"Dean?!" You stagger back a step or two, and you notice absently that you and Sam are wearing the same expression – shock.

"Yeah, yeah – I know. But it's me. For fucking real."

It is completely disconcerting to hear Dean's speech – if not his voice – coming out of that mouth.

You stumble back towards the table and almost fall down onto the seat of the chair. "What the hell? How?" at the same time Sam is stuttering, "W-wait a second. Y-you're a…"

"Uh-huh."

"How?"

"No clue. Some scarface-looking dude, bright light." This – kid – the kid with all of Dean's mannerisms - is loading Dean's gun, stuffing it into the back of his jeans under his – hoodie? You shake your head, trying to clear it, as he continues. "Next thing I know, I wake up looking like Bieber."

"Why would someone turn you into..."

"Don't know. Don't care. Hey, we got any grenades?"

"What?" Sam reaches out to stop him as he tries to walk past, clearly focused on something other than answering questions. "Wait. Wait a second. Talk to me."

This small version of Dean stops and fires off a bitchface that would do any fourteen-year-old proud. "Really, Sam? Now? I got no grass on the infield, and a girl's gonna die. Sorry if I'm not in a chatty mood. Now, come on."

Your wide eyes meet Sam's, and as mini-Dean opens the door and heads out, Sam gestures with his head to follow. You blow out an incredulous breath and rush to join them, pulling the door shut behind you.

Riding in the back seat with Sam at the wheel, you are now struggling not to laugh at the ridiculous situation. Watching Sam thank the woman at the motel when she told him how polite his 'son' was, and then seeing Sam folded up like origami as Dean moved the seat up for his much younger, shorter legs – well, you can't help but see the funny side of it all.

Sam keeps glancing over at Dean until he finally rolls his eyes and sighs. "What, Sam?"

"I'm sorry, man, but this is just bizarre, even for us. I mean, you're like, what – fourteen? How does it even feel?"

Dean shakes his head. "I don't know. I mean, I'm me – like, old me – but I'm a kid. I don't know, it's weird, dude. And…" He huffs out a reluctant breath before he continues in a rush. "I've got like nine zits, my voice is all weird, and I have zero control over this," he blurts out, gesturing at his crotch, and you are biting your lips to keep from laughing. "I mean, it's up, it's down, it's up for no reason, and you," he says, turning to look at you in the back seat, "I see you and I think I'm gonna burst." That's the last straw, and you cover your mouth to try and muffle the burst of giggles that forces its way out. "Oh, yeah, laugh it up. Real funny. You try going back through puberty and see how you like it!"

Sam is contorting his face, trying not to smile, and you do your best to stop the laughter. "Dean, baby… I'm sorry. It's just so…" He jerks away from you as you touch him, trying to soothe him, and you pull your hand away as he turns to glare at you.

"Don't fucking touch me. Now, see? There it goes!" He turns around in a huff, folding his arms across his chest as you smother your giggling under your hand as much as possible.

"I'm sorry," you manage, and then sit back and focus on controlling your urge to laugh.

After a moment or two, Sam clears his throat. "I – uh – checked out the alley where you disappeared. Found yarrow."

"Okay. That means what?"

"Well, it's a flower, used in a lot of spells. I figure maybe a witch?"

Dean sniffs. "So, we still got some of that witch-killing crap in the trunk?"

"Yeah. So we'll get you turned back, then burn the bitch."

"Yeah. About that..." Dean stops for a moment, and you feel the atmosphere in the car shift. "So, it turns out this whole thing has an upside." He pulls up his sleeve, and you hear Sam's sharp intake of breath.

"The mark? It's gone?"

"Yeah."

"How the hell..."

"I guess it threw me back into my fourteen-year-old body, and – I didn't have the mark then."

"And if we reverse the spell..."

"It comes back."

You move up close to the front seat, apprehension in your voice. "Dean, you're not thinking about staying like this?"

He shrugs a little, glancing over his shoulder at you. "I don't know. All I know is, we've gotta kill that bitch. Then we'll figure it out." He takes a deep breath, then looks back at you and winks. "I mean, after all – you could take my virginity. Bet you'd make my first time really magical." An evil little grin lights up his eyes, and you shove at his shoulder, slumping back against the back seat, shuddering at the thought. "Now who's laughing, sweetheart?"

You shove the heel of your hand against the back of his seat, hard. "Brat!" He chuckles as you shake your head, and you shoot Sam an angry look as he meets your eyes in the rear view mirror with an amused smirk.

Sam turns off the headlights and kills the engine, letting the Impala coast to a stop not too far from the dilapidated farm house. He turns and holds out a gun, his face tight and worried. "I don't really want…" He stops and takes a breath, then begins again. "We might need the backup. If nothing else, maybe we can distract them, and you can help Tina." You stare into his eyes for a moment, then nod and take the gun, glancing at Dean.

"Don't do anything crazy, just try and help her. Just stay safe. Promise me," Dean says to you, and his jaw clenches in that way it always does when he's worried or angry.

"I promise, Dean. And you guys be careful, too."

Dean leads you to the back of the house as you pick your way through weeds and the debris from dead and dying trees that litters the yard. He pushes the basement window open a little, calling out quietly. "Tina! Tina?" He turns, a frown of concern on that young face, lips pressed together. "We'd better hurry. Sam, why don't you go around back, find another way in."

"I'll go in through the front, meet you inside," you whisper, and you all rush in different directions, worry for the girl's safety urging you to hurry. The door opens freely, to your surprise, and the fact that this witch has no fear does nothing for your confidence. You dim your flashlight, stepping quietly though the house, the aroma of soup wafting towards you as you make your way towards the only light that's on in the house.

You flatten yourself against the wall by the kitchen doorway, peeking quickly to catch a glimpse of an old woman chopping vegetables at the counter, and a girl tied and gagged on a chair behind her, eyes wide with fright and panic. The woman hums to herself, tossing the veggies into the pot and giving it a stir. "Your friend J. P. didn't have much meat on his bones. But a good cook works with the ingredients she's given," she cackles, a strong European accent evident in her voice. She lifts the ladle to her lips to take a sip, and you swallow hard, your stomach churning, listening to the terrified captive whimper in fear and disgust. The witch turns, and you flatten yourself against the wall again, still listening, waiting for Sam and Dean's signal to enter. "Oh, don't worry, liebchen. You're too good for soup. I'm thinking a nice sweet chili glaze, a few hours roasting in the oven. And an apple in your mouth." She cackles softly again, and you clamp your jaw tight, wanting to burst in and shoot her now, but you know it wouldn't do any good.

You hear the metallic squeal of the huge oven door being opened, and you risk a quick peek again. The witch is feeding wood into the fire, and the girl's eyes land on you, terrified and pleading. You put a finger to your lips, warning her, and she gives a quick nod. As you hug the wall again, you hear the sound of a door, and the witch speaks again. "Hansel?"

"And pals," you hear the younger version of Dean say, and when you take a look, you see his gun and Sam's trained on the witch. She laughs, almost gleeful, as you step into the room, joining them with your gun drawn.

"Well, our lost lamb. I thought we'd have to go looking for you. Maybe even abandon our home sweet home here. I never dreamt you'd be stupid enough to come back on your own." With another evil cackle, she points towards the Winchesters. "Hansel, take care of them. I can handle her," she says, finally looking your way.

"Don't count on it, you evil bitch," you grind out between clenched teeth, but she only smiles, her mouth full of black and rotting teeth. She mutters an unfamiliar word, waves her hand, and your gun flies from your hand, sliding across the floor.

"Y/N, get out of here!" Dean shouts as Hansel grabs for Sam's gun. "Shit!" He fumbles with the witch-killing Molotov cocktail in his hand, trying to get it lit before Hansel gets to him. The old woman waves a hand, muttering her magic words, and the bottle flies from Dean's hand, smashing against the wall. "Shit!" he swears under his breath again, dropping to his knees as he watches Hansel hold Sam's own gun to his head. You start forward as she is focused on them, trying to reach your gun, but with another wave of her hand, the witch sends you crashing into the wall, and you hear Dean call your name as you sink into darkness.

You wake slowly, sharp pain in the back of your head, the murmur of voices becoming clearer along with your vision. They coached you well, you know enough not to move or make a sound to draw attention to the fact that you're conscious, but it's not easy.

The witch is talking, telling them how luscious American children are, and your spinning head does nothing to alleviate the wave of nausea at the thought. You can see Dean and Sam against the wall, the huge man they called Hansel still holding Sam's gun on them.

"So, you're a tourist?" Dean asks, and she shakes her head.

"No. It's business, not pleasure. An old friend is causing trouble, and the Grand Coven asked me to take care of her. Poor, stupid Rowena."

"Rowena?"

All hell suddenly breaks loose as Sam jumps up, punching Hansel in the face. The witch grabs her butcher knife, heading for the fight, but Sam disarms her before she throws him forcefully into a bookcase, then watches as Hansel manhandles Dean. You tear your eyes away, crawling towards Tina while the others are distracted. You hear the oven door squeal on its hinges as the witch swings it open, but you have to get to the girl.

You pull your pocket knife out and cut through the ropes binding the frightened girl, coaxing her down onto the floor with you. You catch a glimpse of Dean's bloodied face as you urge her towards the door, and as you send her through, a blinding flash makes you turn to see what's happening. Dean – full-grown Dean – emerges, bending quickly to retrieve the butcher knife from the floor and shoving it to the hilt into Hansel's chest. He turns without hesitation, grabbing the witch and cramming the hex bag into her mouth, then shoving her towards the open oven door as she struggles in vain. You catch a glimpse of his face, angry and merciless, as he pushes her into the flames and slams the door shut, sliding the latch home as she screams in agony.

"Come on, Tina," you say, grabbing her arm and pulling her outside, away from the horrible sights and sounds inside. She sobs once, and you hug her, then lead her to the car, putting her into the back seat. You assure her that you'll be right back, and you head back to the house, reaching the yard just as they come stumbling out.

You can't stop the quiet sob that escapes your lips as you catch sight of Dean, and you walk into his arms, almost bowling him over, letting his arms surround you. He puts a hand up to hold your head to his chest, but brings it away covered with blood. "Hey, you're bleeding," he says, pulling back, but your arms are locked around him and you're not letting go. "Hey, hey..." he says, taking your shoulders and making you step back a bit. "We need to get you back to the motel, have a look at that, get it stitched up." You sway, suddenly a little dizzy, and he catches you. "Baby, come on, let's get you to the car."

"Sam? Sam, are you okay?" you manage, and he answers quietly.

"I'm okay, Smalls."

You stay in the car after bidding Tina goodbye, watching as the guys talk to her, give her the news that they can't turn her back to her adult self. She actually seems to take it pretty well, and you watch as Dean gives her a hug, tells her to take care. It's surreal to see him in those too small clothes, clothes that had been hanging on him when he was his fourteen-year-old self. This whole experience was surreal. Hansel and Gretel? A witch that eats children? You read the story as a child, and you wonder vaguely how many other stories were based on horrifying fact instead of fiction.

You sit in your motel room later, snugged in between Dean's thighs as he cleans the wound on the back of your head. It stings like a bitch, but you bite your lip and keep quiet.

"You were awesome in there, sweetheart," he says softly, being as gentle as possible as he cleans the cut, reaching for your hand to put it on top of your head to hold the hair out of his way. "You did great, getting her out of there. We'll make a hunter out of you yet."

You make a derisive noise, then wince as the alcohol burns into your cut. "Yeah. Right. Thanks, but no thanks."

"This is gonna hurt, babe. I'm sorry," he says, and you take a deep breath as he begins to stitch. You're trembling as he finishes, exhausted with the effort of holding still, staying quiet, not wanting him to feel any worse than he already does at your pain. He takes your hand, lowering it back down, then kissing the top of your head, his arm slipping around your waist and tightening in a hug.

"Thank you," you whisper, finally letting a tear slide down your cheek. The adrenaline, the stress, the pain, are finally too much. He hears the small whimper from your throat, and he coaxes you to turn around, straddling his legs as he tucks you into his chest.

"I gotcha," he murmurs into your hair, his hand soothing, rubbing gently over your back. You pull back after a couple of minutes, looking into his eyes.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did that – what they did to you, did it..." The words rush out of you until he stops you with a finger to your lips.

"I'm fine. No weird side effects. And yeah, the mark is back." Your face crumples a little, the last little shred of hope that it had been eradicated disappearing with his words. "Hey," he says gently, his hand cradling your face, "it's okay. We're just back to where we were, looking for a solution. We'll figure it out, baby. We'll figure it out." He kisses you gently, a soft moan in his throat, before he raises his head a slightly and gives you that little smirk that makes your stomach do a flip. "Also, touching you still gives me a hard on."

You laugh, then groan, wincing in pain. "Not funny."

"Not joking. But you're not in any shape to fool around, so I guess I'll just tuck you in and go take a shower." You pout, and he laughs softly. "Yeah, that's how I feel, too. But we'll scratch that itch when you're better. Okay?"

You smile reluctantly. "I guess. Since I have no choice. And my head is pounding." You crawl off the bed and let him pull the covers down, then slip beneath them, laying on your side. He pulls the blankets up around you and bends to kiss your forehead before heading to the shower. You listen as the water comes on, your eyes growing heavy, and you let yourself feel the relief at having him back, even with the mark. Dean is right – you'll figure it out.