dodger_sister (dodger_sister) wrote,

Fic: Thanksgiving At Bobby's - G, Gen, Wee!chesters, Sam, Dean, Bobby & John

So, now that Thanksgiving weekend is officially over, I finally have a chance to post this fic. :) I know, I know, the title is not all that original, but what else was I going to call this? Dedicated to The Nephew!

Sam is four & Dean is eight. It’s Thanksgiving at Bobby’s house and there are pretend FBI badges, vegetarians, church clothes and turkey drawings. Also, there is family and brothers and, yes, pie. Warning for cute-kid-squee. 4,508 words.

This was loads of fun to write. Enjoy!

Title: Thanksgiving At Bobby’s
Author: dodger_sister
Fandom: Supernatural
Category: Gen, Holiday, Pre-Series, Wee!chesters
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Sam, Bobby & John
Rating: G
Warnings: Mention of headless zombie chickens.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: It’s Thanksgiving at Bobby’s house and there are pretend FBI badges, vegetarians, church clothes and turkey drawings. Also, there is family and brothers and, yes, pie.
Word Count: 4,508 words.
Date Written: November, 2010
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine, but I am thankful for its existence nonetheless. I wrote this fic, for which I make no money.
Beta’d: Nope.
Author's Notes: This came to me at Halloween, when I realized I had missed “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” on TV. Little Sammy started jabbering about it in my head and once he was there, the little guy wouldn’t go away. Take note of the blue blanket Sam has, it will appear pretty much anytime I write wee!chester fic. I made the FBI badges, aren’t I talented? I also made the icons. The turkey drawing, however, is done by The Nephew, age four, and I find it fitting, since Little Sammy is based about 70% on The Nephew. The other 30% is based on this kid I used to weekend-nanny for. Both these boys are flowing throughout this fic.
Dedication: The Nephew is four and has no idea what fan-fic is, but I would still like to dedicate this fic to him. He is the cutest little fan-boy in the world and a total SPN-dork to boot. I hope his Thanksgiving is wonderful!

“And then the turkey said, you like to eat me? And my family? I’ll eat you and your family! and chased them down the street. And for dinner, Tom the Turkey set a fine dinner of potatoes and corn and biscuits…and little boy belly! The end.”

Sammy looked wide-eyed at his brother, who was tucked up against him on the bed. “Nuh-uh,” he said and poked Dean in the arm. “You’re a liar-head.”

“Am not, Sammy. That totally happened.”

“Nothing you ever tell me is true.”

Everything I tell you is true.”

“Uncle Bobby!” Sam hollered and then shoved his fist in his mouth and chewed on his knuckles.

Bobby stuck his head in the doorway to the bedroom. “Why are you two still awake?”

Sam pulled his fist from his mouth, little trail of slobber sliding down his chin. “Dean says that if you chop off a turkey’s head, it doesn’t die. It just runs round like a zommie.”

“No, that’s not true,” Bobby told him in a soft voice. “That’s chickens. Chickens are the ones that turn into headless zombies.”

Sam’s eyes went even wider. “Nuh-uh.”

“Yes-huh,” Bobby said, grinning and coming into the room. “But it’s okay. See, chickens will sooner peck out your eyes than look at you, so at least when they are headless-zombies, they can’t peck out your eyes.”

“Would a turkey eat me for dinner?”

Bobby glared at Dean. “What kind of bullshit have you been telling him? Trying to turn the boy into a freaking hippie vegetarian?”

Dean shrugged. “I saw it on a cartoon.”

Bobby pointed over at the other bed. “Go.”

Dean folded his arms across his chest defiantly. “I’m eight. Can’t I stay up longer than Sammy?”

“No, you both stayed up too late already,” Bobby said and smacked Dean’s leg until the boy rolled off the bed.

“Night, Sammy.”

“Night, Dean,” Sam said and then burrowed farther under the blankets. “Bobby?”

“Yes, Sam?” Bobby replied and moved a pile of Dean’s clothes off the floor and onto the little chair in the corner.

“Is my dad gonna be here ‘morrow?”

“He said he would be.”

“Yeah, but is he?”

“I hope so, Sammy.”

“Are we gonna have pie ‘morrow?”

“Yes, Sam,” Bobby said and straightened the boy’s favorite blue blanket across the bed.

“For breakfast?”

“No, Sam, not for breakfast.”

The preschooler grabbed a corner of the blanket and rubbed it against his face tiredly. “The pie that Dean and I made?”

“Hey!” Dean said from the other bed. “I made that pie.”

“I helped!” Sam said and it came out in a near screech.

“Yes, Sam,” Bobby sighed and flicked off the light. “The pie that you boys made today.”

“I helped, right, Uncle Bobby?”

“Yes, Sam. Now go to sleep.”

“Night, Uncle Bobby.”

“Goodnight boys.”


“Why do we have to wear our church clothes?” Dean asked and tugged at Sam’s tie.

“Because it’s Thanksgiving dinner,” Bobby told him and continued pulling dishes down from the cupboard.

“So what?” Dean said. “Dad only makes us wear our church clothes at church.”

“Well, I knew a woman once who would kick my scrawny butt if I let us sit down to Thanksgiving dinner in anything less than our church clothes. Alright, Dean?”

“What woman?” Sam asked and tried to climb up onto the kitchen table.

Dean yanked him back down.

“Was it your Mom?” Sam asked.

“No, it was not my mom, though she’d kick my butt for it too.”

“When will my dad be here?” Sam asked.

Bobby sighed. It had to be the tenth time the boy had asked about his father since he woke up that morning.

“Sammy,” Dean said in his serious grown-up voice. “Dad might not make it. It’s okay though, we can still have pie.”

“Okay. I like my church clothes anyway, Bobby.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a freak.”

“Nuh-uh, you’re a freak,” Sam cried and pummeled at Dean’s legs.

“Okay, okay,” Dean said, laughing and pushing Sam away.

“Dean,” Bobby said and unscrewed the pickle jar. “Why don’t you and Sam go in the living room for a bit and try not to ruin your clothes before dinner?”

“I notice you aren’t wearing your church clothes,” Dean said petulantly, but dragged Sam into the other room anyway.


“We’re wearing our BI clothes, Dean,” Sam said suddenly, looking up from where the Thanksgiving parade had just ended on the TV.

“Our what?” Dean asked tiredly.

“Our BI clothes, like when Daddy plays ‘tective or BI and he has a ‘tend badge.”

“Yes, we are wearing suits, Sam. And it's FBI, not BI.”

“Let’s play BI, kay, Dean?”

“We don’t have badges.”

“But,” and Sam’s lower lip stuck out in a pout and his eyes went wide, “I want to play BI.”

Dean sighed. “Fine, I need paper and a pen.”

“Kay,” Sam said and hopped off the couch.

“And ask Bobby before you use the paper!” Dean hollered after him.

Sam found a stack of paper and two pens and went into the kitchen.

Bobby had changed into his suit.

“Uncle Bobby?”

“Sam, I thought I told you to stay in the living room.”

“Can I use this paper? It doesn’t have your ‘pecial writing on it, does it?” Sam held up the stack of pages and Bobby snorted at him.

“Alright, let me look.” Bobby shuffled through the stack and pulled out some scrap pages and handed them back to the boy. “There you go, son.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” and Sam sprinted back into the living room.

He settled on his knees next to Dean and they both leaned over the coffee table. They worked in silence for a few minutes, both their tongues poking out between their teeth.

“Okay,” Dean said at last. “Your FBI badge. You have to use a fake name, so I made you Sammy Splinter,” and he handed the piece of folded paper over to Sam.

“Splinter like from the Teenage Nunant Turtles?”


“But I want to be Raphael.”

“You can’t,” Dean told him. “Then they’ll know it is a pretend badge. You have to use something that sounds real.”

“What’s your BI name, Dean?”

“Kirk. Dean Kirk. Like from Star Trek.”

Sam smiled. “I like space. My starship would be blue and have frogs on the side.” Then he held up the picture he had been working on. It was a tracing of his hand.

“I made it for you, Dean. It’s a turkey. Mrs. Janney from church school taught us how to make it.”

Dean looked at the drawing. It wasn’t half bad, for a baby’s picture. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Thanksgiving At Bobby's - Sammy's Turkey - dodger_sister

“If I had crayons, it’d be better.”

“Naw,” Dean said and kissed the top of his brother’s head. “It’s perfect, Sam. I love it.”

“Kay. Can we play BI now?”

F.B.I,” Dean reminded him and carefully set the turkey drawing down on the table, just as the front door swung open.

“Daddy!” Sam cried and made a beeline for the door.

“Sammy,” John said and kicked the door shut behind himself, before swooping the boy up into his arms.

“We’re playing FBI,” Sam said, then paused to look at his brother and make sure he got it right.

Dean just nodded at him.

“And Bobby said we have to wear our church clothes. And chickens are zommies.” Then he stopped and put a finger to his nose and said, “Hmmm, what else?”

John chuckled. “Maybe you can save some stories for dinner, Sam.”

“Oh! We made pie,” and then Sam looked over at Dean with a smile. “Well, actually, Dean made pie.”

Dean’s cheeks heated up and he looked down at his feet. “You helped too, Sammy.”

Sam nodded. “I did.”

“Well, that sounds like you boys have been very busy. Were you good for Uncle Bobby?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said without hesitation.

Bobby appeared in the doorway then, apron tied around the waist of his best suit. “Lord, that boy is gonna kill me with his questions, John.”

“Daddy, you smell,” Sam said and wrinkled up his nose in disgust.

“Thank you, son. I missed you too.”

“I missed you too,” Sam said in all honesty.

Bobby reached out and pulled the boy from his father’s arms. “Why don’t you go get washed up there, John, and we’ll have dinner laid out when you come down.”

“I suppose I have to wear my suit too?”

“Your FBI clothes, Daddy.”

“Okay, then. I’ll go put on my FBI clothes.”

And John disappeared up the stairs.


“Dad’s not down yet,” Dean said quietly.

Bobby looked at the entrance to the kitchen and then back at Dean. “How about you make him a plate and then we’ll get Sam set. I bet he’ll be down by then.”

Dean nodded and picked up an empty plate.

Sam climbed up in his seat and perched on his knees. “I want pie.”

“After we eat,” Dean told him.

“And cookies.”

“There aren’t any cookies, Sam.”

Bobby pulled a little red booster seat from the closet.

“No!” Sam hollered. “I’m too big now. Dean tell him.”

“Dean will tell me no such thing,” Bobby said in his I-mean-business voice. “If you can’t reach without being on your knees, then you still need a booster seat.”

“I don’t want it!”

“I don’t care. Lydia went to a lot of trouble to snag this for you and you will use it until you grow big enough to sit on your butt.”

“Who’s Lydia?” Dean asked and smirked over his shoulder at Bobby.

Bobby scooped Sam up in one arm and secured the booster seat with the other. “She works at the diner in town, where she borrowed this booster seat from.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“She is not.”

John came into the room then, dressed in his charcoal suit and blue striped tie.

“Bobby has a girlfriend!” Sam declared and kicked his feet about in his seat.

John coughed into his fist, something that sounded eerily like I knew it.

Bobby just scowled at the room in general and set a plate of food in front of Sam. “Let’s eat,” he declared.


Sam had already shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, when Bobby reached out and stilled his hand.

“We have to say our thankful prayers first, son,” Bobby told him.

Across the table, John dropped his fork with a clatter. “No, we don’t.”

Bobby leveled his gaze at John. “Why is that, John? You don’t have anything to be thankful for?”

John dropped his eyes to his plate.

“In my house, we wear our church clothes and say our thanks, or we don’t get turkey.”

“Or pie?” Sam asked quietly, sensing the tension around the table.

“Or pie.”

John glared up at Bobby, but the other man didn’t flinch. He simply folded his hands in his lap and bowed his head.

“I am thankful for this food and for my dogs, Truman and Teddy. I am thankful for my good friend John, and my holy terror nephews, Dean and Sam.” Bobby paused long enough to wink at each of the boys and then bowed his head again. “I am thankful for my friend, Lydia, don’t you snicker at me, Dean Winchester, and my friend Rufus. I am also thankful for my truck. She’s a loyal girl.”

Bobby looked up then and found John with his head bowed in silence. “Dean, you’re next.”

Dean looked at his father, who only nodded at him in reassurance.

“Um,” Dean started, “I don’t know, I’m thankful for my dad and my brother and Uncle Bobby. And I guess, Truman and Teddy too. And Pastor Jim. And, um, I’m thankful for the Impala. And my bedroom here at Bobby’s house because I get my own bed.” Dean shifted in his seat uncomfortably and looked at his dad out of the corner of his eyes. “And I’m thankful for that nice guy who worked the desk at that motel and took that kitten we found and kept it because we couldn’t,” he added all in a rush, and then looked up and met his father’s eyes.

“That was nice of that man, wasn’t it?” John asked and there was no anger in his voice, even though that damn kitten had caused one hell of a fight between him and Dean.

Dean nodded and swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I guess it’s your turn, Dad,” he said quietly and then smiled a little when he caught Bobby’s eye.

John gave his friend one last glare and then bowed his head again.

“I am thankful for my boys, who are very good, smart boys.” John kept his head down and his eyes closed. “I am thankful for Bobby, even if he makes us do ridiculous feats just to get dinner.”

Under the table, Bobby kicked at John’s feet. John ignored him.

“I am thankful for my car, ‘cause she’s my baby. And I’m thankful to Jim and Missouri and Jefferson and all the people who help bring me home to my boys at night.”

Dean took a deep breath and laid a hand on John’s arm.

“And I’m thankful for the most beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, kick-ass woman I ever knew. And I’m thankful that she found it in herself to love me somehow, even if I didn’t deserve it.”

John coughed, wiped at his face with one hand, before continuing on. “I love you, Mary. Always,” he whispered, then stopped and gripped Dean’s hand before looking up.

There was silence for a moment, before Bobby said, “Okay, Sammy-boy, your turn.”

“Okay!” Sam said and then bowed his head very seriously and folded his hands in his lap. “I am thanks for Uncle Bobby letting us make pie and for my daddy comin’ home for dinner and for Mrs. Janney at church school and for Truman and Teddy and Pastor Jim and my new boots for when the snow comes and for my crayons but I left them in the green hotel and for my friend Lucas at church school.”

There was a pause and everyone looked at Sam to see if he was done.

He was looking at them all expectantly.

“Okay then, Sam?”

Sam nodded. “Okay then, it’s Bobby’s turn again!”

Everyone laughed and John reached over to ruffle Sam’s hair. “Nope, now we eat.”


“And then they knocked on the door and then they all said I got candy and then Chary Brown said I got a rock! And then they did it again and they all said I got candy and Chary Brown said I got a rock! And then…”

“Sam?” John asked carefully, because sometimes interrupting one of Sam’s epic stories could cause a hissy fit.

Sam stopped talking and looked at his father.

“Is it safe to assume that all Charlie Brown gets the whole night is rocks?”

Sam nodded and grinned. “A whole bag of them, Dad! And then they all danced like this…”

And Sam proceeded to flap his arms around and kick his legs.

Until he kicked the table and everyone’s plates rattled and shook.

“Hey!” John said and pushed Sam back in his seat. “Settle. Not at the table.”

Sam stuck out his lower lip in a pout.

“Then what happened?” John asked in his most placating voice and tapped at Sam’s plate to get the boy eating again.

Sam scowled all the way through his next bite, until Dean piped up with, “I know what happened next, Dad.”

“No!” Sam hollered. “I’m tellin’ it, kay, Dean?”

Dean just smiled and nodded at Sam to continue.

“Then Sally said I want candy, you owe me candy! And she shook Linus real hard.”

“I don’t get it,” Bobby said at last. “Isn’t this a Halloween movie?”

“Yes, it is,” Dean answered him.

“But Halloween was over a month ago.”

“Try telling that to Sam.”

“I like Halloween. Next year, I’m gonna be a skeleton.”

“How about a firefighter? Or a soldier?” John prodded and shared a glance with Bobby.

“A zommie!” Sam cried. “A chicken zommie!”

John looked quizzically around the table, but both Dean and Bobby averted their eyes.

“When is Halloween goin’ be, Dean?”

“I told you,” Dean sighed, “Not until next year.”

“When is next year?”

“A long time.”

“Will I be all growed up by then?”

“No, just a little bit taller,” Dean told him.

“Will I be older than you?”

“You’ll never be older than me, Sammy, because I was born first.”

“Will you be older than Dad?”


“Cause he was born first?”

“Sam,” John cautioned. “Let Dean eat his food. Try some turkey.”

Sam stuffed half a dinner roll in his mouth.

“Damn, boy,” John said to Dean. “He wasn’t asking this many questions at the beginning of the week. Has he been like this the whole time I was gone?”

“Pretty much,” Dean answered and took the chance to shovel in some food.

“I don’t remember you asking so many damn questions when you were his age.”

Dean chewed slowly, set his fork down and stared at his dad.

“Really?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah, really,” John said, oblivious.

“Gee, Dad, you think that’s because I didn’t talk when I was his age?”

John choked on a pickle. “Jesus, Dean, I’m…shit. I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugged. “Sometimes you forget.”

John reached over and tilted Dean’s chin until he was looking his boy straight in the eyes. “I never forget, believe me, son. Not ever.”

Dean swallowed hard and nodded. When John let go of his chin, Dean pushed his plate away. He suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

“Dad,” Sam said and slapped at John’s arm. John turned to look at his youngest son now. “When can I watch more Chary Brown?”

“Good lord, son, I don’t know. Next Halloween.”

“Sammy,” Dean said and leaned forward a little. “It’s okay, Charlie Brown has a Christmas special too. You can watch that.”


“At Christmas.”

“When is Christmas?”

“In a few months.”

“How long is a few months?”

“Sam, eat your turkey,” John said.

“I don’t want it.”

“What?” Bobby exclaimed. “I made that special for you boys.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Sam,” John growled at his son. “You stop being rude to Bobby or you can go to your room and skip the pie.”

Sam promptly burst into tears. “I want pie!”

“Then eat your turkey,” John said and tried not to flinch at the sight of his sobbing son.

“I don’t want it!” Sam wailed. “It has a family!”

John threw his fork down. “Which one of you did this?”

Dean slunk down in his chair.

“You know what, Sam?” Bobby said and took the turkey from the boy’s plate. “I didn’t get enough of this delicious turkey, so I’m just gonna take yours, okay?”

Sam nodded and sniffled. “Kay, Uncle Bobby. Does Chary Brown have a Thanksgibing cartoon too?”


Dean found he got his appetite back when Bobby placed pie in front of him.

They were all silently eating their slices, except for the occasional groaning as they struggled to find room in their stomachs, when Sam suddenly dropped his fork and threw his hands up.

“Wait! Wait!” he cried and grabbed at Bobby’s hands to stop him from taking another bite.

“I forget something!”

“What’d you forget, Sammy?” Dean asked, as Bobby held the bite of pie halfway to his lips.

Sam folded his hands in his lap and bowed his head. “I am thanks for my Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars that Bobby bought me for my birthday ‘cause they are my very favoritest toy ever. The end.”

Everyone held still.

“Kay,” Sam said and started eating his pie again.

They all shared glances with each other, little smiles creeping across their faces, before tucking back into their own pie slices.

“Dad,” Dean said after a minute, “Bobby gave me this recipe so I can make the pie when we go to Pastor Jim’s for Christmas.”

“That was nice of him,” John said.

“Yeah. I thought maybe I’d make two and we could have one and I could donate the other to the older people dinner they have.”

“I think Jim would like that a lot,” John replied and reached a hand over to rub at the back of Dean’s neck, scratching the hair there.

“I want to come to Bobby’s for Christmas!” Sam exclaimed.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Bobby said. “Bobby has plans, thank you very much.”

“With Lydia?” Dean asked and smirked.

“You got a real mouth on you, boy,” Bobby grumbled. “Wonder where you got it from.”

Dean made a wild hand gesture at his dad and then ducked out of the way before he could get a whap on the head.

“Mrs. Janney said we are gonna make Christmas cookies at Christmas and give them to poor people,” Sam said, oblivious to the sudden silence. “Are we poor people?” he asked then.

“Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “We talked about this. We aren’t going back to Red Cloud. We moved, remember?”

Sam closed his eyes tight and let out a slow breath. “I know. But I already forgot Lucas’ last name.”

“We’ll find you a new preschool, Sam,” John said softly and kissed the top of his boy’s head.

“But I liked the blue house,” Sam sniffled and held up his arms so his father could pick him up. “And Lucas won’t be at my new p-school.”

“You’ll make new friends.”

Sam clung to his father for a moment and then turned and reached for Dean.

Dean stood and picked Sam up, let the boy wrap himself around Dean’s body. It was an effort, but Dean managed it.

He always did.

“S’okay, Sammy,” he said. “You’ll always have me. I’m your best friend, right, kiddo?”

Sam nodded against Dean’s shoulder.

“Okay,” John said and tried to use his get-a-move-on-it voice. “Why don’t you boys go upstairs and pee…”

“Don’t have to pee,” Sam said petulantly and slid down from Dean’s arms.

“Humor me,” John told him. “And then wash your hands and face, and come back down, and I bet we can find some football on TV. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam said and nodded. “Yeah, Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered.

“Yeah, Uncle Bobby?” Sam asked as the man stood to clear the desert plates.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Bobby responded.

“Okay,” Sam said and held up both hands. “But I am cheering for the blue team, kay?” and then he marched off towards the stairs.

“We always do,” John said and smirked at Bobby’s back.

“Not in this house, you don’t,” Bobby hollered towards the stairs and flung a dirty wash rag across the table at John’s head.

John threw it right back.


“There was an old lady, who swallowed a horse…she’s dead, of course,” John said, then closed the book and went to set it on the bedside table.

“Wait, the picture!” Sam cried and flipped the page back open. “Look, Dad, she ’sploded.”

“She shouldn’t have eaten that horse, huh?” John asked.

“No,” Sam said and laughed, throwing his head back as he did.

“Look at her,” John said and pointed at the old lady’s large belly in the brightly colored children’s book. “She ate as much food as I did today. That’s what my belly feels like right now.”

“Mine too,” Sam said and pushed up his pajama shirt to pat at his swollen little stomach.

Then Sam reached over and pushed up John’s sweatshirt and scrunched up his face. “You’re gettin’ old, Dad.”

“Alright then, Sam,” John said, as the boy absently patted his father’s stomach. “That’s enough. Lay down.”

Sam snuggled under the covers and stuffed his fist in his mouth, sucking slightly on his knuckles.

“I want you boys to both go right to sleep, okay?” John said.

There was some damn good scotch with his name on it waiting for him under Bobby’s sink. Probably some cigars too, if he could sweet talk the greedy bastard into giving any up.

Sam pulled his hand out of his mouth with a pop. “Daddy?”

“Yes, Sam?”

“Are we poor?”

“No, Sam.”

“Yes, we are,” Dean said from his bed.

“No, Dean, we aren’t. I’ve seen poor people who live in far worse places than we ever have. We’ve got each other and the Impala. What else do we need?”

“Okay,” Sam said, “Then I’m thanks that we aren’t poor.”

“That’s a good thing to be thankful for, Sammy,” and John draped the boy’s favorite blue blanket across his youngest son.


“Yes, Sam?”

“Will you be here in the ’morrow?”

John smiled and leaned over to kiss Sam’s forehead. “Yes, Sam, I will be here tomorrow.”

“Kay,” and Sam pulled the blue blanket up over his face and rolled onto his side.

John turned to Dean. “Need anything, son?”

Dean shook his head.

John sat down on the edge of Dean’s bed. “You did real good, helping Bobby out with Sam. I know it’s a lot.”

Dean shrugged.

“I forget, sometimes, that you were just his age a little bit ago.”

“I don’t mind, Dad. I like helping you.”

“I like you helping me too,” John said and before Dean could protest, John kissed his boy’s forehead and scratched one hand through the hairs at the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean scrunched up his face, but didn’t wipe his hand across the kissed-wet spot, which John counted as a win.

Dean settled back and John tucked the covers up under his son’s chin.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, Dad.”

John turned the light off and went to see if Bobby had drank all the scotch yet.

And if, maybe, there was any pie left.


Dean was almost asleep when he felt a small warm hand patting his cheek.

“Dean? Dean, you ’wake?” Sam said in a rather loud whisper, and patted at Dean’s cheek again.

“Sam, go back to bed, I’m sleeping.”

“Nuh-uh, ’cause you’re talking.”

Dean groaned. “What do you want? I’m tired.”

“Can I sleep with you?”

Dean groaned again but scooted over and lifted the blankets so Sam could crawl under.

Sam tossed this way and that, until he finally pressed himself face first into Dean’s chest and let out a sigh of relief.

“There, that’s better,” he said in a sleepy mumble.

“Goodnight, Sammy.”


“What, Sammy?”

“I forgot something at dinner.”

“What did you forget?”

Dean felt Sam put both of his little hands flat on Dean’s chest.

“I am thanks for my big brother, Dean. ‘Cause he is the best big brother in the whole wide world and he is my bestest friend ever and I love him more than all the other things I am thanks for, ’cause he’s my Dean forever. The end.”

Dean slid an arm around Sam and pressed his face into the boy’ unruly curls.

“I’m thankful for you too, Sammy. You keep my head up,” and Dean kissed the spot just over Sam’s ear. “Now, go to sleep.”

“You didn’t say the end.”

“The end.”

The End

Tags: art - fic, character - bobby singer, character - dean winchester, character - john winchester, character - sam winchester, fandom - supernatural, fic - general, fic - holiday, fic - pre-series, fic - wee!chesters, fiction - mine, i share my toys, icons - mine, icons are shiny, rating - g, thanksgiving gives me pie, the nephew, wee!dean, wee!sammy, word count - 3001 to 6000, written - 2010

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