Summary: De-Aged Sam, Adult Big Brother Dean, Awesome Bobby – Dean figures his brother is close to four-years old...or at least he looks that age. Only time will tell if he's still an adult on the inside.

Author's Note: This is set before the ending of 7x02. Bobby's house is still standing.

You are someone else. I am still right here. – Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails

Although the world was a fucking mess, the week had started simple enough – just a string of missing persons about half an hour outside Sioux Falls that may or may not have been related to a supernatural cause. At first it was unclear, though living under post-apocalyptic conditions with Leviathans running amok tended to skew the view. What wasn't supernatural these days?

Bobby had snorted at the question as he had listened to Dean's argument against pursuing the case. They were already overwhelmed with dumpster fires. Why go looking for another one to light up?

"You're right," Bobby had agreed as he had placed a plate in the drying rack after dinner. "Our dance card is full." He had slung the dishtowel over his shoulder before sneaking a glance at Sam sitting quiet and motionless at the table, staring out the window.

Dean had stood beside him at the sink, following his gaze. "Do you think he's seeing him right now?"

"Maybe," Bobby had whispered back, still unnerved by Sam's recent revelation that Lucifer was his hallucinated co-pilot.

"And you think a hunt is what we need..." Dean had shaken his head at the ridiculous idea as he had resumed his dish washing.

"I do."

"I don't." Dean had glanced again at Sam. "I don't even want him around a gun right now, Bobby, much less let him handle one."

"I get that," Bobby had allowed. "I'm just sayin' a simple hunt might be the distraction we all need. Sure, the world has gone to shit, but that don't mean we can't still save some people and hunt some things."

Dean had pulled a face at the paraphrased family motto. "I know what you're trying to do."

Bobby had smiled as he had accepted another dripping plate to dry. "Is it workin'?"

"Yeah." Dean had sighed. "Against my better judgment."

"It'll be fine," Bobby had assured. "I'll be there to watch your six. And his," he had added, tilting his head toward Sam.

The next day, they had started to dig a little deeper. Depending on who they interviewed, the theories had ranged from alien abductions to crazy ex-spouses to, "Roy always disappears when he's on a bender." There had been no obvious profile, either – no preferred physical features or race or gender identities. People of every age and background had just...vanished.

"I got nothin'," Dean had announced later that night as he had closed one of the dusty books in Bobby's library and had leaned back in his chair.

"Same here," Bobby had said from behind his desk but had continued to leaf through the huge, ancient book sprawled before him.

Dean had glanced at Sam sitting alone in the corner, had watched his little brother turn the pages of his own book while fidgeting with the bandage on his hand. The edges of the gauze had frayed from the constant contact of nervous fingers, and more than once throughout the day, Dean had seen Sam squeeze the injury hard enough to make himself wince. It was a worrisome way to stay grounded, but Dean hadn't mentioned it and wouldn't unless the habit started interfering with the wound's healing.

"I might have something."

Dean had smiled at his brother's quiet voice. He hated how withdrawn and uncertain the kid had become since confessing his Lucifer hallucinations. "Let's hear it, Sammy."

Sam had brightened at the nickname before his attention had darted to the right.

Dean had exchanged a glance with Bobby. "Sam."

It had taken several seconds for Sam to refocus on them, and when he had, he had looked both confused and embarrassed. "Um..." He had cleared his throat, had dug his thumb into the skin held together by at least a dozen stitches. "There's a type of witch that's exclusively female. She feeds off the youth of children to sustain her own life."

Bobby had nodded. "Coven iuventae."

Dean had arched an eyebrow. "English, please."

"Coven of youth," Sam had translated. "If they don't feed on children regularly, they die."

"Okay," Dean had drawled. "First, they should die. And second – we're not talking about a bunch of missing kids, Sam."

"I know," Sam had said. "These witches are too smart for that. If they took actual kids, communities would be outraged. The media and law enforcement would be all over it...but if they kidnap adults, the reaction is slower and less intense. Since most adults come and go as they please, it might take days for them to even be reported missing."

"But adults aren't kids."

Sam had flashed a bitchface at Dean's response.

"They're not," Dean had defended. "So, why take them?"

"Because the witch can turn them into kids," Bobby had explained. "Then once they're kids again, the witch drains their youth until there's nothin' left but – "

"Dust," Sam had finished and had looked as disturbed as Dean had felt.

"That's why there's no trace."

Sam had nodded at Dean's conclusion. "Yeah." He had paused. "I'm not saying that's what's going on here, but I think it's worth checking into."

"Absolutely," Bobby had agreed. "Any idea where to start?"

Sam had consulted the book in his lap. "This says the witch will usually have an 'aurora-like glow' from all the youth ingested."

"Oh, that's easy," Dean had replied. "The yoga instructor."

"Darcy?"

Dean had rolled his eyes at Sam's quick recall of her name. The woman had taken an immediate liking to Sam, which had made the big brother uneasy even before he knew she could be a witch. "Yeah. I mean, come on – her studio is called House of Light."

Sam had rolled his eyes in return. "Dean. That's just a name. And any kind of 'glow' she might have just comes from a healthy lifestyle."

"Yeah, sure...if that includes literally sucking the life out of people."

Sam had wrinkled his nose at the thought.

"Dean's got a point," Bobby had reasoned. "It's probably worth another visit to the studio."

And that's what had led to this – Dean squirming against the invisible force pinning him to the wall. He glares at Darcy within inches of his face. "Where..." He gasps. "Where's my brother?"

"I think we both know the answer to that," she teases with a wink and a smile that makes Dean's stomach clench.

Earlier, Sam had been distracting her with follow-up questions from yesterday's interview while Dean had excused himself to the restroom to snoop around the office space. Everything had been clean and clear until he had checked the last room. A locked door usually meant secrets, but once he had picked it open, the altar and other occult paraphernalia had confirmed their suspicions – Darcy was the witch.

The realization wasn't a shock, but the jolt Dean had received when he had tried to approach the altar was.

"Protection spell," he had muttered to himself seconds before everything went dark.

When he awoke, he was pinned against the wall, and Sam was nowhere in sight.

Darcy's smile lingers. "He was already adorable, but man-oh-man, he is one cute kid. I could just...eat him up." She laughs with an evil, cackling sound that doesn't match her smooth, ageless face. She hums as she continues to think about Dean's little brother. "He's sweet, too." She slides up to Dean's ear, her voice a hissing whisper. "He's going to feel every...single...bite."

Dean doubts she eats her prey, but that's little consolation. He growls his rage at the thought of this bitch feeding on his brother and tries to keep his focus on her even when he notices Bobby slipping around behind the altar.

Backdoor, he remembers and is thankful Bobby had volunteered to investigate from a different entrance. That decision is saving his ass right now.

"I have a confession," Darcy says, her words still ghosting over Dean's ear. "I knew you were hunters when you came here yesterday. You and your brother and the old man." She pauses as though she's just realizing there should be a third member of this hunting party. She narrows her eyes and turns in time to see her altar erupt in flames.

The scream she releases as the fire also engulfs her is ethereal.

Dean drops to the floor in a gasping heap and shields his face from the heat and smoke filling the room.

The fire alarm begins to blare, and it's difficult to tell which is more disorienting – the deafening screech or the flashing strobes. Seconds later, the overhead sprinklers join the chaos, raining on a fire fueled by supernatural mojo.

Bobby sidesteps the witch burning between them and helps Dean to his feet, both coughing as they stumble into the hall. He closes the door behind them, trying to contain the fire, before turning to Dean. "You okay?" he asks, starting to triage for any injuries, but Dean is already pushing away.

"Sam!" he yells, coughing as his voice cracks. "Sammy!"

The name is swallowed by the alarm continuing to blare.

Dean coughs again, though the tightness in his chest is caused more by panic than smoke inhalation. He's not expecting to find Sam the same way he left him...but he's not ready to think about finding a miniature version of his little brother, either. He turns to Bobby. "She did something to him."

That's all he says before walking forward, but Bobby understands the rest. Dean doesn't know what the witch did; he only knows Sam needs him.

Bobby squints through the water pouring from above and follows Dean – one hand sliding against the wall while the other stretches out, trying to navigate a smoky, unfamiliar hallway.

Neither call Sam's name since even if he were conscious, he wouldn't be able to hear them over the piercing fire alarm mixed now with the pops and crackles of crumbling wood and sheetrock. Somewhere behind them, glass shatters as the fire bursts through one window, then another. The ceiling creaks, and Bobby knows they only have a few precious minutes before the building collapses.

Dean continues to lead the way, unfazed. He's faced these conditions more than once – the heat, the smoke, the threat of being buried alive under fiery rubble. He doesn't even blink because none of it matters. It didn't matter when he was four or when Sam was at Stanford, and it doesn't matter now. The only thing that has ever mattered is Sam, and Dean is not leaving without his brother.

Sirens whine in the distance, causing him to glance over his shoulder.

Bobby nods. He hears them as well; the risk of encountering firefighters and police officers and whoever else is rushing toward the scene renewing their urgency to find Sam and get the hell out.

Dean coughs into his elbow, keeping his wet sleeve over his mouth and nose as he quickens his pace. The studio isn't that big. They've checked every single room, every single closet, every single corner. He remembers Sam saying the victims turned to dust after the witch fed on their youth, and he wonders if that's why they can't find him.

Dean shakes his head, scattering the thought as he stands in front of the only place they haven't looked. The last remaining closet is hidden by a curtain, tucked out of sight in the lobby. Dean wouldn't even know it was there if Darcy the Witch Bitch hadn't been sliding the fabric across the opening when they had arrived earlier. Yesterday, he had assumed it was some kind of modern textile art, but now...

Dean snatches the cloth off its rod and turns the doorknob.

Bobby takes two steps back since he knows Dean's next move.

Dean doesn't disappoint. He kicks the door, splintering the wood and busting the lock. As his eyes adjust to the darkness that greets him, he sees what he feared he would – a kid-sized Sam.

To be continued...