A/N: 645 words. The boys are, I think, about twelve and sixteen. Cocoa Puffs line belongs to [info]cee, whom i loff.

Dean wakes up in the morning to his father bursting in the door of the hotel room. "Front and center, boys!" comes his deep voice, and Dean leaps out of bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, leaving Sammy to pull the rumpled blankets over his head.

Dean runs up to stand in front of his father, who's handling about eighteen different bags and boxes and things. Dean snaps his heels together and salutes sharply, grinning. "Sir, reporting for duty, sir!"

John raises an eyebrow at him and smiles. "Can you maybe make yourself useful and take a box? Punk?"

Dean laughs and immediately grabs bags and boxes out of John's arms, putting them on the floor and bed, depending on what he thinks they are. "Sammy!" he calls, his hands full. "Breakfast!"

Sam stumbles over to them, rubbing his eyes. He sorts the ammo and the holy water onto the table, the t-shirts and the socks into a drawer, and then makes a grab for the styrofoam box in Dean's hands.

"Whoops," Dean smiles, pulling the box out of his reach. "Gotta be a little faster than that, little man." Sam makes a face at him and reels back to punch him in the stomach. Dean dances back, one hand bracing Sam's forehead back, and Sam's just spinning out of that when John takes the box from Dean and puts him in a gentle headlock, growling softly at him. Dean grunts and tries to get out of it, and Sam laughs and heads for the bathroom.

Dean sits down at the table, once they've sorted themselves out, and John pulls two apple juices from the bag and puts them down. "I work for Cocoa Puffs, Dad," Dean says disapprovingly, observing that there is no milk on the table.

"Too bad for you that Cocoa Puffs are candy in a breakfast-lookin' box. Youíll work for eggs and fruit and like it." John ruffles Dean's hair as Dean grouses about the lack of processed sugar, and then grabs his bagel and coffee and heads for his bed. Once there, he pulls out the newspapers and starts spreading the obituaries across the duvet. "Sammy, come on, kiddo. You wait too long, your brotherís gonna eat everything but the chairs."

It's true, Dean's wolfing down an omelet and toast like he's been starved for a week. Of course, he did just eat an entire pizza by himself last night, but he's learned to say "growth spurts are hard work" every time he eats like food is going out of style. Which is most of the time.

Sammy trudges out of the bathroom - he's never been a morning person - and plunks himself down on the chair beside his brother. Dean slows down and pushes some of the eggs toward him. Left to his own devices, Sammy will go a whole day without remembering to eat, and Dean tries to make sure he has something every morning, like a granola bar or something, if they're on the road. If Sammy eats breakfast, Dean has observed, his stomach will remind him for dinner, and two voices yelling at John from the back seat to pull over so they won't starve to death are more effective than one.

The kid tucks into the food without blinking, bleary-eyed and tired. Dean watches him eat until he's satisfied this is more than picking at it and then wandering away, and then he reaches over and ruffles Sammy's scruffy hair.

As usual, Sam just eats and pretends not to notice, but Dean can feel the subtle pressure on his palm as his brother leans into him. Dean smiles, and steals all the strawberries.

"Dad! Dean took the strawberries!"

"Dean, share with your brother."

"Gotta catch me first!"


"If you get shampoo on the carpet, no comic books for a month!"

"Aw, Dad..."