked his way merrily through the gloating phase when Dean's efforts proved as entertainingly futile as his own. Then Dean had snarled at him to, "Lend a fucking hand, Sam!" and they'd both ended up red-faced, breathing hard and totally pissed off.

"I'm going in again," said Dean. He clapped his hands together, rubbed up a heat of friction between his palms, puffed out a few hard, psyching-up breaths and prepared to do battle.

In the distance there was a thin wail. Like a lonely spirit that you thought would be an easy salt-and-burn until it went full-on shrieking vengeful.

A door slammed. The wail got suddenly louder and bare feet slapped angrily on the tiled floor. It was coming their way.

"Shit," said Dean. "That's all we need."

"I thought maybe he might not wake up grumpy. Seeing as it's his birthday," said Sam.

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong."

The stomping feet and angrily forlorn wail got louder and Jack appeared in the entrance to the bedroom corridor, his face red and teary and snotty, Florentina trailing from one hand.

"Deal with him, Sammy. I'm getting this thing back in the bag if it kills me!" Dean grabbed the tent again and twisted and pushed and twisted again, straining against the tension in the wires.

"Hey, buddy. What's up?"

The wordless wail increased in volume.

Dean twisted the tent the other way, bent it into a lop-sided figure-eight and gritted his teeth and grunted as he tried to give it one more twist-and-fold, because then surely - surely - it'd fucking well go back into its fucking bag!

"Come on, Jack. Come to Daddy-Sam. We can have a nice, snuggly huggly."

That wouldn't work. You had to give Jack a wide berth when he woke up angry or-

"Ow. Dammit, Jack. That hurt."

So much for not using the bad words around Jack. The wail changed to a yell. The little bare feet drummed and stamped. And if Dean's attention wasn't fully on stopping the tent from exploding again, no doubt he'd have seen clenched fists and a black cave of a mouth, working its way up to foghorn volume.

A wire escaped his grasp. A panel snapped out to one side. Dean tried to regain control, without letting go of the rest.

"It's okay," said Sammy, going with his best soothing voice - wasted on a post-nap Jack. "I'm not angry. I just need you to calm down."

Yeah. Like that's going to happen.

He so nearly had the tent back under control. If he just got one finger around that bit, he could pull it back together.

"Don't! Wanna! Calm! Down!" Sobbing breaths became outright sobs.

Another wire gave way and Dean could only curl a fingertip around it to stop it escaping completely.

"Look, maybe you should go back to bed for a bit?"

Big mistake, Sammy.

"No! No bed! No bed! NO BED!"

Sam groaned a loud, heartfelt groan. "Dean!"

"NO BED!"

"Dean, please, help!"

The tent exploded. Again. White-hot pain bloomed across Dean's cheek and nose.

"Son-of-a-bitch!"

Jack screamed louder.

Sam had his hands over his ears. "Dean!"

Dean brought one hand to his throbbing nose and then to his cheek. It came away stained with blood. What a total shit-show.

Then… a miracle - from one moment to the next, the incomplete and struggling family of three became a complete four, as Castiel, Angel-of-the-Lord appeared.

Oh dear! The boys are in a mess! But Cas is back. Can he sort them out? Next and final chapter tomorrow!