AN: Hmmm…I posted this chapter last night…or I attempted to. Something different I posted at the same time showed up, so I'm not sure why this didn't. Hopefully this attempt works. And the next chapter, since that should be done tonight.

There is a continuity error in this chapter. The boys are using rock salt shotgun rounds, where in the show Dean introduced Sam to the idea in Hookman (I think). But I forgot until after I wrote this; I also mentioned the salt rounds in an earlier chapter, so it's a bit AU. Mea culpa.

I had a whole lot of fun with the brotherly dynamic in this one! I hope you enjoy it. My responses to individual comments are after the chapter. You know how I love reviews!

* * *

Dean hadn't even finished bellowing his brother's name when something smashed into his chest, knocking the phone from his hand. The phone clattered to the floor and Dean staggered back a few steps from the force of the blow. But his instincts were spot on, and rather than reacting with aggression, he closed his arms around his attacker. He'd know Sam at any size.

Dean couldn't help his chuckle, and Sam immediately squirmed loose. Dean might have held onto him for a few seconds longer than necessary. It felt like a million years since the kid had hugged him unreservedly like that.

"Shit. Sorry about that," Sam mumbled, and even in the meager light of the moon through the windows, Dean could see him turning red.

"That's okay, kiddo." Dean couldn't help but chuckle again. Or resist the impulse to ruffle Sam's hair.

"Cut it out," groused Sam. "I'm still…me, but my emotions are like…"

"Like you're 10 again?" God help him, Dean was enjoying this.

Sam's head came up, and the young version of bitchface was just too good. "More like 12," he argued, just like he had when he actually was 10 or 12. Actually, he still argued a lot.

"Alright. Sorry. Let me take a look at you." Dean's amusement died when he got a better look. "Hey, you're bleeding." He took Sam's jaw and tilted his head back. Sam batted at his hands, but it was far less effective than normal, and Dean simply took hold of one thin shoulder to easily keep him in place. "I'm going to have to clean this to see it better. What happened?"

Unable to pull away, Sam grabbed Dean's wrist. "Dean." Young voice, serious tone. And when Dean met Sam's eyes, they weren't the eyes of a child. "C'mon, man. I'm not actually a kid."

"And I'd still want to clean it out if you were your normal eight feet tall," argued Dean honestly, but he let go of Sam's shoulder, feeling a whisper of sympathy. It would suck to look like a kid and be treated like you were one.

"I am a grown up," mumbled Sam, then immediately stuttered out a correction. "Uh, adult. I'm an adult."

Even biting the inside of his cheek couldn't keep the grin off Dean's face. "Oh, yes, Sammy. You are all growed up," he said in a deliberately patronizing voice. He pulled out a bandanna and spotted Sam's water bottle on its side but with a little water still inside it. As he fetched it – and avoided the kick Sam sent his way – Sam collected his guns. Dean almost reflexively told him to be careful. It was such instinct to take care of young Sam. Hell, Dean barely avoided being overprotective of the giant his little brother was normally; he wasn't sure he'd be able to do the same for the child he now faced.

"Okay, Sammy, let me see." Dean cleaned the cut carefully, but the bleeding didn't slow. "Dammit. You're gonna need stitches when we get out of here. Hold that in place."

"Sam," sighed his little brother, but he held the bandanna. Dean half expected him to bury his face in a novel or say he needed to finish his homework.

"Hey, where are your shoes? And why do your clothes fit now?" he wanted to know after using his penlight to take a better look at Sam. "And are you hurt anywhere else?"

"That's a long story. And I'm not hurt," Sam claimed, but the hand he half-raised to the back of his head gave him away.

Dean barely resisted the urge to just grab Sam and check it, and instead ordered, "let me see."

"Only if you let me see where you hit your head," Sam countered. "You've rubbed the back of your head twice since you came in here. Which, by the way, was a stupid move."

"Sure you can check my head. If you can reach it, Squirt," Dean snorted. He ignored the second half of what Sam said. Like he'd stay outside when Sam was trapped inside.

"Dean!" Sam snapped, but his voice broke in the middle of the word and Dean lost it. The baby bitchface he got – over the top of the bandanna Sam still held in place – only made it worse. He knew he'd feel differently soon enough, but for right now, Dean thought that this was the greatest curse ever.

As they checked each other over and determined that both had bruised backs and mostly unbroken heads, they shared their individual stories. Dean yelled at Sam for checking out the house on his own and Sam (squeakily) yelled at Dean for coming into the house. Neither brother was repentant.

They soon discovered that the supernatural lockdown was firmly back in place.

"I think we need to look at those burns again," said Sam thoughtfully. His chin had finally stopped bleeding, as least mostly. "They reminded me…they reminded me of something." He frowned in concentration, and Dean could swear he looked younger than he had a few minutes ago.

"Okay, bud. But stay behind me, Sammy."

"I know how to handle myself Dean." Sam's frown darkened. "And I have more questions for Philomena."

Dean sensed the time for teasing was over. He recognized Sam's fear of being useless, something that he'd worried about pretty much forever. He crouched in front of his extra little little brother and put a hand on his shoulder. It was such a familiar position from yesteryear that Dean had to clear his throat before he spoke. "I know you can, Sammy. Sam. I don't trust you any less now than I did yesterday. It's just you're physically smaller right now, and that makes you more vulnerable. It's not your fault, dude, but that's the way it is. A hit you'd normally shrug off could seriously hurt you right now. So stay behind me, alright?"

Sam swallowed and nodded, and Dean remembered him saying his emotions were harder to keep under control. But kid or adult, Sam was a Winchester, and he took a breath and swallowed it all down. He gave a short nod, and Dean was so damn proud.

"Alright, let's find your ghosty girlfriend while I'm still my normal size, then."

"Actually…" in the light of Dean's flashlight, the mischief in Sam's eyes was clear as day. "I think you're definitely a few pies lighter than you were a little bit ago." He giggled – giggled – and looked mortified. Then he took his life into his hands by patting Dean's stomach.

"Don't forget how easy it would be for me to throw you over my shoulder right now," Dean growled, all kinds of delighted by the possibilities for mockery. Sam's eyes went impossibly wide and he juked to his left. Little shit had always been speedy. But Dean had expected it and had him scooped up and thrown over a shoulder before Sam could do more than that.

"Put…me…down," gasped Sam, his stomach in Dean's shoulder. "Or…I'll bite you." He thumped a fist ineffectively against Dean's back.

"Nah you won't," smirked Dean, bouncing on his toes a few times. In response, Sam dug a little thumb into the juncture of Dean's neck and shoulder. "You asked for this," said Dean. He grabbed Sam's ankles and slid him farther down until Dean's hands were above his own shoulder and Sam was hanging stretched out upside down behind Dean's back with his head at Dean's calf.

"Asshole!" Sam huffed a surprised laugh. "We're still on a hunt, you know. We're still stuck in here."

Dean wished he could see his brother hanging upside down, facing getting red and hair everywhere. "Yeah, but I could tell that you needed a reminder of just what a shrimp you are right now."

"Enjoy it…while you can," responded Sam bitchily, still a little out of breath. Then he pinched the back of Dean's knee but hard, the rat. So Dean let go with one hand and lightly shook his prisoner.

"Ow! I should make you say our special phrase before I let you down," mused Dean. For a good six months when they were kids, whenever Dean got Sam well and truly pinned, he'd force him to say, Dean is the greatest brother that there is or ever was, and he is a gift to women everywhere.

"I would die first," snorted Sam, but there was laughter in his voice. "Or I could just shoot your knee out. I'm still armed, you know."

"I could drop you on your head," threatened Dean, but he maneuvered until Sam was hanging in front of him, grab a fistful of his shirts, flipped him upright and deposited him on the floor the correct way. And yeah, steadied him a second so he didn't take a header. "Stop screwing around and let's go, teeny bop."

"Sure thing, Joey Fatone," snarked Sam, which Dean thought was just mean. But Sam did step back and let Dean go first without another word about it. And Dean didn't say a word about how ridiculous Sam looked stalking through the house with his badass hunter face on when he barely topped five feet…and wasn't wearing shoes.

Dean flicked his flashlight briefly around the octagonal ballroom before he let Sam come in. There were a few delicate-looking chairs, a spinneret, a pair of cocktail tables, and a fireplace that had to be eight feet across. But the main area of the room was empty. The burn marks were easy to make out, especially with both flashlights on them. "These look like…letters or something."

"Runes…" said Sam slowly. "I don't know what they mean. We could…um…we could…" He looked so frustrated that Dean stepped a little closer, letting his sleeve brush Sam's while still looking over the room. Sam huffed out a breath, blowing his hair away from his face and Dean ruthlessly pushed down the impulse to ruffle his bangs.

"Slow it down, Sammy. You know what you need. Just give it a sec."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I know. Um. I think…" he glanced up at Dean through his fringe of hair like he was looking for approval, like he used to do. "I think if we use holy water to mess them up, we might break the spell…?" He didn't sound much like himself; his uncertainty made him sound truly young for the first time.

"Let's try it." Dean pulled out the flask he was lucky he'd capped and stuck in his pocket before trying the rite earlier. He splashed the mark closest to his feet and almost immediately the temperature in the room dropped. "Crap!"

The ghost of an angry bald man roared out of the wall and Dean shot it quickly. He heard the bark of another shot and saw Sam shooting behind him. More than one ghost? Two more apparitions appeared, definitively answering that question. "How much ammo?" asked Dean, blowing away a pair of teenage ghosts that were swooping toward him. He hadn't exactly grabbed the weapons bag in his headlong rush to get inside.

"Not much!" Sam fired a shot off too.

"Okay. Kitchen!" Even as he reloaded, Dean reviewed what little he knew about the house's layout. Sam had told him there was still food in the kitchen, which had to be behind them somewhere. It would have a large fire place, which would share the single, massive chimney with the fireplace in the ballroom they were in. More ghosts appeared – too many. "Go! I'll hold 'em off and follow. Find the salt!" Dean shot again, taking a step backward and hoping the ghosts didn't get smarter and rush him all at once.

Sam dashed from the room behind him and Dean's gut tightened. He hated having the kid out of his sight, but so far the spirits were centered here. He shot again. And once more. They really needed that salt.

The teenager ghosts were back, and rushed in together too fast for Dean to shoot them. Dean was knocked back on his ass, sliding back a few feet. This seemed to embolden the whole crew, and they came at him en masse. Dean cataloged the ghosts and their attack as he dodged and dove back to the floor.

All in modern clothes, so none of them were Sam's murderous witch ghost. Various ages. Bald guy looked familiar. Coming at me, but clumsily, less powerful than I'd have thought given how solid they look. All furious – why were ghosts all ticked, anyway?

A hard hit sent Dean sprawling again. His head just missed the edge of the fireplace and a heavy pressure pushed down on his back. Dean's flashlight was trapped underneath him and his shotgun had slid out of reach. But his left hand brushed against something. Dean grabbed it instinctively and swung it at his assailant. The pressure disappeared and Dean rolled onto his back, relieved. He was nearly to the door Sam had run out of, and his kid brother radar was going off.

Dean rolled again, simultaneously avoiding an elderly woman ghost and scooping up the errant shotgun. He ducked through the door, hoping (but doubting) the specters would be confined to the ballroom. A dozen steps later he was in a massive kitchen, but there was no sign of a prepubescent pain in the butt, though the four open wooden containers implied he'd been there looking for the salt, as instructed.

A dull thud of wood against wood came from the beyond the room, and a shotgun went off from the same direction – the opposite direction from which Dean had entered it. Galvanized, Dean yelled, "Sammy!" and ran that way. He dispersed baldy and another ghost with his makeshift weapon, able to see it for the first time. A bellows? Really? Must have an iron tip.

Dean could hear light footsteps running the opposite direction even as he ran through the kitchen, wishing he had time to grab some of the iron cookware. Dean flung the thick door open and took in the sight in one glance, a row of windows letting in enough bright moonlight to illuminate the scene perfectly.

A heavy wooden box laid at the foot of the stairs across the hall and to Dean's right, upright but partially spilled like it had been dropped. Sam was fleeing up the stairs with a ghostly pursuer barely behind him. He was looking over his shoulder as he ran, not seeing the entity that popped into sight at the head of the stairs.

"Look out!" Dean cried. But he was too late. The higher ghost rushed down and hit Sam with the subtlety of a steam roller, sending the kid flying backwards to roll down the bare wooden steps like a ragdoll. Dean ran for all he was worth, but the small body smashed into the floor before he could get there. "Sammy! Sammy!" He turned over the little brother he'd failed to protect and blanched at the blood all over his face.

Sam wasn't moving.

* * *

AN (additional): I know, I know. Cliffie. Bad, bad writer!

Stormy: I actually feel kind of sorry for Philomena! Is that weird? I'm glad you like her. She's unlike anyone I've written before. If you ever want plot bunnies, I can send over some of the hundreds that are hopping around in my brain all the time. I could write for the rest of my life and never get to all of them. I loved what you said that as Sam continues to de-age he won't be able to muster up a coherent argument. I've said it before; you certainly can turn a nice phrase. And you're so right – Dean doesn't listen to reason when Sam is in danger! Thank you as always for your kind support.

Shazza19: Dean can get a bit reckless (okay, very restless) when Sam in danger, real or imagined! As for Sydney, I would absolutely love to see it. I just love water in all forms. I'm lucky to live near a zillion rivers and lakes, including Lake Michigan, but I don't get to the ocean often. I'll have to live vicariously through you!

sfaulkenberry: I read and re-read your comment, giggling about "Dean, you dumbass" every time. And about Bobby needing to save the idjits. What would they do without him? I hope you enjoyed the action and whumpage in this chapter. You know I can't let the boys off easy. Can you just imagine how horrified our pre-Victorian lady ghost would have reacted to a full moon? *giggles like a moron*

Lena: You aren't an Ohio State fan, are you? I mean, I love you anyway, but that would make it hard. *hehe* I have met a few famous people and have been very calm, but if I ever met Jensen or Jared or Misha I think I'd probably stand there like a statue. A drooling statue, likely. Did you like the big ol' hug at the start of the chapter? Also, I thought of you when I hit publish on the Five Clean Ups thing. Very few people are allowed in to see the facility where muses keep plot bunnies until they are ready to be unleashed. So, most are respectful about it. But then there's you. You dance through, unlocking cages and singing, "You're free! You're free!" Bwahahaha. (I think the insomnia's getting to me…lol)

MaddyWinchester2000: Uh-oh. Don't hate me for another cliffie. This one won't last long since the next chapter's almost up already. Thank you so much for what you said about Sam's reactions to his younger body. You made my day!

Timelady66: You caught onto Philomena's autistic-like characteristics! I know a few brilliant people who are also very child-like and don't anticipate consequences of their actions, and loved the dynamic of that plus a great deal of power. Millicent is an ambiguous character, but I did feel sorry for her trying to protect her innocent daughter. Hang onto that thought about Dean and Bobby…

Jenjoremy: That made me laugh! I think you'll enjoy seeing Bobby's reaction when he gets there. I doubt he'll appreciate Dean ignoring all of your smart rules to run into the hungry house. Personally, I love it when The Bearded One yells at the boys, because I'm weird that way. Always happy to see a comment from you!

DearHart: Coming right up, my friend!