Emma
Emma swan awoke with a start. Her heart was racing, and she felt as if she had just come out of a bad dream. Her mouth was dry and her nose was stuffed; this cold weather had her catching something. Rubbing a hand over her eyes, Emma groaned and sat up. That was when she noticed something was off.
Emma had no idea where she was. She distinctly remembered heading home after the magic debacle at the mansion. She remembered settling down on the couch with her son, Henry, to watch Netflix. She remembered how warm she felt, how loved and loving, and she remembered falling asleep with Henry's head on her shoulder.
Glancing around, Emma noted curiously that the room she had been sleeping in almost certainly belonged to a teenage girl. The walls were painted a bright, up-beat violet; the vaulted ceiling had a white crown molding, making the room seem huge. There was a vanity at the end of the room. Intricately carved into the side was a pattern of roses twining up to the top, painted accordingly in colors of scarlet, white, and vine-green. There were several items scattered across the vanity's counter, items Emma didn't care enough to scrutinize.
There was a dresser next to the vanity that looked as if it was vomiting clothes; they spilled out of the drawers onto the floor, jeans and t-shirts and socks, underwear and tank tops and sweaters. There were several smaller pictures, as many were hand-drawn as they were photographed, hanging on the walls, and three larger posters.
The first poster was of Black Widow, a familiar character—Emma's favorite Avenger—with 'Marvel Avengers' at the bottom. She was looking down, and an explosion was frozen behind her. The second poster was of a group of five men in a line, all dressed in black with stripes of red across their eyes. 'My Chemical Romance' was written hazardously in the upper left hand corner. The third poster was taped to the door, Keira Knightly as Elizabeth Swan, posed enigmatically at the side of the poster, the amber colors painting her in a gorgeous light. At the bottom of that was the title 'Pirates of the Caribbean; Dead Man's Chest'.
The large window was draped with lacy white curtains, and through the window Emma could see trees; a lot of trees. They were mostly evergreen, with some skeletal deciduous ones mixed in.
The thick blankets that covered her pointed to a teenage girls' touch as well. The bright orange coverlet clashed terribly with the purple walls, yet Emma couldn't help but admire the rebellious colors.
Emma shook herself; rather than admiring the bedroom of a teenager, she needed to focus. Slipping out of the warm, firm, full-sized bed was difficult, made worse when she realized her feet were bare and she was stepping on frigid hard wood. She quickly moved her feet to the ocean-blue shag rug that took up most of the floor space in the room, and stood up.
At the back of her mind, the Savior noted that she'd been changed from her brown leather jacket and all-black ensemble to cozy plaid flannel pajama's, and she decided she would figure that out as soon as she figured out what the hell was going on. She needed to find out why she was sleeping in a stranger's room.
Exiting the room, Emma found herself in a foyer of sorts. There was a door to her right and a door across from her, a staircase that led down, and a small hallway next to the staircase which led to yet another door. Emma debated whether or not to try the door, but decided she would rather get to the bottom of the matter. Emma turned and faced the stairs.
Holding her hands up in a defensive position, Emma felt relieved that she now had a grasp—however newfound and tenuous it was—on her magic. At least she would have some defense against whatever brought her here.
She made her way quietly down the stairs, one slow step at a time, careful to test the boards for squeaking before putting her entire bodyweight on it. It was a slow process, but it would give her an advantage over whoever was waiting at the bottom.
Finally, after several agonizingly slow minutes, Emma made it to the bottom. The stairs led down into an open room. There was a partial wall to her right, a pristine dining table across from her. To her left there seemed to be a living area, and there was another closed door between her and the living room. Choosing to scope out the dining room first, Emma was surprised by how…tastefully everything was decorated.
The chandelier wasn't gaudy, and didn't drop very low from the ceiling; even the tallest person she knew would have no trouble walking underneath it. The table was a perfect circle, seated four, though there were only three places set, and was made out of some type of dark red wood.
When she was inside the Dining room, which led straight into the kitchen and an adjoining eating nook, Emma realized that the kitchen wasn't empty. She didn't know how she hadn't heard the noise of someone cooking yet, but once she did she cursed herself for being so stupid. It was probably around seven in the morning. Of course there would be someone in the kitchen making themselves breakfast.
"I hope you're not trying to sneak up on me, dear sister," Emma gave a start when the woman spoke.
She recognized her immediately.
"Ingrid," Emma replied darkly, standing tall. Her voice sounded off, though—not just the Snow Queen's, but Emma's too. Younger, somehow. Emma focused on her magic, tried to bring the familiar warm sensation of the Savior's light magic to her fingertips; nothing happened.
"Put your hands down, Emma," Ingrid replied, turning around.
"What are you doing here? Why the hell am I here?" Where is here? She didn't voice the last question, though.
"Language, Emma!" Ingrid snapped, putting her hands on her hips. Emma frowned, crossed her arms over her chest and quirked an eyebrow.
"What are you, my mother?"
Ingrid's cheeks turned red. It became truly apparent to Emma then; Ingrid had definitely gotten younger, by at least ten years. Her hair was still wavy and platinum blonde, pulled back into a long ponytail. Her cheeks were bright red with her annoyance at Emma. She looked happier somehow. She was wearing loose-fitting blue jeans and a v-neck white shirt decorated with blue snowflakes around the hem. She was barefoot.
"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," a third voice intoned. Emma whirled around, relieved. It was Elsa, looking exactly as she always had, only dressed in a modern pair of dark jeans, yellow shirt with a white cardigan, and fur-lined blue winter boots.
"Elsa," Emma breathed, smiling. "Come on, together we can stop her. Hopefully she hasn't cast the Spell of Shattered Sight yet."
"Oh, definitely the wrong side," Elsa laughed, walking past Emma and into the kitchen. She sat at one of the stools situated next to the breakfast nook, pulled out a smart phone and started fiddling with it. "You're going to have to get a ride with Mary-Margaret or Killian this morning, Anna and I need to get to class early to study for our chemistry exam. Kristoff is helping us," she added with a smile.
Emma floundered, unsure of what, exactly was going on. "You found Anna?" She decided, looking at Elsa with wide eyes. Elsa frowned, but shrugged.
"Never really lost her, I guess."
"Where is Henry? Where is my son?" Emma asked, and then turned to Ingrid. "I swear to god if you've done something to Henry—"
"Henry? Ms. Mill's son, Henry? What do you want with him?" Elsa interrupted. "Never mind, I will never understand you, I swear."
"Don't say that," Ingrid spoke softly. "You better get dressed, Emma. Mary-Margaret likes to get to school early, too, and you are not riding Killian's bike to school. I have told you a thousand times, you will not ride on that death-trap while you still live under my roof."
"I don't live under your roof!" Emma exclaimed, getting frustrated. "Ugh!"
"I don't know what's gotten in to you, Emma, but I will not handle your attitude. If this is how you act when—Emma? Emma, are you listening to me?"
But Emma wasn't listening anymore. She'd just turned to her left, running her hands through her hair in exasperation at the game of 'House' that was going on around her, when she caught a look at herself in the mirror. The face she was looking at wasn't her own.
Well, it was—but it was her face at sixteen years old. She had the same long, wavy blonde hair, and the same bottle-green eyes—though her eyes were wider, more innocent—and the same basic features. Just de-aged by several years.
"Why am I sixteen?" Emma breathed, not taking her eyes off of her reflection.
"Dear, are you feeling well?" Ingrid asked, coming up behind her. The older woman topped her by a couple of inches, and she peered curiously at Emma over her shoulder.
"I…don't understand?" Emma muttered. She steeled herself, and looked up at Ingrid with loathing in her eyes. "But I am going to get to the bottom of this, and when I do, you will pay."
Dean
Dean was freaking out.
His morning had started as usual; he got up to the sound of Survivor's 'Eye of the Tiger' halfway finished on the radio, dressed himself in a blue shirt with an unbuttoned olive green over shirt, blue jeans, and his black workers boots, and headed into the attached bathroom to brush his teeth. But when he looked in the mirror, he was greeted with a shocking sight.
Dean Winchester looked to be only sixteen years old.
Granted, he felt his sixteen year old self didn't look that much different than his thirty-six year old self—he liked to believe he'd always retained a youthful glow—but it was a shocking reflection nonetheless, and he decided he had to get to the bottom of it, as soon as he found Sam.
He'd headed out into the living room—since when did motel's have living rooms, he wondered—running through the possible culprits of his de-aged self. He couldn't recall pissing off any witches lately; of course, he'd pissed off a lot of people and monsters during his stint as a demon, but he'd mostly killed them all, too.
It could be a djinn, he guessed, but then decided against that too. His hearts deepest desire had already been played out by a jinni, and boy had that been a memorable experience. One he almost hadn't woken up from. No, his deepest desire sure as hell did not involve him regressing into a teenager. He laughed at the thought.
He'd have to ask Sam for any other options, he realized. Unless it was an angel—were angels capable of that, he wondered? Even if they were responsible, Cas was running out of juice, so he would be no help. Sam was the best option. It was always his genius of a brother who did the research and figured out how to kill the things that went bump in the night.
"Sam!" Dean called, grimacing when his voice warbled at the end. "Man, I friggin' hate puberty! Sam?" Dean glanced around the living room, which was immaculately cleaned. Dean had never seen a motel room this pristine. Of course, his experience with motel's was sketchy at best.
"Dean, there you are. Come on, grab your backpack, we have to go." Sam came into the living room from the kitchen, and was fixing his blue tie when Dean saw him.
"Backpack? What the hell, man?" Dean frowned, glancing at Sam. It appeared that whatever was afflicting Dean, it hadn't touched Sam. It was better that way, in Dean's eyes. If this was something that could hurt him, he didn't want his brother to be affected as well.
Sam frowned, picking a dingy bag from the floor near a brown leather couch. He held it out to Dean, all the while reprimanding him. "Watch your language. You're lucky Cas isn't here to hear you talk like this."
Dean paled. "Sammy, come on man, what's going on? Is this some kind of joke?" Dean's eyes narrowed. "Cause I ain't laughing."
"Am not," Sam corrected primly, grabbing a black brief case from the same place he'd grabbed the backpack. "And that's Dad, to you. Now let's go. Principal Mills was very clear that if you're tardy again, you'll be suspended. Honestly, Dean." Sam shook his head, then hurried through the front door. Dean stared after him, shocked.
"What the hell?" Dean muttered, trailing after his younger brother. Everything was confusing, but one thing was clear; Dean had a lot of research to do.
Author's Note: This is my first work of fan fiction on , and I hope you enjoyed it. This story takes place after the events in the two latest episodes of each shows, 4.08 Smash the Mirror from Once Upon a Time, and 10.05 Fan Fiction from Supernatural. If you enjoyed it, or didn't, please drop a review and let's see if I can't fix something.
-Ashlee Frame