AN: Sorry for the delay, but at least that means two chapters tonight! The weather is gross with a side order of disgusting, which is why it's been hard for me to get to a wi-fi connection. We got more snow in the last 3-4 days than the entire rest of the winter combined, and the wind chills are below zero. Some of you may scoff at that, but I'm a mid-seventies temps kinda girl, so I HATE it. Okay, enough whining!

Individual responses to comments after the chapter. Oh, and the reference is not to that Charlie, since obviously they hadn't met her yet.

Warning: here there be schmoop.

Also, yes, I know I use too many italics. I can quit any time I want to!!!! Or maybe not.

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Dean had been trained from a young age to quickly evaluate a situation when coming awake, and that stood him in good stead now.

There was a sharp pain in his abdomen, but his head hurt worse. Someone was holding pressure against his stomach, which probably meant a wound. There was a familiar weight against his shoulder, which was growing wet from…tears? A voice was speaking to him around hiccupping sobs. A very young voice. It all came back to him in a rush. Hungry house. Ghost witch. Salt and bellows. Young (and getting younger) Sammy. Just that fast, he remembered the last few minutes before he lost consciousness.

Grunting at the pain in his stomach, Dean turned to check if Sammy was okay just to see three more ghosts rushing toward them from down the hall. There was no time to reload the bellows with salt, and he wasn't about to let the shrimp take the brunt of the impact.

Dean grabbed Sam under one arm and took three running steps into the entryway, twisting his body (which his stomach really protested) to protect Sam with his bulk. But just before the ghosts could reach them, something huge flew by from the other direction. Dean hadn't expected it, hadn't seen it coming, and had no time whatsoever to brace for it. It clipped his shoulder and sent him spinning, crashing back first into the wall. Dean's head snapped back at the impact with perfect aim, hitting right on top of the lump that was there from his flight over the porch. His consciousness was snuffed out like a candle in the water.

Sammy! Was he hurt? How long had Dean been out? Were they still in danger? Why was the kid crying? "Sammy," he croaked, or tried to. It was barely a breath and his eyes didn't want to open. Dean rallied himself to try again, and realized that Sam was talking, though he was struggling around tears.

"P-please wake up, Dean. I pretend I d-don't need you, but I do. I always d-did and I hated b-being away. And I don't f-feel like a grown up now, D-de. I just keep thinking ab-ab-about Charlie." A soft sob. "Please, Dean."

Dean couldn't have resisted the broken pleas even if he'd wanted to. "Sammy," he tried again, and this time, he actually made some noise and managed to bring one hand up to cover the two that were pushing down on his stomach. And holy crap, he could cover both with just one hand.

"De?" Sam's voice – Sammy's voice cracked and his head came up from Dean's shoulder. Dean stared. Had Sam ever been so small? He was half eyes and hair. Even as Dean blinked at him, another tear slipped out and Sammy rubbed it impatiently away with his shoulder.

"What, uh…" Dean glanced around the dim room. They were still in the entryway, apparently under the intact table. Well, Dean was mostly under it; his legs stuck out awkwardly to the side. Around their bodies was a thick, uneven line of salt. Dean lifted his head and regretted immediately as it pulled on his stomach.

"Don't move, Dean," squeaked Sam. Holy shit, that was adorable. Though his panic was not. "You're bleeding and I can't – I couldn't get you up to bandage it." He was breathing heavily, guilt painting his young face. "There's too much blood, Dean."

Dean let his head rest on the floor again. He thought back to the moment he'd felt the shock of the shard of wood sliding into his skin. He was unfortunately familiar with the feeling of being stabbed. But this…he would swear it wasn't deep enough to perforate anything serious. "Let me see it."

"What? No. I have to hold it. I have to stop the bleeding." Sam licked his lips, his breath stuttering a little. "I tried to take care of it, but I'm not strong enough right now."

The kid was trying so hard to keep it together. Dean tightened his hand over Sam's to encourage him and heard his quick intake of breath. "Oh, shit, Sammy. I'm sorry. Your wrist." Ignoring his pain and the drum line practicing in his brain, Dean lifted his head again. "Why did you take it out of the sling?" The arm was no longer wrapped in Sam's flannel, nor secured to his body with his belt, both things Dean had done while Sam was out after his dramatic fall down the stairs.

"I, uh, needed my jacket and shirt to try to stop the bleeding," Sam answered, sounding a bit more like his adult self despite his childish voice. "The piece of wood fell out when you hit the wall. I'm…sorry, Dean."

Dean tipped his head, partly to take the pressure off the painful lump, and partly to catch Sam's tear-stained eyes, which peered out through his hair. Kid was a mess. Once he'd snared his brother's gaze, Dean held it. "So, you dragged me over here, laid a salt line around us, took off your sling, shirt, and jacket, and held pressure on the wound all with a broken arm? Oh, yeah, and did all of that while you're the size of a cocker spaniel?"

Sam's expressive eyes went from tragic to grateful to amused and slightly annoyed. They didn't quite lose all the self-recrimination, but Dean was still pleased. "I'm not that small!"

Dean chuckled. "Dude, you're barely out of kindergarten."

"You're in high school, I bet. Barely able to drive and not old enough to drink," Sam retorted.

Dean gave a smirk he didn't feel. No wonder his emotions were all over the place. They needed to get out of there before he, too, was reduced to fun sized. Or Sam… "Let me see it," Dean repeated instead of pursuing that avenue of thought. Sam sat back reluctantly, using his right hand to carefully move the left, but still going pale from the motion. Dean propped his head on the wall and peeled away the makeshift bandage. He was somewhat relieved by what he saw. The wound didn't feel good and was nearly three inches long and bleeding freely. But while it would certainly need stitches, it wasn't close to deep enough to have perforated any internal organs. "It's gonna be okay, Sam," he said encouragingly, putting Sam's doubled over shirt back in place and pressing down as hard as he could make himself. "It's not that deep. We're gonna bandage it and I'll be fine."

Explaining what he wanted as he went, Dean began the painful process of working his arms out of his coat and top shirt with Sam trying to help. Twice, black spots started to encroach, but Dean managed to push them away. Then, using his arms rather than his abs, he leveraged himself until he was sitting up. He also managed to get his own shirt tied over Sam's and pull it tight. Relief was nearly instantaneous and he was able to lean against the wall, though still not without pain. It took a little more effort to get Sam's arm secured against his chest with his belt. Dean turned the kid back to face him with a gentle hand on the shoulder. He studied Sam's face and didn't like what he saw. Even in the moonlight, he could see how pale the kid was, and he looked scared and in pain and angry all at once. He wasn't as adept at hiding his feelings in this form as he was as an adult. Although, even then, Dean was pretty good at reading the book of Sam. And this Sam was completely freaked but trying really hard not to be.

"So, which ghost smacked me into the wall?" asked Dean mostly to distract the kid. He surreptitiously checked his watch. 3:28. Even if Bobby broke every speed limit and had started out well east of Toledo, he wouldn't be there for a while yet.

Sam's brows lowered as if he didn't like the answer – or maybe didn't think he'd be believed. He'd looked like that after he got in trouble for taking someone else's lunch in school. Except it turned out the little punk who accused him had lied. "It was…um…a ghost bear." Sam chewed on his lip, evaluating Dean's response.

"A. Ghost. Bear?" Amusement bubbled up inside of Dean, sharply accented by the sheer adorableness of his baby brother's expression.

Sam's face morphed into his pissy look, except that at six years old, it just looked like a pout. "A bear, Dean. Glowing. And I could see through it. And it chased the other ghosts away long enough for me to get you over here." The tone was adult Sam, but the Shirley Temple voice ruined the effect. Then Sam hiccupped and it was the cutest thing Dean had ever seen in his life. "Why are you grinning?" demanded Sam, his scowl not doing anything to stop him from looking like a Campbell's soup kid.

"Sorry, Sammy, but you're so damn cu – "

"Don't say it!"

Dean ran a hand over his face to dispel the amusement, discovering what Sam had meant about it being harder to control your emotions. The pain from the motion tugging at Dean's stomach helped center him. "Okay. A ghost bear. Why not? Look, it's gonna be a while until Bobby gets here and figures out how to gank your ghost girlfriend or break the spell or whatever, and we're safer here than anywhere else. So come here." He carefully lifted one arm.

"What?" Sam's look was full of confusion and…longing.

"You're freezing." Sam was shivering. It was probably a delayed reaction to everything from the fear to the pain of the fall down the stairs and broken wrist. "Your shirt's in use and your jacket's a mess, so get over here. I need to keep warm, too."

It was a lie. Despite the blood loss, Dean was comfortably warm even without his coat or flannel. He hoped that Sam would come to him. It had been so long since he'd been allowed to cuddle his baby brother, since age had made it unacceptable to either of them. With that barrier gone, Dean could hardly resist. Truth was, he'd loved their easy physicality almost as much as his brother had. Dean had never slept better than with a little furnace curled up against his side or, after a nightmare or in the cold, in a heap in his chest. Even when they'd wrestle or roughhouse, it was a touchstone, a reminder that no matter what else Dean lost, he had his baby brother.

Time, age, and then damn Stanford had all robbed him of that, and it was sorely missed. Philomena's spell or curse or whatever it was giving him the chance again, and he desperately hoped Sam wouldn't waste it. Sure, most of the spell and being trapped in the stupid house with nutso ghosts sucked, especially if there really was one that was ursine, but maybe…just maybe…there could be something good about it too.

Dean felt like the few seconds Sam considered were an eternity. Then a look of such longing crossed his face that Dean realized with the force of a sledge hammer that maybe Sam missed it too. Missed him.

Then Sam was tucked against Dean's side and something clicked into place. Sam was hurting, and scared, and little and needed Dean. Dean pulled him in even closer, mindful of the broken wrist and his own aching abdomen. Instead of fighting it, Sam turned his head into Dean's chest, pulled his knees up, and gave a contented sigh. Still moving as little as possible, Dean spread his coat over Sam and over his own lap. Sam's shivers gradually subsided.

"How come your clothes are shrinking with you and mine aren't?" Dean asked, noticing for the first time how much extra room there was in his jeans.

"Philomena fixed mine. I guess it's an ongoing thing," Sam suggested tiredly. The comment made him sound older again.

"Told you she liked you. Too bad she's dead, man," Dean teased. Sam huffed but otherwise didn't rise to the bait. Then Dean remembered something Sam had been saying as Dean woke up. "Hey, Sam, who's Charlie?"

Sam stiffened slightly but played dumb. "Huh?"

It had been a throw-away question to distract them both, but Sam's body language made it clear the topic was anything but irrelevant. "You said earlier that you kept thinking about Charlie. Who's Charlie?"

"Just a character in a play."

Uh-huh. "What play? And why were you thinking about him?"

"A play I saw at school. It's called…something about flowers. I…I don't know. It's too hard to find the words right now. I don't know how to say it."

Sam sounded frustrated. He squirmed like he would move away, but Dean tightened his hold, easily trapping the younger boy. If Sam kept fighting he'd let him go, but Sam stilled again. "Okay, man, forget it. You can tell me later."

Sam pulled his knees up even farther. Dean could all but feel him getting ready to say something else. "Dean?"

"Yeah, squirt?"

A sigh. "Dean, if Bobby's not here by sunrise, I want you to remember this isn't your fault. And tell Bobby it's not his either."

By sunrise? Sam must have done some calculations to figure out that whatever time the sun rose, it would be too late to save him. Dean glanced at his watch again. 3:41. "Stop it, Sammy. We're getting out of here, and finding a way to get your giant self back. Not to mention my gorgeous, and oh yes, of drinking age self."

"Well, just in case…" Sam trailed off, but Dean understood. Sam was offering blanket absolution for everything – being dragged back into the life with its danger and fear, for this hunt and all of the ways it had gone sideways, and for Dean failing to get him out in time.

"Unacceptable," snapped Dean, somehow sad and angry and utterly determined all at once. Then, softer, "we're getting out of here. I'm getting you out of here safe before you're done shrinking. You hear me, Sammy?" Now Dean was practically vibrating with emotion.

"Okay," said Sam simply. "Thank you, De."

But the thank you sounded like just as much of a good-bye as the exoneration had. Dean sat silent as Sam's slight weight slowly leaned more heavily against him. The kid's body was giving in to the adrenaline crash, the pain and exhaustion, and soon his breathing evened out. Apparently, warmth and the familiar safety of being at Dean's side were enough to pull him into slumber.

Dean waited a while, then gently juggled Sam until he could see the boy's face. That familiar, beloved little face, with its slightly upturned nose, messy mop of hair, and rosy cheeks, lips slightly open as he cashed out, perfectly trusting Dean to watch over him.

Maybe he shouldn't be so trusting. Dean wasn't nearly as sure of anything as he'd acted. Sam was getting smaller, practically before his eyes, and there was no guarantee that Bobby would get there in time, or that he'd be able to fix things once he did. In addition, while Dean hadn't lied about the severity of his wound, he could still feel it bleeding under their wing and a prayer bandage, and if didn't stop, it wouldn't matter.

Sam mumbled in his sleep and Dean squeezed his eyes shut to hear his name.

Dean steeled himself and made himself a promise. He'd stay awake long enough to hold Sam right until…the end. Then, he'd let his own eyes close with very few regrets. He felt a pang thinking about Dad and Bobby. He would be sorry to leave them, to hurt them. But ultimately, if Sam were irrevocably, permanently gone, death didn't really sound so bad.

Despite the pain it caused him, Dean gently drew Sam onto his lap. And waited. And hoped.

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AN dos: I know, I know. This chapter is not great. But in the end, I just needed to get it out there. I'll try and do better.

DearHart: I keep mistyping your user name as DeanHart. LOL Thanks for the virtual cookies – I have never met a cookie I didn't like. I did send you a PM, but they don't always work for me, so I hope you get it!

Lena: I am a huge sports fan, so I'm all about the Michigan / Ohio State rivalry, but I can't hold it against you. I hope you liked the cuddling and schmoop in this chapter. Honestly, the entire story is an excuse for it. I think the whole scene with Dean throwing Sam over his shoulder was my favorite to write. I'm sure you're a very respectful person…and I'm not very nice to tease you all the time. I'm glad you take it with so much grace…and yes, I totally thought about you when I posted Five Clean Ups! Bobby is on the way, I swear. And the bellows thing just came to me and cracked me up because I'm easily amused.

Shazza19: Sorry you had to wait for the continuation. I completely love the fact that you have a dog named Amara! And I liked the band-aid thing too. No Philomena in this chapter, but we'll see her soon. She's got a mess to clean up!

sfaulkenberry: The "well, that escalated quickly" made me giggle. Yes, there wasn't supposed to be this much whump in this story, but obviously I can't control myself. I'm an equally opportunity whumper here, it seems, though you know it's usually mostly Sam. Guess I'm spreading the pain around. *laughs maniacally*

Scealia: That is so cool! I had to look up the Survivor and darn all the plot bunnies – most of which you released with complete disregard for the stories I already have in the works! You should write it so it actually gets done…so much great material there. I promise more to come, and soon, now that I've shoveled the driveway of all the nasty white stuff all over it.

printandpolish: How about a ghost bear? I'd tell you I'm sorry for the weirdness, but really, I'm not! Ha!

Stormy: I don't seem to be able to resist the whumpage. Dean wasn't going to get much, but my muse was feeling a bit sadistic, I guess. They're really running into Murphy's Law, aren't they? Our poor boys. I think they had fun with the bellows though! I wanted something that they'd find amusing. More to come soon, and Philomena's coming back.

Guest: How nice that you broke your silence and commented! *g*

A dozen virtual gold stars and a steak dinner to anyone who knows what play Sam might be referencing, plus I'll be really impressed, since I didn't give you much. (Yes, I'll tell you later.)