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“Dad…how do you spell Sammy?” A five year old Dean asked his father from where he sat on a hotel bed. His baby brother sleeping between two pillows behind him. A piece of blank paper in Dean’s tiny hands.

“S-a-m-m-y” His father answered without lifting his head.

“S-a-m…m-y?” he repeated quietly.

“Yeah, Dean you got it.”

“My Sam?” Dean looked at his brother, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Yup,” John continued to scribbling notes.

Dean smiled, scribbled the letters boldly on the paper then turned to his sleeping brother. He crawled forward, placed a light kiss on Sammy’s forehead then laid next to him, his wide eyes fixed on his brother.

“My Sam.”