In a fit of insomnia, and a 6 year-old with some recent anxiety over her stuffed rabbit, this happened. Have some Weechesters! Kid!Dean and kid!Sam.

Very few possessions have survived more than a year in the care of the Winchester men. All the moving, all the motels, all the things that John Winchester throws away when they hit the road again because they take up too much space in the Impala’s trunk. Nothing is saved. Nothing is sacred.

Except the rabbit.

It’s Sam’s. A ratty, well-loved stuffed animal that’s made the rounds. It fits snugly in the crook of Sam’s small arm, and he never lets it go. Not just because it’s his comfort object, but also because he instinctively knows if he never lets it go, it never goes missing.

Dean knows the truth, though. It never will. He’s seen his dad run back into a motel they’re ditching in the middle of the night just to find that stupid brown rabbit with floppy pink ears and tuck it carefully into Sam’s slack inner elbow while the kid slept through being moved from the bed to the car, none the wiser of the near miss.

Tonight is storming terribly outside a faded yellow house in Kansas they’ve rented for two months now. Dean’s almost comfortably familiar with the place, which makes him nervous. More nervous than the possibility of a tornado, which seems likely tonight.

A thunder clap rattles the entire house. Makes him jump. Makes Sam shuffle into his room, not quite bleary enough to have been asleep yet.

Dean moves over in his double bed to make room. “Storm keeping you up?”

“No,” Sam answers softly, hiking a leg up and grabbing handfuls of the comforter to drag his small body up into the bed. He settles in next to Dean, burrowed deeply into the sheets, rabbit pressed against his cheek. “I’ve been thinking bad thoughts, and I’m trying not to think bad thoughts.”

Dean’s eyebrows tip up. Sam’s six. Bad thoughts are probably relative. “What about?”

Sam squeezes the rabbit tighter. “I’m worried leaving Potato by himself when I go to school.”

Dean can’t help laughing at that, but bites it back quickly when Sam’s face starts to crumble. “Come on, Sammy. Why would you worry about that?” He’d like to remind him that there are far scarier things, but even he knows that’s probably not the best move on a night like tonight.

He can barely hear Sam’s voice over the rain and thunder. “What if… what if someone breaks in and takes him? What if a monster does? What if a robber does?”

Dean scoffs. “Why the heck would a robber take your stuffed rabbit?”

Tears swell Sam’s eyes and thicken his voice. “Because robbers take important things, and Potato is the most important thing I’ve got.”

Understanding dawning, Dean draws up and gathers his little brother to his chest, letting the kid have it out, leaving wet, salty splotches on his shirt. “Geez, Sammy,” he says gently. “You don’t gotta worry about stuff like that.”

“Why not?” Sam sniffles.

“‘Cause we can just hide Potato really good when we go to school, okay?”

Sam frowns harder, pulling back. “But robbers look everywhere!”

In a helpless stroke of brilliance, Dean grabs the red Sharpie off of his nightstand and holds his hand out for the rabbit. Reluctantly, Sam hands it over. Dean flips it over, carefully drawing on its tan foot, to Sam’s vehement protests and grabby hands, but it’s done, and Dean hands the toy back.

Sam scrutinizes the drawing. He looks about to explode in tears again at the ruined foot, but then his brow clears. “Oh! It’s a protection sigil.”

Instead of thinking about how sad it is that his brother even needs to know that, Dean grins. “Yeah. That way no one can steal it when you hide it. Not monsters, not robbers.” That’s not entirely true, but it’s enough for a six year old, whose world is a lot more simple.

Sam tucks the rabbit into his elbow as he always does, and smacks himself against Dean’s side once more, eyes closing. “Thanks, Dean.”

“You bet,” Dean says softly, fondly.

He thinks, to hell with the storm. They’re safe from all the monsters tonight.