Dean hated witches.
"I hate witches," he said.
Sam's sigh was rather typical. And annoying. "I know, man. We don't even have to fight this one, though."
"Yeah." Dean moodily scuffed the ground with the toe of his boot, waiting for Sam to finish picking the lock. "Still. We should be going after Leviathans, not this crap. You sure this is even legit?" He really needed to call Frank, check up on their leads on Dick Roman.
The tense set to Sam's shoulders told Dean he was pushing a little too hard. Years ago, that would've made him back off and shut his mouth. Dean was too pissed at everything to give it much notice.
Sam ignored Dean's objections, muttering, "let's go." The door clicked open, and Sam headed in first. Dean bit back an angry comment on the tip of his tongue about Sam's ability to lead with his history. He had already questioned Sam once tonight, no need to deal out a second hit.
Sam flinched in front of him, and Dean raised his gun. "What is it?" he hissed. Eyeing Sam, he noticed the way his brother's gaze flickered to his left.
"Uh, nothing. Sorry. Thought I—" Sam's voice trailed off as his gaze zeroed in to the back of the room. "The altar."
Dean made a face. "You'd think modern day witches would move past this stuff," he muttered.
"Old power has the most juice," Sam said distractedly. "We need to find his object of power."
"Okay." Dean nudged a candle with his foot. "This guy is crazy."
"Probably." Sam was scanning the bookshelf behind the altar, hands running over the dusty tomes. "I think I've got it."
Dean looked up in time to see Sam grip a large book. Too late, a strange glowing on the outer cover met his eyes; Sam seized up and began to fall over.
"Sam!" he shouted. It was almost rote—Sam was in trouble, shout his name, even though he was right there. Dean managed to gather him into a controlled fall, landing mostly on his rear end. He groaned as Sam fell on top of him.
"Sam," he said repeated, "are you okay?"
The book slipped from Sam's hands, hitting the floor. "Dean?"
Dean figured it was an automatic reaction for Sam as well. Something goes wrong, call Dean's name. "Dean" had even been his first word.
"Yeah, Sam. You good? What happened there?"
Sam managed to push himself into a hunched over position, breathing a little heavily. "Feels like I was tased," he said.
Dean looked him over cautiously. "Yeah? That's all?"
Sam nodded, and Dean let out a breath. "Well, let's get this done."
Despite how much of a drag routine hunts like this had become, Dean took some pleasure from burning the book, and graffitiing the altar with a warning to stop doing witchcraft or they would return.
"You wanna get a drink?" Dean asked as they left. He kept his voice neutral—it wasn't that he wouldn't mind having Sam there, but generally his brother tended to be a bit of a downer at a bar.
To his mild relief, Sam shook his head. "I'm—I'm good. Are you going to drive, or . . ."
"There's one in walking distance." Dean got into the car—man, he missed the Impala—and watched in bemusement as Sam put his seatbelt on. Boy Scout. "I'll drop you off."
"Thanks. Uh, tomorrow, I think I've found another hunt we can check out."
"Great."
Dean parked the car in the deserted lot. The need for something in his system to dull his senses was getting overwhelming—if Dean let it go on for too long, he'd start thinking about the Leviathans, and then Bobby, and he couldn't . . .
"Dean?" Sam's voice was quiet as he stood in the motel parking lot. There was pain in his eyes. "Don't drink too much, alright?"
Dean bristled. "Oh yeah? Why do you care?"
Sam seemed to steel himself. Dean didn't like the look in his eye. "You've been letting B-Bobby's death get to you, and you've been drinking too much," he said. "After what happened, with the Amazons . . . You're gonna get yourself killed. You're being reckless."
"Reckless?" Dean laughed, meanly. "Yeah, reckless, sure, like you can talk with everything that's happened last year."
He had gone too far. Sam reeled backwards, eyes wounded. "Never mind," he said dully.
"Sam—"
Dean watched helplessly as Sam retreated into their motel room, slamming the door behind him. Dean sighed, heavily. He would make it up to Sam with a coffee in the morning. Assuming he got up in time.
Sunlight assaulted Dean's eyes. He groaned, turning and shoving his face into the pillow. So much for his plan to get Sam coffee.
"S'm, too bright," he mumbled.
There was no response, except for footsteps going towards the motel door. Light, cautious steps, like Sam used whenever he was trying to sneak around.
At that thought, Dean forced his eyes open. "Are we heading out today?" he asked.
There was an inhaled breath—and then the click of a gun being cocked.
Dean tensed, carefully sliding one hand under his pillow.
"Who are you?" a high voice demanded.
"Whoa, whoa—" Dean pretended to be going slow as he turned over from his stomach to his back, but then sped up at the last second, rolling entirely off the bed and into a crouching position, gun aimed at . . . a kid. "Who the hell are you?"
"I could ask you the same thing!" The kid was pointing a gun at him, but it was shaking so badly he would probably miss Dean entirely.
"Yeah? Well, this is my motel room, and you're the little—" Dean nearly used an expletive that would not be appropriate for the . . . seven? eight?-year old glaring at him. "—twerp who snuck in here," Dean finished lamely. Maybe Sam had picked up a stray and forgotten to tell Dean. As it was, he was done having a gun pointed at him. He slowly shifted his weight.
"So where is your family?" he asked.
The gun shook even harder. "When my dad gets back, he'll kick your butt," the kid promised. "What did you do with Dean?"
Dean blinked, the gun pointing at him momentarily forgotten. "What?" he asked dumbly.
The kid's lower lip wobbled. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you," he said. The threat was defanged by the fact that the safety was still on his gun.
If Dean had been any other person, he wouldn't have figured it out so quickly. But he had been through enough in his lifetime to know what was going on.
"I swear, if you angels up there are to blame for this, we're having words," Dean promised the ceiling darkly. He stepped forward, momentarily off-put by the kid's—Sam's—fearful cringe. "Hey, Sam. This is going to sound crazy, but I'm Dean."
"Don't take another step!" Sam's voice was shrill. "You're lying! Where's Dean?"
Dean eyed Sam critically. His memory was too vague to recall whether this was Sam at an age previous to knowing about the supernatural or not.
"Your Dad, he went on a hunting trip?" he asked. One more step and he would be in range to grab the gun.
"How did you know that?" Sam demanded.
Right, so Sam knew about the supernatural. That might make things a little simpler.
"I told you, I'm Dean. What will it take to prove that to you?"
Sam's eyes flickered away, considering. Dean took the opportunity to dart forward, snagging the gun. Desperate cries of "no!" and "Dean!" filled the air, as Sam wrestled with Dean, fighting viciously for the gun.
"C'mon, Sam," Dean grunted, wrapping him in a bear hug. "It's me."
"No, it's not! Dean, help me!" Sam cried out.
Dean lifted Sam higher, feeling a sharp heel dig into his thigh, a little too close to his groin for his comfort. "Sam, it's me!" he barked. "Calm down!"
Instead of taking his advice, teeth suddenly dug into Dean's arm. Dean let out a yelp—a very manly yelp, thank you very much—and dropped the kid, nearly losing his grip on the guns in the process.
Mini-Sam threw himself into the bathroom, shoving the door closed and locking it before Dean could do anything.
Dean let out a growl, thumping his fist against the cheap wood. "Stop being ridiculous, Sam."
"Go away!" There were tears in Sam's voice. Great.
Dean thought for a moment, before speaking up. "Sam, c'mon. Look, um, when you were six, some brat stole your lunch. You didn't let me know until later that week, and when I found out, I beat him up and got kicked out of school for a week. You were upset, so you tried to make me cupcakes and nearly burned the motel down."
There was a sniff, inside the bathroom. Dean considered breaking the door down, but figured that wouldn't make Sam any more likely to listen.
Sam's voice came through, tiny and hesitant. "What's our secret password?"
Dean let his head fall against the door. "Sam, it's been a long time, I don't remember it," he said.
"You swore you'd never ever ever forget it!"
It was a long shot. Dean swallowed. "The Impala rocks?" he tried.
There was a pause, and then the door's lock clicked and it opened. Sam stared up at him, red-rimmed eyes as wide as saucers.
"Dean?" he asked.
"Yeah, kiddo, it's me." Dean forced his face into a smile. "Crazy day, huh?"
Sam's head bobbed up and down, shaggy hair going into his face. "Why are you so big?" he asked.
"Not sure if you'll believe me, but, uh, I think it was a witch," Dean said.
"And it made you big?"
Dean grimaced. "Uh, other way around, kid. It made you small."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh," Dean echoed. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. "How 'bout we go get some breakfast and figure this out?"
Sam looked down at himself—engulfed in a t-shirt that hung off of one skinny shoulder. "Um, like this?"
"F—" Dean cut himself off. He would have to watch his mouth around mini-Sam. "Fudge," he finished off his curse. Sam looked at him, nonplussed. "Right. Goodwill first, then breakfast."
A/N: I was always scornful of de-aged fics before I read them, and then I read one and haha there goes my life. Anyway, nursing school's getting pretty intense, so I'm positive that this will be a slow-update fic, and I also do not have an ending: read at your own risk!
Also, this fic forced me to rewatch season 7 episodes (ugh) so you guys owe me big time.
Let me know what you think!