May 14th, 1983

Little Sammy has only been breathing for a mere twelve days but he's already as much a part of the Winchester family as John or Mary or Dean are.

Dean spends most of his time at his brother's side and all of it keeping Sammy within eye sight. This surprises John; he'd have thought the kid would have gotten bored of a baby by now. He looks forward to reminding his boys of this in their teenage years when they start going at each other's throats.

Mary, of course, adores her new son. Her face exudes motherly adulation whenever anyone so much as mention's her baby boy's name. She's the one who changes all of the dirty diapers, prepares all of the bottles (although Dean insists on doing most of the feeding himself) and is always the one to get Sam to sleep at night.

Thus leaving John in rather a troublesome predicament at this moment in time. It's ten o'clock at night, Dean is sound-o upstairs and Mary is on a girl's night out, her first time away from her new baby. Meaning the task of putting Sammy to bed has been left to John.

Well, he thinks, it can't be too hard.

He's sat on the couch with Sam cradled tight to his chest, his muscular arms stiff from the stillness of holding the baby for a prolonged period. His son looks to be almost asleep as it is so John stands, the baby clutched safely against him, and starts the treacherous journey up the stairs and to the nursery. He goes slowly up the stairs and along the landing, scared of the groaning floorboards waking Sammy. They don't though, and they're stood outside the nursery in a handful of moments.

He stops in the doorway and smiles proudly to himself; he worked so damn hard to get this room perfect for Sam's arrival.

Just as he's about to place the impossibly small human in the crib a pair of tiny, moss-coloured eyes blink up at him, full of unspoken curiosity. John's sure this kid is going to grow up to be some kind of genius.

"Hey there, Sammy." John whispers, ever mindful of Dean sleeping just down the hallway. "You ready to catch some Zs, little buddy?"

Sam gurgles out a yawn in response and John chuckles. He doesn't see what Mary complains about; putting this kid to bed is child's play.

He carefully places the baby down in the crib and pulls his hands away, those bright little eyes trained intently on him like police searchlights. He takes a moment to wonder how he managed to create something so fragile, so perfect, so heavenly.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Sammy's face screws up like tissues paper in a fist, turning raw-meat red in the process. His hands form miniscule but tight fists and his little legs kick out vigorously in time with his tantrum. His mouth pops open and he decides that now is the perfect time to demonstrate that, as little as he is, he sure as hell has a massive pair of lungs on him.

Just great.

The sound is grating and vicious, biting at John's brain like a pack of rabid wolves. He doesn't understand it at all, which only serves to make his frustration worsen; Sammy's not hurt, was yawning and smiling a moment ago, yet here he is acting like a fucking banshee.

"Woah, Sammy, quiet down will ya?" As expected, John gets no response. Unsure of what to do in this situation, his Marines training taught him nothing about handling screaming babies, he tries a different tack. "It's alright little buddy, Daddy's here. Mommy will be home soon."

At the mention of Mary Sam stops, looks around, catches sight of John (not Mommy) smiling hopefully at him and promptly starts howling again like he'll never stop. Only this time, he's somehow found it in himself to be even louder.

John heaves out a sigh and looks desperately around the nursery for a weapon to use against this relentless monster. His sights settles on a panda plushie, a gift from a neighbour he thinks, and he grabs onto it like it's the Holy freaking Grail.

"Hey, look! It's Mr Panda come to play!" John says with painfully false cheer, waving the toy animatedly in front of his bawling son's face. "He wants to see a smile, Sammy!"

To Sam, exhausted and missing his Mommy and only twelve days old, the panda looks terrifying. It's big and close and frightening and making his Daddy shout. So Sammy cries harder. And John snaps.

"Dammit, Sam!" He roars, a stressful day definitely getting the better of him. "Just shut the hell up and get some freaking sleep!"

It definitely isn't one of John Winchester's proudest moments, hollering at his new born baby son, but he's too tired and wound-up to care.

Naturally, Sam's tantrum goes up a couple of notches.

All of a sudden the room is flooded with the yellowish light of the bulb overhead and John turns around, half-expecting to see an angel come to save his ass from this demon child. Instead, he sees his four-year-old stood there, more asleep than awake, wearing his too-big Batman pyjamas.

"Go back to bed, Dean." John grits out, only willing to deal with one sleepless child at a time.

"Sammy's crying." Dean punctuates with a yawn of his own and plods over to his baby brother's crib, standing on his tiptoes to get a good look. "You shouldn't shout at him when he's crying, Daddy. It makes him scared and sad."

John rolls his tired eyes at his oldest boy's earnest lecture. He's not sure whether he ought to be pissed or proud or maybe a bit humiliated that Dean is telling him how to take care of a baby. His own damn baby at that.

He's seen Dean deal with Sam before though and he knows that the brothers already have some sort of brotherly bond going on for them. It's cure really, if a little bit creepy if you really think about it. Like, Dean can tell Mary to make up a bottle five minutes before Sammy even starts showing signs of crying for one. So maybe Dean can be of use now.

"So what should I do, Kiddo?"

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and reaches to lift Sam from his crib. His pudgy but expert hands find his brother like two magnets to metal and he hauls him out with a little grunt of effort. It looks precarious to say the least but John doesn't dare stop his oldest.

He watches in disbelieving awe as Dean cuddles Sammy, whispering things to him and pressing kisses to his stubbly head.

Sam stops crying but Dean shows no sign of releasing his precious load.

The big brother's eyes flicker to the discarded panda sprawled limply on the floor, then glare venomously at his father. And John can't help but feel more than a little bit hurt, although admittedly proud, by this whole ordeal.

"Sammy hates Mr Panda, Daddy."

Well, John thinks, of course he does.


A/N: So this will be my first time posting something in chapters on here; wish me luck! I've got all of the other parts written out, I just need to type them up and post them, so let me know if you think this is any good/if it's worth me posting the other parts. The other parts are all unrelated to each other, more like unrelated one-shots that fall into the same category, and will include the following; sad!Sam, angry!Dean, drunk!Sam, sick!Sam and hurt!Dean, all, of course, with John screwing up in some way (or not, for the last one).

Anywhore, thank you very, very much for reading this and please, please let me know what you think! :3