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John carefully set down on the carpet in front of his eldest son, trying to brush off the persistent powder from his hands. A metal pipe and a handful of wires were lying in disarray on the motel’s table, covered in white, pesky dust.
It was the second time this happened.
And John couldn’t have it. Afford it.
He looked the boy over, calculating his approach.
Dean was staring at the stained carpet, tracing the darker shapes with his finger and pulling at the loose strands. Sammy was carefully cradled by his side in a checkered blanket, fifty times bigger than himself, and was playing with Dean’s other hand. Dean didn’t even seem to notice.
Please don’t go radio silent on me kid not again please don’t -
John had to take action. Dean was talking again, and this was not the time to scare him back into his shell. He had to remedy the situation.
“Ok, Dean. I’mma. I’m gonna say a name of a…” substance? Item? Object?“…something… out loud, and I want you to tell me what color that something is. Got it?”
Dean nodded. His eyes were still on the stains, but he was listening, his explorations of the carpet’s shortcomings abrupted.
“Ok. Lets try this out. Baby powder!”
Dean blinked at him, opened and closed his mouth and then announced in a high-pitched insulted tone - “White!”
“Good!” smiled John. “Gunpowder?”
The kid pursed his lips, thinking. “Black!”, he yelled, after a short moment of contemplating.
John was pleased.
“Ok son. I’m gonna try this again, and I want your full attention. Got it?” He asked.
Dean nodded eagerly, full of childish enthusiasm.
“Gunpowder!” Barked John, surprising himself with the militant undertones of his own voice. But Dean didn’t falter. Instead, he looked his father dead in the eye, and yelled back at him -
“Black!”
At that, the bundle at Dean’s side twitched and turned, as the baby’s eyes focused on his big brother as if in awe.
John cleared his throat. Ok then. We are gonna have a little shouting match, huh? Well I’m ready if you are -
“Baby powder!” He threw at his son.
“White!”, was the confident response.
“Gunpowder!” Sammy’s eyes followed the sound, registering its source, from his brother to his father and back. He made a little curious noise.
“Black!” Sam’s eyes jumped again, following.
“Baby powder!”
“White!”
“Gunpowder!”
“Black!”
“Baby powder!”
“White!”
“Baby powder!”
“B-b-bwhite-!”
Dean inhaled sharply and froze over.
John snorted. Sammy seemed cautioned, as if waiting for the ping-pong of shouts to continue.
“I mean - I mean b-b-bright-white!!!” Dean corrected himself, eyes wide. “So - umm, it’s. Bwight.” Sam squirmed, pulled Dean’s hand to his face and hiccuped. Dean didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy owlishly gawking at his dad, waiting.
Even at the tender age of four, five next month oh god, John’s eldest had a small repertoire of smartass comebacks. And a knack for making up words.
John felt a substantial amount of fatherly pride creeping up his throat, distracting him. He shoved it back down and buried it, then gave out a small cough, trying to disguise his smile.
“Ok, bwight. Bwight is good.” He adjusted himself on the carpet. “Again. Gunpowder!”
“Black!”
“Baby powder!”
“White!”
“Baby powder?”
Dean inhaled sharply. “White.” He said, determined and absolutely sure of his answer.
“Ok. Now you got it.” Dean smiled a huge smile of accomplishment. Sammy tugged at his hand with greater strength and kicked around. Apparently Dean’s happiness was addictive.
John slowly rose up and rubbed his white-powdered palms together, “Now that my rigs are safe, and hopefully gonna go off as planned. Or you know, at least you won’t blow up your baby brother’s butt by mistake, that’s a plus, too.”
A mortified pair of green eyes stared at him from the level of his knees.