Title: Animal farm
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Spoilers: General for season 4, set early season 4
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or 'Supernatural', not being paid.
Word count: ~ 4600
A/N: Written for the lovely starrylizard's birthday. Happy birthday, sweetie! Thank you to the lovely Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain, looleebelle and july_july_july for betaing. Any remaining mistakes are my own. I'm Australian, and so is my spelling.

Summary: After an encounter with a warlock, Sam disappears... or has he just been transformed? Dean deals with the aftermath.

There were cows grazing in a far field, appearing like miniatures in a model, the mournful sound of mooing flowing in and out on the wind. A barn to their left contained stalls. One inquisitive horse head was turned their way, nostrils flaring slightly, its blaze standing out in the semi-darkness. A mother duck and her four ducklings swam serenely in the small pond to Dean's right and there was a chicken coop around somewhere, as the volume of the clucking was above safety standards.

"What kind of witch lives on a farm?" Dean asked Sam, taken aback by the sheer normalcy of it all: there were even goats.

"Warlock, actually," a voice from behind them said, an Australian twang apparent in the words. "For some reason witches get all the publicity nowadays."

"Oh shit," Dean said.

Sam and Dean turned as one, both drawing their guns, but they weren't quick enough. The warlock blew some sort of powder in their direction, hitting Sam squarely in the face as Dean just managed to side-step out of the way. The warlock, out of powder, started pulling his own gun. He'd probably expected to kill two birds with one stone, but was definitely prepared with a back up plan of force. The set of his body and the expression on his face told Dean that he meant business and wasn't likely to back down, so Dean didn't even bother with telling him to drop it. Two bullets in rapid succession, and it was all over. The warlock was dead on the ground, the gun in his hand unfired, blood slowly seeping from his chest and his eyes staring up at the clouds.

"Sam, you o-" Dean turned to where Sam had been, gun still at the ready, body still tense, but Sam wasn't there. "Sam? Sam!"

He looked all around, searching for the unmissable height of his brother, and then scanned the ground for him lying hurt or unconscious, but there was nothing. He turned again; there was no way that Sam could have gotten that far out of eye-shot that quickly. The horse was still looking in his direction, the cows were still in the far field, the duck and her babies were still in the pond — although one adventurous duckling had left the pond and was just heading back into the water to join its brothers and sisters — and the chickens had finally shut up, possibly spooked by the gunfire.

"Sam!" He knew it was probably useless to call; if Sam could, he would have replied to the first shout. "Okay, so what the hell did Dr. Bombay do to you with that powder?"

His gaze drifted across everything, trying to spot a Sam-sized and shaped explanation. Everything was still status quo; another goat had joined the first peering at him over the fence and the duckling had even returned to its brothers and sisters. His eyes returned to the goats. The one on the left was happily munching what looked like weeds, its eyes partially closed with contentment. The one on the right was staring at him with the bitchiest bitch-face ever.

"Sam?" he asked questioningly, aware that he looked like a complete moron for talking to a goat. Stranger things had happened to the Winchesters than being turned into an animal, like being pulled out of hell by an angel and digging yourself out of your own grave. Being turned into a goat would be very high on the weird-o-meter, mind you, but it was something that Dean could imagine happening, particularly when there was a warlock involved and they were on a freaking farm. After all, Dean had heard of Circe and her obsession with pigs. The freaky things that witches could do knew almost no bounds. The goat ignored him and started trying to eat its friend's dinner. He dismissed the idea. The goat hadn't been there straight after Sam had been hit by whatever it was, anyway, and it was on the other side of a fence.

Which left him at square one. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and punched in Sam's speed dial. A few seconds later he had his answer, it was out of service or off. The duck in the pond quacked, startling him slightly, and he looked up. The five ducklings were in a rough line following their parent, paddling happily. And then it all became blindingly clear.

Five ducklings. Not four.

There had been four ducklings in the pond when they'd arrived. Four. And there were none in the immediate vicinity to have suddenly wandered back into the pond straight after Sam had been hit with the powder. Which left two conclusions. Number one: Sam was very likely a fuzzy duckling. Number two: there were five fuzzy ducklings... and Dean wasn't sure which one was Sam.

He could be wrong, but until he knew better, he was going to assume he was right.

They all looked alike. Well, there were differences; the ducklings weren't genetic carbon copies. One had a mostly brown head and no yellow on its body, and that was not the one that was likely to be Sam — Dean did remember that it had yellow on it. But the four other ducklings had very similar markings, making it impossible to tell exactly which one was Sam. If he knew which one Sam was, he could just grab the duckling and run, and find out how the hell to turn him back afterwards. Although, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, and Sam was three inches high or transported to some other dimension, or something. Not knowing meant he had to come up with a different plan, preferably one that didn't involve him getting pecked to death by the mama duck. He knew from experience that ducks could be absolute sons of bitches when they were protecting their young, and their shit was hell to get off the Impala's leather.

Duckling Sam's behaviour had given him one valuable piece of information — Sam's intelligence wasn't there in the miniature package. If it was, he'd have headed for Dean, not the pond and other ducks. So Sam wasn't going to be able to help in any way, shape or form with getting himself turned back, or even just staying out of danger.

Dean watched the scene on the pond. The other ducks seemed to have completely accepted Sam, no quacks asked. He grinned briefly at the pun. That level of acceptance did seem kinda weird to him, though. He'd have thought that the mama would have chased Sam off, as he wasn't her duckling, and been all territorial. But, duckling Sam seemed pretty content paddling with the others.

Turning away from the pond, Dean made his way over to the body. He efficiently checked through the pockets, grimacing slightly. Playing touchy-feely with a corpse was definitely not his idea of a fun time. His efforts rewarded him with some change, a baggie of yellowish powder, and a large key.

Satisfied that Sam wasn't going to disappear or die right this second — there were no obvious predators around and he couldn't watch him all day — he headed towards the house. The only way he'd have any chance of converting Sam back would be if he found how the hell the warlock had done it in the first place.

The house was old, but surprisingly well kept. It had been painted in the not-too-distant past, white with blue window and door frames, and the roof was in very good condition. An uncomfortable looking chair sat beside a table on the small porch that led to the front door. Dean strode up the three concrete steps, stepped onto the porch and rapped his knuckles on the door. They were fairly certain that the warlock was alone, but he'd rather not take any chances. If somebody came to the door, he'd pull his gun. A tortoiseshell cat sprang up from its spot under the chair and winded its way around his legs, brushing against the denim, tail up. He patted it distractedly, checking for hints of movement in the house, before reality dawned on him.

Cats eat birds. Sam was a defenceless baby bird. He didn't want to take the risk of the cat deciding that Sam was a toy to play with or edible.

Not hearing anything from inside the house, he stood back up and tried the door handle. It turned easily, opening into a narrow hallway. He shooed the cat in front as he entered, and then closed the door behind him. The cat, sensing his disinterest or deciding that the house was worthwhile exploring, wandered out of sight.

Dean looked around, before moving further into the house. He was looking for anything obviously related to witchcraft and any sort of notes or books that might indicate how to turn Sam back. The front rooms of the house were fairly ordinary looking: a lounge/TV room with shelves of books, nothing obviously occult, a kitchen with no exotic herbs and nothing unusual in any of the cupboards or the fridge. Although, the T-bone steak — still in its supermarket wrapping — looked very tasty.

The bathroom and bedroom were ordinary, other than the god-awful roses on the quilt covering the bed. Dean scowled — no self-respecting single male would voluntary choose such a girly and garish pattern, warlock or no warlock. There was nothing incriminating in the wardrobes, just lots of dark clothing, matching what the warlock had been wearing when Dean shot him, and rows of identical black boots. Obviously the warlock had a bit of a fetish.

The final door in the house was locked; the padlock looked clean and unrusted. Dean pulled out the key he'd pocketed and tried it in the lock. It turned easily and he removed the padlock. Surprisingly, nothing happened. The warlock must have expected to fly under the radar or be able to deal with anyone who did show up, if he didn't bother protecting what was probably his work room. Gun in one hand, he used the other to turn the door handle and push the door open. A light was on, shining on narrow stairs that likely led to a basement. Dean noiselessly moved down each wooden step, every nerve ready for danger. A step half-way down creaked alarmingly and he froze. He breathed slowly, listening intently, and then started moving again. When he was four from the bottom, it was obvious that the basement was the warlock's workshop.

Several dead rabbits and something that looked like a cat were strung up on hooks from the ceiling and there were shelves covered with compartments; bones, plants, and things Dean didn't want to identify on display. A bookcase housed hundreds of volumes, ranging from paperbacks that looked like they'd been printed just yesterday to grimoires that had to be hundreds of years old. Beside the bookcase was a desk, a Macbook in the centre, surrounded by rafts of paper.

"Always with the rabbits," Dean said under his breath as he circled around the carcasses, uneasy as he eyeballed one of the rabbits. Its eyes stared glassily back at him.

His first stop was the desk. Dean sifted through the top layers of paper, surprised when within minutes he found a piece detailing an animal transformation spell, confirming what he suspected. Sadly, it did not come with a reversal, at least not on that piece of paper. Putting it aside on top of the closed laptop, he continued scanning the other sheets. Ten minutes later, he'd looked at every sheet on the table, and there was nothing else dealing with transformations. He picked the spell that was relevant back off the laptop, placed it beside the pile of irrelevant information and opened the laptop. Firefox was open on the warlock's hotmail. The mail in his inbox was uninteresting; Google alerts about witchcraft and Angelina Jolie, emails from NASA about the latest news, conversations with a 'magicforthewin' that were more pornographic than anything else, and emails from Amazon, updating him on the latest sales.

He scanned the dock at the bottom of the screen. The only other things that were open were Finder and a text file. The text file was a list of first names, Sam and Dean's own at the bottom. Some were names Dean recognised from seeing on the region's missing persons list, some who had been missing for years.

"Creepy."

Ten minutes of clicking through the files on the computer produced nothing useful. The man liked porn, kinky porn at that, which kind of counteracted the flowery bedspread. A Google search told him information that he already knew: you could only reverse spells by doing a spell yourself, which was an issue as Sam wasn't in any condition to do it. Also, witchcraft was not an approach that Dean wanted to take. He stood up and started browsing the bookshelf, picking books at random. The fourth book he looked at had a section on killing practitioners of magic and witchcraft. After said practitioner was dead, spells should reverse within 24 hours, so the book said. It wouldn't reanimate anybody killed by a spell or reverse a spell on someone who had died since being affected by a spell. If the information could be believed, Sam would be back to his old self within a day. Dean just needed to keep him alive and safe till then.

Dean grabbed his cell from his pocket and called Bobby. They'd come across books before with misleading or plain incorrect information, so he wanted confirmation. He paced around the room as he waited for Bobby to pick up, stopping to poke through the objects on the shelves as interest hit. The warlock truly had some weird and twisted shit, the least of which was what looked like a cow fetus in a jar.

Bobby finally picked up.

"Hello?"

Dean rubbed his eyebrow. "Bobby, it's me. We, ah, we have a little issue."

"When do ya ever not?" Bobby replied dryly.

With a tilt of his head, Dean acknowledged the point. "Sam's been turned into a duckling, and the warlock who did it is dead."

"Sam's been turned into a duckling." There was a heavy sigh from the phone. "Okay, well, the warlock's dead, so it should reverse within a day. You just need to keep him safe until then."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean replied. "Thanks, Bobby."

"You taken a picture yet?" The tone was wry.

"I will," Dean promised. How could he not?

"Just be careful." The call disconnected and Dean put his phone away.

Twenty-four hours, he could do that. How hard could it be to look after a family of ducks?

He was not panicking. He was totally not panicking.

The ducks were not on the pond. They weren't even near the pond. He couldn't hear any noise that sounded duck-like. He'd been just over half an hour, surely they couldn't have gotten too far in that time. At least the ducklings couldn't fly, that would restrict how far away they could be.

He checked the barns, because you never know...

No sign of ducks.

He checked the area near the house.

No sign of ducks.

He checked around and in the chicken coop.

No sign of ducks.

At that point he told himself that hyperventilating was pointless. Misplacing your duckling younger brother was not going to be fixed by falling unconscious because you couldn't breathe. It was no different to every other time that Sam had gone missing, other than the fact that he was a duckling and therefore his only defence was a vigilant adult duck who wasn't packing any heat.

Dean couldn't fool himself: it really was different to every other time that Sam had gone missing. Every other time Sam had at least had his wits, intelligence and hand-to-hand skills, if not a weapon. He hadn't been completely defenceless and he definitely hadn't been considered a Lunchable by pretty much anything bigger than a baseball.

The only thing left was to search the fields. Dean started with the one the goats were in and radiated out from there. Half an hour of cow patties, bitch-faced goats that chased him across half a field, flies and more flies, and invisible rabbit holes that were doing their best to break his legs finally produced a duck and her ducklings foraging for food. There were still five ducklings, one with only brown on its body, and the mama duck had a red band above her beak and a green tinge to her wings. They looked like his ducks.

He took a moment to breathe with relief. Sam was fine. Sam was picking at something that had to qualify as food on or in the ground, which was kinda gross, but other than that, Sam was fine.

The ducklings trailed along behind their mother in a loose group, each probing at the ground as they slowly walked. The little family of fluffballs looked like something that had waddled out of a Hallmark card, or a post on Cuteoverload. They were goddamned adorable, and Dean's younger brother wasn't meant to be adorable.

He sat down on the ground, far enough away that the mother duck wouldn't make any objection and watched over them.

Nothing was eating his brother while he was around.

It was probably the most relaxed Dean had been in years. There was something therapeutic about just sitting and watching the duck and ducklings, the little cheeps and responding quacks from the mother, three ducklings stopping in a huddled clump as the other two hurried after the mother, the suck-ups of the duck family. Dean wouldn't be surprised if one of those two were Sam.

There was a gurgling rumble, louder than the previous one, coming from his stomach. He should have made a sandwich before he left the house. If he ran, and allowed five minutes to make the sandwich, he'd be back before they'd have had a chance to move too far. He probably also should cover up the warlock's body, in case somebody turned up and called the police.

He hadn't run since he'd been back from hell; well, nothing that wasn't classed as running for his life while being chased by something. It was freeing, feeling the wind rush past, dodging holes and rocks, testing how fast he could go. He stopped at the front steps of the house, letting his breathing even out as he went into the house. The rose-patterned quilt seemed like the best option for wrapping the body, and appropriate, seeing as the warlock had to have loved it enough to keep it. He made quick work of wrapping the warlock's body and dragging it into the barn, placing it in an unused stall.

"Sorry," he apologised to the horses on the way out. Once Sam was back to being human, they'd dispose of the body properly.

He searched through the fridge back in the house and pulled out bread, ham, cheese, tomatoes and mayonnaise and made two sandwiches. A bottle of soda, and he was ready to go again. The cat joined him in the kitchen, brushing up against him and meowing pleadingly. He searched the cupboards and found a can of cat food, scooped it into a bowl and put it and a bowl of water on the floor. The cat tucked into it immediately. He placed his lunch in a plastic bag, and left the cat after one last pat.

The run back was as exhilarating as the run to the house. As he'd expected, the ducks had not moved very far, and he set himself down on the ground and had his picnic. The sandwiches tasted all the better for his exercise — the flavours crisp and sharp, the bread surprisingly fresh. A slight wind picked up, bringing a chill to the air that had been absent in the unseasonably warm weather. The warmth of the sun on Dean's face combated it, leaving him comfortable in what he was wearing.

Deciding that they'd had enough food, the mother duck had settled on her stomach on the ground, relaxed into the grass. The ducklings milled around for a few more minutes, before sitting down themselves, little puffs of colour partially hidden by the grass. Like all kids, they didn't sit still for very long; one got up and moved closer to the mother duck, snuggling into her side. Another contorted its head around and lifted its wing, before preening the feathers with its bill, and then shaking its body. Two others weren't happy with where they were sitting, moving a few inches in another direction and settling down, before moving again. The mother duck's head moved constantly, turning in the directions where she heard sounds, looking all around for dangers to her babies.

Realising that he'd hear the ducks if they decided to move on, or an increase in noise if there was any danger, Dean lay down on his back in the grass. He shifted his position, so that a rock wasn't digging into his shoulder, and got comfortable. Shielding his eyes with his arm, he let his mind zone out, soaking in the feel of the sun, the breeze. Without his eyes distracting him, he could hear more than the mooing of the cows and the sounds from the ducks. The wind was riffling through the grass, there was the occasional cluck of a chicken, neigh of a horse, or rustling sounds that was specific to one direction and probably coming from some small animal creeping through the grass.

When he felt himself starting to doze, he sat up. He couldn't risk falling asleep, not just for the fact that the ducks might wander off without him, but also for the fact that he didn't want to experience what hid behind his eyelids in the dark. Not today, not now.

The ducklings had gathered around the mother duck, nestling into the warmth. Dean looked at his watch. The sun would be down in a few hours, and he would need to get the ducks back towards the house. He wasn't staying outside all night with them.

As he watched, the duck stretched and stood up, flapping her wings slightly. The ducklings followed suit, some a little slower than the others, the brown one waiting until the others had started moving away before moving itself.

They started their slow feed journey again, the ducklings spreading out around the adult duck. Dean followed at a distance, surprised to see that their journey would probably head back down to the house. He had seen an empty coop near the barn, which could be their normal home for the night.

The sun was dipping in the sky, the temperature dropping rapidly, when the mother duck stopped feeding and started just walking, leading the ducklings at a fairly fast clip. Two of the more inquisitive ducklings investigated blades of grass or flowers as they walked, nipping at them and then hurrying to catch up as they got left behind.

When they reached the area surrounding the house, Dean overtook them and went into the house. He opened another can of food, fish this time, and shut the cat in the bedroom area with its dinner and water, before finding a plank of wood outside to lay down over the steps. It stuck up slightly over the top step, but not enough that the ducklings wouldn't be able to easily jump down.

Dean expected that it wasn't going to be easy to herd the ducks, but he didn't expect it to be as hard as it proved to be. The parent mother tried to take a chunk out of him, the ducklings scattered in various directions, like pool balls after a break. He stopped trying to grab them when one bit him hard on the finger. That duckling got a rather abrupt drop to the ground, although thankfully not too far, as Dean was leaning over.

He finally got them up the board and into the house, shutting the door with relief behind him. The cheeps sounded louder in the confined space of the hall, echoing off the walls. In the smaller space it was easier to herd them into the living room and the pile of blankets he'd formed into a nest on the floor. Surprisingly, the parent settled down fairly quickly once Dean had retreated to the other side of the room, the ducklings huddling together around her. Eyes closed within half an hour, except for the adult who continued to look around warily.

Deciding to get himself dinner, Dean moved to the kitchen. The steak was calling his name and there were fries in the freezer to go with it. The steak was juicy, the fries crispy, and the carton of strawberry ice-cream was perfect for dessert.

Full, he sank into a leather chair in the living room, bottle of beer in hand, and watched the ducklings sleep. They looked so content, even the mother had finally given into the sweet oblivion of sleep. He took a sip of beer. Sam could turn back into a human at any time, and as much as the ducklings were cute, he was looking forward to it. There'd been numerous times throughout the day when he'd gone to say something to Sam, and then realised he wasn't there. Human Sam could not come back quick enough for Dean.

He leant forward in the chair, his forehead creasing in worry. He'd just realised that if Sam turned back overnight while the ducklings were sleeping virtually on top of each other, he'd squash the other ducklings. There was nothing Dean could do about it, they needed the warmth of the other bodies and there would be a lot of objection if he tried to separate them all. As much as he hated the thought, if it happened, it happened. He'd be upset, as Sam would be, but he'd have his brother back and that's all that mattered.

Dean finished the bottle of beer and let himself relax into the chair. He drifted off, high on sunshine, fresh air and exhausted from the drama of his day.

"Dean."

His name and the hand shaking his shoulder woke him. Sam was standing in front of him, no worse for the wear, and there were six other people in the living room.

"What the hell?" Dean said, rubbing his eyes into full wakefulness and looking at the time. Four in the morning. "Where did all these people come from?"

His eyes alighted on a petite young woman with mousy hair. He remembered her from the missing persons list: her name was Margaret Franks, she'd been missing for three months. Then it all clicked. Sam wasn't at risk of squashing the other ducklings, because all the animals were once people too.

"Thank you for the fish," a serious looking middle-aged man said.

"You're welcome?" Dean replied frowning, still slightly off balance.

"Dean, meet some of the other animals," Sam finally explained, a grin spreading across his face.

Dean looked around at them all again. Yeah, their lives were weird, but weird really could be a hell of a lot worse. How many times could you say you turned a farm full of animals into humans without kissing a single one?

--FIN--