This was the first fic I ever wrote. I don't really know what turned Dean into a little kid, but I wrote this not long after I had to reread that Metamorphosis story and consider that enough of an excuse. I also don't know why Sam went straight to threatening him with a gun. I guess he's just really cautious and worried about his brother?

I wrote this because I figured that if Dean ever got turned into a little kid for whatever reason he'd go straight for the alcohol. And it's kind of fun to make little Dean swear...

Feel free to comment or something!

Dean awoke from a restless sleep to the sound of a gun being cocked beside his head. Startled, he looked up to see Sam standing over his bed in their cheap motel room, a thinly veiled expression of horror on his face. "Who are you and where is Dean?" he asked in a very threatening voice. Maybe it was because a sleepy haze still lingered in Dean's mind, but for some reason Sam looked even taller than usual.

"Mornin' Sasquatch," he said sleepily. "What's with the gun?" Did his voice sound higher pitched than usual? He was probably just imagining things. After all, according to the old alarm clock beside the bed it was only 6 am.

"Where. Is. Dean." Sam repeated dangerously. As his mind began to clear, Dean realized he wasn't kidding around.

"What are you talking about? I am Dean." He sat up, the gun following his head. Somehow the blankets felt heavier than they had the night before. His eyes darted around the dim, nauseously yellowish room, which appeared to have expanded overnight.

"Nice try. Dean isn't some two year old. Who are you, and where is he?" Sam asked again.

Two year old? Thought Dean. Deciding that Sam probably wasn't going to shoot him any time soon, he looked down at his hands. But they weren't his hands; they couldn't be. They didn't look any smaller to him, although they were slightly chubby looking, and appeared to be so soft they almost glowed. Well, compared to his normal, calloused hands they did. The skin of his hands and arms was…fresh looking, like the kind of skin people who actually wear sunscreen have.

"Well, shit." Dean swore eloquently. "I don't know why I'm…like this," he said carefully, not wanting to actually say he now appeared to be a toddler out loud (listening to the childlike voice that came out of his mouth was bad enough), "but I'm definitely still Dean," he finished. Struck by a sudden apprehension, he looked down at what he was wearing. To his horror he saw bright blue shirt with a disgustingly cute dancing monkey on the front and a diaper. Unfortunately, before he could voice this horror Sam spoke up again.

"Really?" he scoffed, the gun shifting in his grip, preparing to fire. Dean nodded carefully, his eyes on the barrel. "Then prove it."

"Sam, look into my eyes and tell me that I'm not your brother," Dean said very seriously. It seemed rather surreal, coming from such a little kid.

For a few moments Sam looked deep into Dean's eyes before shattering the silence growing between them with "wow. You definitely aren't my brother. Your eyes aren't even the right color; Dean's are green and yours are kind of blue."

Dean frowned. So much for that plan. He looked back at the gun that was still aimed at him. There had to be some way…

"Cas!" He exclaimed in triumph. "We can call Cas. He'd be able to set things straight. And maybe turn me back to normal…" Dean felt pretty good. Soon this would all be over, and his baby brother would once again by physically younger. And not aiming a gun at him. The whole situation was unsettling.

Sam thought about it for a moment. "Well, I guess if you really are Dean then Cas will come when you call him."

"Hey, uh, Castiel, we could use your help right now," little Dean called out uncertainly as Sam finally lowered his gun. Cas was there in a moment.

For a moment the angel stared at Dean with that somewhat confused look he seemed to always wear. "Dean. What do you need?" he asked at last, snapping out of it.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Well, that takes care of that problem," he said, somewhat relieved. "I guess you were telling the truth after all."

"No kidding," Dean muttered.

Castiel simply looked between the two of them for a moment. "If the problem is solved, then I should be going. I am very busy."

Dean opened his mouth to ask for help getting back to normal, but Cas was already gone. "Dammit!" he shouted, or rather, squeaked, to no one in particular. "So much for the angelic assistance."

For a moment the room was filled with silence. Then, after letting out a few hysterical laughs, Sam sat heavily on his bed. "What the hell. How did this even happen? What are we supposed to do?" He could sort of see the resemblance now. The Dean in front of him, with his wispy blond hair and still slightly blue eyes, vaguely reminded him of some of the old photos of Mom that he used to look at.

"Well," Dean began, carefully climbing off of his bed (which was now higher than his head, he realized as he landed on the floor), "I don't know about you, but I know what I'm doing." Sam watched for a moment in fascination as Dean slowly wobbled around on his short, fat little legs before realizing what he was doing.

"Dean, you can't do that. You're in the body of a little kid." But Dean ignored him as he struggled to open the bottle. "Seriously, you don't know what that'll do to you," he tried to reason.

"Oh, I know exactly what it's gonna do," Dean replied before attempting to take a long swig of the whiskey and spilling a large amount on himself in the process. "Crap," he swore. It sounded strange being said by a kid who almost looked too young to be talking at all.

Sam sighed and put his head in his hands. "Guess I'd better call Bobby," he said after a minute. He pulled out his phone and contemplated the odds of Bobby even being able to help before following Dean's example and reaching for the nearest bottle of alcohol.

It was going to be a long day.