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The cassette ends on a low hiss-crackle, and John ejects it before it can flip itself over again and start the first side. The sun shines bright into the car, low shush of them slipping over the tarmac, and the metal of the door is hot under his forearm.
It's quiet in the car but for the occasional shuffle of movement from the back; he glances into the rearview, watching Dean's bowed head, the seemingly random flail of Sammy’s fists or feet into frame and out again.
The desert's yellow, road black, and he finds himself humming under his breath, keeping rhythm with the flicker of the broken line they're riding down.
"Dad," Dean says, and John glances up again. Dean's short enough that John can only see the top part of his face in the mirror, eyes and hair tousled by the wind blowing through the open window.
"Yeah? You need a pit stop?" John sniffs experimentally, only smelling the leather and hot sand from car and environs. "Sammy need a pit stop?"
"No." Dean sighs heavily. "I need some new crayons."
John glances back at the road briefly, frowning. "What's wrong with the ones you got?"
Dean sighs again, tipping his head back to hit the back of the seat, and John can see the twist of his mouth. "They're gone."
"Gone where, Dean." As if it wasn't enough that he'd hauled them out of the car last night to find the wheel wells filled with scattered scraps of paper from where Dean'd peeled the labels off them all.
"Sammy ate them."
"He what?"
"Not all of them," Dean says hurriedly. "Just all the good colors. He only likes the good colors." The last spoken a bit reproachfully.
"Dean." John presses his fingers briefly to the bridge of his nose. "What did I say about letting Sammy put things in his mouth?"
Dean sighs again. "It's fine if he chews on stuff, as long as he can't swallow it."
"And?"
"And as long as it's the stuff he's meant to chew on. But Dad, he likes crayons."
"Yeah well, Sammy can't always get everything he likes." Interesting times ahead, at least. Sam's diapers will be technicolor for the next couple of days.
"I know, I know," Dean says, still at the stage where several hours in the car leads to a degree of precociousness. "Man, I hate teeving."
"Hey," John says. "At least he's not crying." Chewing on his own foot, more like, from what John can see in the mirror.
"Yeah, he saves that for when we're sleeping."
"He likes the attention."
Dean pauses for a beat. "You said he can't get everything he likes."
Touché. Dean's staring at him in the mirror now, like he's caught John in a trap of Dean’s own devising and is watching him squirm. "Yeah, well maybe Sammy's the clever one, because he knows we'll only get to sleep if he gets what he wants."
Dean's silent for a moment. "He's not cleverer than me."
"No," John concedes. Not yet, at least. Despite the copious amounts of drool that accompanies much of what Sam does these days, there's more than a little truth in Dean's perception of Sammy's powers of manipulation.
"Dad."
"What."
"Can I have some new crayons?"
"You can use the ones you have, Dean."
"I told you, Sammy ate all the good ones."
"So use the rest. You're not getting any more until they're done with. And," he hastily adds. "If you feed them to Sammy, you're not getting any more, period."
Dean rolls his eyes extremely eloquently. "He only eats the good ones," he says. Duh.
"Guess he's got taste, then."
Dean giggles. "Guess he tastes like a crayon." He throws his head back and laughs like it's the best joke ever conceived.
John smirks, shakes his head briefly. Dean settles, bowing his head again; Sammy thrusts one multicolored, drool-covered foot in the air and then reaches for it with futilely wriggling fingers.
"Dad." Another rustle of paper, Dean's small hand slapping down on the top of the front seat. John reaches blindly and Dean thrusts the piece of paper into his hands.
"Oh." Oh. "It's a… A field. With… animals in it. Brown animals?" John says hopefully.
"It's us," Dean says, only mildly affronted. "In the car. I had to use brown, there were no other colors."
Of course. John's hair was usually blue, Dean's orange. Sammy usually bright yellow. No wonder he didn't recognize them. "Where's the roof?"
"If there was a roof then you couldn't see us," Dean explains, and it makes perfect sense.
"Can I keep this?"
"It's only a brown one," Dean says. "But okay." He sits back again.
"Dad."
"Uh-huh."
"When can Sammy draw crayons too?"
John considers, then can't help but grin. "He could probably puke on a piece of paper for you right now."
Dean Ewws in abject delight at the thought, and maybe John didn't think that one entirely through before he opened his mouth.
"I swear to god, Dean, if you even think the word 'tickle' then I'm going to pull over right now and you can walk to Albuquerque."
Apparently, this is the funniest thing ever.