The thing about orphans was the emo.

Sure, they were cute, but so were puppies and fluffy socks.

And neither had ever invaded Dean's car.

So, Sam sent the upholstery an apologetic look and offered his brother a defensive rebuttal.

Which came out as, "If you'd been faster, we could've saved his grandparents and he wouldn't be an orphan."

Dean's knuckles turned white. "And if you hadn't made me floor it when the social worker came, there wouldn't be a kid staring at my head right now."

Sam snuck a glance at the back seat.

"Is he still staring at me?" asked Dean stiffly.

"Very intently, yeah."

Horrified, Dean concentrated on the road. "Tell me again why we can't drop him off with some sort of a child protection agency?"

"Because he'll tell them he sees pink spots everywhere and be stuck in a special ed class until he's old enough to run away?" Sam sucked in his cheeks, then ventured, "Why can't we drop him off with Cassie?"

Dean boggled. "What, and tell her, 'Hey, great sex last time, here's a kid for your effort.'?"

"What's sex?"

Dean slammed on the brakes.

Sam lunged forward, bracing himself.

The kid, however, remained seated, watching them patiently.

"Is he old enough to understand us?" whispered Dean urgently, keeping his head ducked.

"He's probably three or four, so... I'll tell you as soon as I google it."

Smiling beatifically, Dean started down the street again. "Should we give him a name or something?"

Sam looked up from his phone. "He probably has a name, Dean."

"Well, we can't keep him," Dean told no one in particular.

"No, really?" asked Sam. " 'Cause I was going to buy him his own .45 in a couple years."

"Forty-five!"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"You and your friggin' visions."

"Listen up, kid," began Dean authoritatively, "rule number one—"

The boy toppled over, snuggling into the seat.

"—yeah, okay, we'll finish this conversation when you wake up."

It took Sam four hours to start referring to the kid as wee-Dean.

The interstate Oasis had a distinct lack of the pretty.

So when Dean sidled up to the register—the boy in tow—and noticed pigtails and cleavage, he turned up the wattage and leaned on the counter like he was posing for a calendar.

"Did you find everything okay?" the cashier asked, popping her gum.

"Not everything," replied Dean smarmily.

The kid silently observed him for a while, then lifted a cocky eyebrow and grinned up at the cashier.

Dean glanced down at him, then sighed. "You can't pull it off with that haircut, dude."

The boy ignored him, staring up at the cashier's breasts.

"That's it," grumbled Dean and slung the kid over his shoulder in one fluid move. "I'm shaving your head."

Pasting a condescending expression on his face, Sam slouched, stepping closer to the register and slapping down a pack of gum. "You do that, and I'll burn all your boots, Dean."

The boy reached for him.

Sam steadfastly ignored him.

The boy's chin trembled.

Discreetly, Sam took a small step back, eyeing him with trepidation.

And then the boy opened his mouth.

"Smammy."

This, of course, meant the kid was a diabolical genius and that the cashier was hearing-impaired, because she smiled stupidly and cooed, "Oh, so you're the mommy? That is, like, so cute!"

Flustered, Sam waved his hands, offering the cashier an awkward smile, "No, no, he said Sammy, not Mommy—look, okay, he has trouble with his 'S's—"

"Smammy!"

Sam fixed him with an unsympathetic glare, which only made the kid squeal harder and burrow deeper into Dean's jean jacket.

"Hmm. Yeah. We'll wait in the car. Okay, honey?" Dean told Sam curtly, but his eyes shone with amusement.

Sheepish, Sam glanced at the cashier, stuffed a twenty in the little Save the Children jar, then hastily scrambled toward the Impala.

"From now on," he told the kid pointedly, ducking his head inside, "your name is 'Scrawny-assed, self-absorbed, Mephistophelian little prick I'm thinking of selling on Ebay.' "

Dean grinned, rolled down the windows, stepped on the gas, and added, "Danny, for short."

"Paper covers rock."

Annoyed, Sam averted his eyes.

"Next time, we'll go by who can solve a quadratic equation first," he grumbled, but grabbed Danny's hand, and stalked off toward the gas station.

"Remember to show him how to aim like a man, Sammy!"

Sam ignored him.

Day five was spent barreling down a woodsy highway.

"Sam. Are you braiding his hair?"

Sam shrugged, watching as Danny sprawled across his lap, gutting one of Dean's tapes. "Nothing better to do."

"Jesus," griped Dean. "You're such a girl." His eyes darted over surreptitiously. "And you're doing it wrong, by the way."

At once, both Sam and Danny turned to glare.

Sam opened his mouth, then caught a flash of lights in the rearview mirror.

"Crap," said Dean, pulling over to the side of the road.

"Crap," echoed Danny, sagging against Sam and plastering his bare feet across the dashboard.

A state trooper tapped on the window, one hand on her hip. "License and registration, please."

Grinning, Dean turned up the sleaze, leaned back, and handed her his license with practice ease. "Mornin', ma'am."

"You are aware it is illegal to hold child passengers while improperly secured, Mr... Singh?"

Since it was also very illegal to drive around with a trunk full of untraceable weaponry and an impressive stack of fraudulent credit cards, Sam gestured pleasantly at the surrounding woods. "Sorry, ma'am. We live really close so we figured—"

"You have Kansas plates."

"Yes, but—"

"This is Oregon."

Suddenly, Danny burst into tears, locking his arms around Sam's neck and wailing so loudly that several deer poked their heads out of the bushes.

Dean leaned closer. "Shh, baby," he murmured plaintively. "If this nice lady takes Daddy to jail, crazy uncle Eke will take care of you, so don't worry, okay?"

Face red and contorted with anguish, Danny wailed louder, outstretching his little hands toward Dean.

The cop lowered her notepad with a sigh.

"Look," she said, pocketing her pen and resting her palms on the hood. "Just buy a car seat and get the kid a decent haircut and I'll go smother my ticking biological clock, okay?"

The car seat cost Mr. Singh $115.95 plus tax, but the hour spent trying to buckle Danny into it?

Priceless.

By the seventh day, Sam realized that Danny could cry whenever Dean wanted him to.

Like, when the Impala's catalytic converter needed replacing and the local dealership didn't have it, "but could order one from, like, Ontario, man, for an extra fifty, sixty dollars, dude." Or when Dean didn't feel like paying for Doritos. Or when Sam left the cap off the toothpaste.

In retaliation, Sam checked them into a room with one bed instead of three.

"What the hell—" began Dean, then checked himself. "I mean... what the hay, Sam?"

"We're low on cash," was Sam's only reply.

"Fine," replied Dean, zipping up his jacket. "I'll go find a pool hall."

Inconspicuously, Sam nudged Danny.

"Don't go, De-en."

Dean froze with his hand on the doorknob. Slowly, he turned his head, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Did you train him to—"

"A little. Yeah."

"That's it," mumbled Dean, rummaging for his phone. "We'll drop him off with Missouri."

Sam's phone went off.

"Boy, you better tell your brother to not even think about it, you understand?"

Dean tossed his cell onto the bed with a scowl.

"I'm not sleeping on the floor, Sam," he warned.

"Yeah," was all Sam said as he shed his hoodie.

"What about that Stanford chick?"

Sam fluffed his half of the pillow. "What?"

Dean wrinkled his nose, blanket drawn up to his chin. "Stay on your side, man. Your toes are cold."

"What about her?" yawned Sam, one leg dangling off the bed.

"Think she'd take him?" mused Dean, peeling Danny's fingers off his t-shirt collar. "Jeannine, right? I never forget a hot girl."

"Her name's Rebecca."

"Whatever. Would she take him?"

Danny rolled over, snuggling into the crook of Sam's shoulder, mumbling, "Shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Staring up at the ceiling, Sam draped an arm over his chest and sighed. "Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Did you teach him to—"

"Accidentally. Yeah."

"I'll call Rebecca in the morning."

They screeched to a halt three miles from the state line.

Sam tumbled out of the car, gulping air and scratching at his face.

Dean followed, rounding the car and shoving at Sam's shoulder. "You're the one that fed him chilli!"

"You're the one that topped him off with cheese!"

"Stop yelling! You'll wake him up!"

"You started it!"

Danny stirred in the back seat.

"Soon as he's gone, I'm punching a hole through your—your..." hissed Dean, then trailed off. "Damn it! I can't even cuss properly anymore."

Panting heavily, Sam stared at his brother. "Oh, God, Dean."

Dean wiped at his forehead, glaring. "What?"

"You want to keep him, don't you?"

Chagrined, Dean scratched the back of his neck. "What? No. Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know!"

Smirking, Sam crossed his arms and lazily leaned against the car. "I thought you didn't want an apple pie life."

"You have apple pie?" Danny asked, poking his head out the window with an eye-watering yawn.

Sam and Dean exchanged glances.

"We're thinking about adopting, too."

Sam scrunched up his face, trying to pin Danny to the booth. "Sorry?"

The man at the nearest table leaned on his elbow, smiling pleasantly. "My boyfriend and I."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged. "You want this one, man?"

Sam kicked him under the table.

Jittery, Danny sprawled across the booth.

"Pie," he whined. "Pieeee."

Dean grinned brightly at Sam, twirling his fork. "Honey, give the boy some pie."

Sam twitched.

"We can't sleep in the car."

Dean set the parking brake, flicking the lights off. "Why not?"

Sam goggled. "Are you serious?"

Dean said nothing, which Sam translated as, 'Fine. Rip me a new one, dude.'

"He could open the door and wander off while we're sleeping and get run over by a Pepsi truck," Sam listed off. "He could roll over and fall on something sharp and damage his spine and become a quadriplegic. He could find a way into the trunk and shoot himself in the—what?"

Both Dean and Danny were staring at him in utter silence.

"Nothing. Just... a Pepsi truck?" asked Dean patronizingly, patting Danny's head. "C'mon, kid, let's leave Mommy alone so she can find her testicles."

"What are—"

"I'll tell you when you're older."

And with that, Dean strutted out of the car, hauling Danny and a duffel off into the woods.

"Dean!"

"We'll camp out, Sammy!" he threw over his shoulder. "Where the Pepsi trucks can't get us."

Mortified, Sam slowly trudged after them.

Around two in the morning, Sam realized the heavy weight on his chest was wriggling.

"Danny," he whispered groggily, then choked on a mouthful of salt.

He sat up abruptly, spitting out chunks of rock salt, and unceremoniously pushed the kid off.

Dean woke up as Danny hit the ground.

"Dude, what the hell?" he asked, jumping to his feet and instinctively inspecting the protective circle around them.

With a wheeze, Sam clutched at his heart, nodding at Danny.

"He's... evil..." he rasped.

Dean bit back a grin. "Oh. Yeah. He's totally Machiavellian."

"Dean—"

With a quiet whimper, Danny's bottom lip quivered, so Dean low-fived him, and added, "You did it to me when you were four, dude."

Sam scowled. "Liar."

"Bastard."

"Bitch."

"Bond with the kid, Sam."

Sam froze. "Why? We're not keeping him."

"We could," replied Dean casually, leaning against his duffel bag. "If Dad could raise two of us, the two of us could easily—"

Sam's phone went off.

"Sam, hey. Zack and I were thinking, and..."

By day ten, Sam was officially a day late.

Rebecca had left him four voicemails, but this was more important.

"Dean," he ground out angrily, shoving a hanger back onto the rack.

Dean cleared his throat, picking lint off his shoulder. "Tell him, Danny."

Danny looked up, sitting Indian-style in the cart, adjusted his oversized sunglasses, and clicked a finger at Sam. "I like them."

After a beat, Sam steered the cart away from Dean.

"Repeat after me," he told a grinning Danny. "I want to wear a Jayhawks hoodie and I don't like hair product."

Danny scrunched up his face. "Hoodiehawks product."

"Exactly!" shouted Sam victoriously, grabbing random articles of clothing and piling them atop a giggling Danny.

Mr. Nakamura's credit card paid for the gas that got them to Rebecca's house.

Danny was asleep in the back seat, a half-eaten ice cream cone stuck to his tummy. Sam was staring at his phone. And Dean...

Dean was staring intently at Sam.

"Stop it."

"What? I'm not doing anything."

Irritated, Sam turned his head slightly. "We've been sitting in the driveway for ten minutes, Dean."

Dean turned off the ignition.

"You know," he began calmly, "for someone so intent on normal, you sure are eager to get rid of it."

Sam lowered his voice, bangs falling over his eyes. "I fail to see how raising a kid with my dead brother is normal."

With a tiny offended huff, Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Hey, technically, I'm only... legally dead."

Sam exhaled harshly. "And there's the thing that killed Mom."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "And there's also Pepsi trucks."

Frustrated, Sam's eyes sought Dean's. "And I have visions, Dean. Remember? I'd freak him out eventually."

"Yeah, whatever, he'd probably use you to cheat on exams."

Sam thumped his forehead against the window.

Sighing, Dean clumsily patted his shoulder. "He likes you, you idiot. He likes me more, of course, but that's understandable. Everyone does."

"Dean. He'll need baby-sitters and vitamins and therapy."

Puffing out his chest, Dean glanced at the fading scar on his brother's cheek. "Oh, please. We never had any of that and look how great we turned out!"

Sam watched his brother carefully.

"Yeah, okay," he said, shuffling out of the car. "She's waiting."

"My God, I've never seen anything cuter!"

Dean preened, cuffing himself on the collar. "Oh, stop. You're making me blush, Jeannine."

With a deep sigh, Rebecca rolled her eyes, then gestured at her parents' living room.

"He'll love it here," she assured gently.

Danny peeked behind Sam, his little arms wrapped around Sam's knee.

Sam ran his fingers through Danny's hair, then nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, I think you're right."

They were seven miles into Arizona when Sam reached for his phone.

"Sam. What are you doing?"

"I forgot to tell her he's lactose intolerant."

Dean smirked. "Okay. I'll play you for it."

Sam blinked and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

Beaming, Dean inhaled his slurpee, tapping his fingers on the wheel. "Rules are simple. Winner gets to decide."

Sam gave him a suspicious once-over. "Decide what?"

"C'mon, college boy."

Sam folded his hands in his lap and focused on the stop sign ahead.

"—off the toothpaste, and he hasn't stopped crying since!"

Dean chuckled, then quickly coughed and segued into, "Look, Becca, I guess he just needs some time to—" he trailed off, turning wicked eyes to Sam. "He won't let her wash his hoodie, Sam."

Sam kept his mouth shut, thrumming his fingers against his knees.

"Uh huh. Uh huh," nodded Dean, staring at his brother. "Keeps calling you Smammy. You don't say."

Exasperated, Sam snatched the phone away. "He's lactose intolerant!"

Dean's lips curled.

Sam flipped the phone, kicked Dean, then bared his teeth. "Shut up and play."

"Well. Scissors cut paper, Dean."

Dean grinned, turning the car around. "Yeah."