Summary: Pizza Pie 'verse – Bobby smiled at the four-year old standing beside his desk. "What 'cha got there, squirt?" Though the old hunter suspected he already knew. After all, Sam was always drawing pictures of himself and Dean...especially when his big brother had been away on a hunt with John like the eight-year old had been this weekend.

Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. But this 'verse is...and I sometimes wish I could live in it.

Warnings: None – just minor language and a healthy dose of schmoop.

If a child draws you a picture, never doubt that he loves you. ~ Unknown

Sam had been in a secretive mood all morning.

The four-year old had awoken with sleepy smiles and warm hugs like he always did; this drowsy, sweet child never failing to melt Bobby's heart as he snuggled and cuddled before fully waking up.

But then Sam had wrinkled his nose at the mention of breakfast, refusing the offer of homemade pancakes and instantly setting off Bobby's radar.

Because Sam loved homemade pancakes and only rejected them if...

Still sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, Bobby had frowned at the realization and had eased Sam back from their hug to palm the kid's forehead.

Sam had giggled, barely tolerating the fever check as he had squirmed in Bobby's arms.

"M'not sick, Uncle Bobby," he had assured. "I just got somethin' to do. 'Business before breakfast'," he had recited, and Bobby had known who the four-year old was quoting.

John Winchester, Father of the Year.

Bobby had snorted. "Business before breakfast?" he had echoed, picturing Sam and Dean hungry and waiting as their dad handled whatever business was more important than feeding your kids.

"Mmhmm," Sam had hummed and had smiled at Bobby, giving him a quick hug before wiggling off his lap and then squealing as Rumsfeld had pounced.

Bobby had chuckled at the overgrown puppy's enthusiasm; Rummy finally having a clear shot to attack his favorite kid with sloppy kisses and playful nips. The Rottweiler's nubby tail twitching back and forth in excitement at Sam's laughter.

Several seconds later, Sam had escaped the claws of doom – he was Superman after all, it said so on his red and blue PJs – and had crossed the room, gathering his stash of paper and crayons and markers and glue from the bottom dresser drawer...and then shyly asking if Bobby had any macaroni.

Bobby had arched an eyebrow at the unusual request. "What for?"

"The kind that's shaped like this," Sam had responded, not answering Bobby's question but providing additional information about exactly the kind of macaroni he was hoping for.

Bobby had nodded as Sam had traced a half moon in the air. "Elbow macaroni?"

Sam had glanced at his elbow and then back at Bobby – clearly thinking that was a silly name – and then had returned the nod. "Yes. Do you have some?"

Bobby had shrugged, still unsure why elbow macaroni was important at 8:00 in the morning. "I don't know. We'll have to go downstairs and check."

"'Kay," Sam had agreed and had awkwardly scooped his art supplies into his arms before leaving the room, his bare feet pitter-pattering down the hall.

Rumsfeld had scampered behind him, and Bobby had shaken his head as he had slowly stood and followed, collecting dropped markers as he went.

Unsurprisingly, the trail had led to the kitchen where Sam had already begun arranging his work area on the table; stacking his papers and sorting his crayons and frowning as he had realized he was missing the majority of his markers.

"Rummy..." Sam had called as though he were about to ask the dog if he had seen his markers, and Rummy had tilted his head as though he were ready to consider the question.

Bobby had smiled at the adorableness and had released the fisted markers as he had approached, watching Sam's eyes brighten as the colors had rolled across the surface of the table.

"Thanks, Uncle Bobby!"

Bobby had winked and had crossed to the cabinet in search of elbow macaroni.

Sam had stood beside him, quiet and waiting.

After several seconds, Bobby had sighed.

"Well, there's good news and bad news." He had paused. "The good news is that we've got the macaroni. But the bad news is that it's in this mac and cheese box, which was going to be your lunch today."

Sam had said nothing as he had blinked up at Bobby.

Bobby had chuckled at his inability to resist those big eyes. "But I reckon I can make something else for lunch," he had allowed as he had opened the box and removed the cheese packet. "Here you go, squirt," he had told the four-year old. "That's all I've got to offer."

Sam had grinned. "Perfect," he had declared, peering into the box of dry pasta and shaking it for further inspection before settling down at the kitchen table with Rumsfeld sprawled beneath his chair.

From across the kitchen, Bobby had poured a fresh cup of coffee and had leaned against the counter as he had watched his youngest dump the box of macaroni on the table and then meticulously separate each one.

"What 'cha gonna make?"

Sam had glanced over his shoulder, angling his small body as if he could hide his project from Bobby. "Can't tell you yet. It's a secret. A secret surprise..."

Bobby had nodded and had continued to watch, sipping his coffee in the silence and feeling amused – and maybe a bit stung – when Sam had politely dismissed him from the kitchen.

"Sorry, Uncle Bobby. But it's a secret."

And secrets clearly had to be carried out in...well...secret. No audience allowed, except for the dog keeping watch under your chair.

That was okay.

But nosy Uncle Bobbys were required to relocate.

So, Bobby had left the kitchen.

That had been over half an hour ago.

Bobby was settled in the study now and could hear Sam's chair creaking as the four-year old swung his short little legs back and forth in rhythm to whatever tune he was humming while he worked on his artistic creation.

Ten minutes later, he appeared at the edge of Bobby's desk; his carefully crafted masterpiece clutched to his chest.

The project still a secret until Sam was ready for the big reveal.

Bobby smiled. "What 'cha got there, squirt?"

Though the old hunter suspected he already knew.

After all, Sam was always drawing pictures of himself and Dean...especially when his big brother had been away on a hunt with John like the eight-year old had been this weekend.

And since Bobby knew Sam had missed his brother, he had just assumed this sweet kid had created a new picture to present to Dean when he returned to Singer Salvage later that afternoon.

But Sam didn't answer Bobby's question.

Instead the four-year old bit his bottom lip – the way he did when he was both excited and nervous – and turned the paper around, allowing Bobby to see for himself what secret Sam had spent almost an hour perfecting.

Bobby wasn't prepared for what he saw.

A crayon drawing of him and Sam and Rummy was at the top.

One giant heart in the middle of the paper was outlined in macaroni with its center colored red.

Beneath that, in bold, black letters Sam had written his message – crooked and slanting but every word spelled correctly because Bobby's kid was so damn smart...even at four-years old.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Bobby! I love you!

And just like that, Bobby felt his heart swell with love. His chest suddenly tight, his throat clogged with emotion. His eyes burning with unshed tears as he read those words again.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Bobby! I love you!

Bobby swallowed, because hell...he hadn't even realized it was Father's Day.

It had just been another Sunday to him, made special only because Sam was with him.

But now this floppy-haired kid had just cemented that holiday in this old hunter's heart.

Because Bobby did consider himself a father to Sam and Dean...and it was nice to know that feeling went both ways.

Sam stared at him, unsure how to interpret Bobby's prolonged silence.

"Do you like it?"

Bobby chuckled, the sound wet but happy. "I love it," he promised, taking the drawing from Sam and setting it on his desk so he could reach for what he really wanted to hold – this four-year old who made everything worth it. "And you know what else I love?"

Sam smiled – because this he knew – and fell forward into Bobby's grip, allowing the old hunter to lift him. "Me?"

Bobby nodded. "You," he confirmed, settling Sam in his lap.

Because damn right he loved this kid.

Damn right, he did.

"And Dean?"

Bobby nodded again; touched that Sam would want to make sure his big brother was included in the things Bobby loved.

"And Dean," Bobby added, because damn right he loved that kid as well.

Bobby loved both of his kids.

Sam beamed at him. "I love Dean, too."

Bobby felt his heart once again swell. "I know you do, squirt. And he's gonna be so happy to see you and so proud of what you made for me."

Sam continued to beam at the anticipation of seeing his big brother. "I made him something, too. It's in the kitchen."

Bobby smiled, not surprised. "Whatever you made, I'm sure he's gonna like it just as much as I like mine," the old hunter assured, nodding at the drawing on his desk.

There was a pause.

"But you know what Dean's not gonna like?" Bobby asked the kid still sitting in his lap.

Sam's eyes widened, because Dean not liking something never ended well.


"He's not gonna like that it's past 9:00, and you still haven't eaten breakfast."

Sam cringed at the thought, knowing how important food was to Dean...and how even more important it was to him that Sam ate.

"Well..." Sam began, fidgeting with one of the buttons on Bobby's shirt as he thought of how they could solve this problem. "How 'bout them pancakes?"

Bobby smiled knowingly. "How 'bout 'em?"

Sam giggled – problem solved – and gave Bobby a quick hug before pushing down from the old hunter's lap and scurrying off to the kitchen with Rummy hot on his heels.

Bobby's smile lingered as he glanced again at the Father's Day card from one of his kids and then stood, crossing to the kitchen to make his four-year old those pancakes.