First thing's first, but Dean and Sam have different ideas of what that should be. Dean wants to hunt this fairy and get re-aged, now, as in immediately. The more he thinks about being in this body that's too young to drink, drive, or have sex, the more he feels trapped and punished, not rewarded. Sam has somewhat different priorities.

"Dude, you're dressed worse than a homeless street kid. We've gotta get you some clothes that fit before some kind person turns me in to child protective services. Can't have you ending up in foster care, now can we?" Sam is trying to be patient with Dean who is going into panic mode. He's also trying not to laugh at him, and the whole wanting to laugh feels new and strange, and bubbly. Life has not been so carefree since, well, a really long time. "This isn't a tragedy, Dean. It could be a blessing."

Dean has on a pair of gym shorts he used to sleep in sometimes. They offered an incentive of a drawstring, so they stay up, but they are baggy and hang to mid-calf. Unfortunately, the waistband is still too loose to allow Dean to tuck a gun into it. He tried. Sam nixed the idea of his hunting knife too, saying it was too obvious on his thin frame.

Dean has his smallest, oldest, t-shirt on, a Zeppelin one he has had forever. It is so thin that it's more like a memory of a shirt than a real one. And Sam points out, it's practically transparent. The crowning accomplishment on this motley assortment is the too big boots with toilet paper stuffing the toes so they stay on.

Looking in the mirror, Dean begrudgingly admits he could accomplish more if he were somewhat better dressed. "But not a lot of stuff, Sam. I refuse to stay this way. Blessing my butt."

There are websites of the strange attire of some Wal-Mart shoppers, so Sam figures Dean's photo may now be amongst them, but mission accomplished, so who cares. And Sam now has a memory file of what sizes Dean needs from the inside out. It's nice to be able to buy what they need without worrying about cost, so Sam grabs a few things that fit him a bit better too.

For the next step, Sam insists on moving into a hotel, saying staying where they were would cause talk. He makes arrangements to stay a week while Dean is changing clothes in the Wal-Mart bathroom. Still waiting, Sam puts in a call to their friend Charlie Bradbury, who agrees to come help create identities. "I am on my way because, this I gotta see," she hoots.

As Sam hangs up, Dean stomps out of the bathroom, looking angry and embarrassed. "Let's get out of this place, Sam. It's full of frikkin' perverts."

Sam is torn but follows along behind his little older brother. "Tell me what happened, Dean. Is it something you need me to take care of?" Sam's worry register shoots sky high. He is not used to being the protector.

"No. I handled it. I have been taking care of myself, and you, since before I was this size the first time," Dean grouses. "Don't go trying to get all mother-henny at me." Dean goes to the Impala like he's going to get in the driver's door, rethinks, and clumps his way over to the passenger side muttering.

Sam waits until Dean buckles his seatbelt, takes a deep breath as he starts the car, and calmly asks his brother to explain what just happened. "I know you're used to handling everything on your own, but I'm here and I'm adult-sized. That means you don't have to, Dean. If we are partners, I need to know what's going on, okay, Dean? So spill. Did someone try to touch you?"

"Bad touch me? Hell, no, Sam. No dead perverts left behind us." Dean turns to his brother. "Just some creep peeping through the cracks in the stall as I got changed…he said some stuff, but he was gone before I was dressed enough to go after him."

Sam waits to see if Dean was going to offer more details. Sighs, wondering why he thought a younger-bodied Dean might be more open. "What was he saying, Dean?"

Dean glares at him. "Just can't leave it alone, can ya?" He huffs, not wanting to talk about how violated the incident left him feeling. "Fine, he was just … just whispering about how pretty he thought I was, mentioning, ummm, parts of me I prefer not to talk about to my little brother." Dean is trying to sound nonchalant, but Sam sees him crossing his arms protectively across his chest and the line of red circling the tops of his ears. "Reminds me. I need my knife back."

Sam sits fuming. He hadn't thought about pedophiles in quite a while. There was no need to, but he remembers some occasions as a kid that Dean took care of with men who were pushy or insistent; he figures it out, some of those were times Dean was younger than his current body appears. "You are kinda pretty," Sam mutters to his brother as he mulls over his thoughts. He's not prepared for Dean's reaction.

"Sam, Don't even say that, I just … I can't do this again, okay. And I don't want to talk about it. Let's just find this freaking fairy and make her change it back." Dean's lower lip is quivering and he bites it to make it stop. Sam sees his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"You feeling okay, Dean? I mean, like your body and, I don't know, emotions, I guess? Like your usual self?"

Dean pushes his hair out of his eyes and peers up at his brother intently. "You mean did anything else get de-aged?" He stops to consider the question. "I don't know, Sam. I think maybe my emotions are more on the surface, you know? Like when everything seems to be harder to process, memories are harder to hide, or nerves are on the surface being rubbed raw … So, yeah. I may have the emotions of teenager. Is that what you want to know?" By the end, Dean's hissing the words at Sam.

Memories, like hell, purgatory, the deaths of everyone he loves. Cas leaving. Even memories of his life, how careful and guarded he has had to be of his feelings since he was four. His purpose in life, take care of his brother, hunt evil things. How was he supposed to do any of this in this useless, kid's body?

"How the hell am I supposed to do this," he asks quietly.