Dean woke up to a manic, grinning Castiel. shit, he thought. This could not be good.
“I found a way to save Sam,” Cas said, in that way that people do when they really want you to ask about it.
“Great,” Dean replied, hoping that Cas had learned enough about human vocal cues to catch the sarcasm. The angel deflated a little, so…mission accomplished.
Dean wondered when his mission went from “Saving people! Hunting things!” to “pissing off a messenger of God.”
“De-ean?” came a small, wavering voice. A small, very familiar voice that Dean hadn’t heard for more than twenty years, not even counting hell.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like that would make the world sensible again. “Cas. What did you do?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Sometimes he wished that he could this kind of thing could still surprise him.
“I de-aged Sam,” Cas answered proudly. “In this form, he’s too weak to house Satan; he’ll implode if he says yes, so Lucifer would never dare possess him.”
“Implode,” Dean echoed.
“DEAN,” small-Sam’s terrified voice demanded, muffled like maybe he was hiding under the covers.
Cas’ face fell, as if he was only now realizing the flaws in his plan.
“Can you just… put him back?” Dean asked wearily.
“I’m cut off from heaven,” Cas evaded and was he blushing? “I really should be looking for God. I’ll-be-back-in-a-week-when-I-can-put-him-back.” And he disappeared.
“Wait, in-a-w…in a WEEK?!” Dean asked the empty room.
Or, not quite empty. The other bed was sniffling suspiciously.
“Uh, hey,” Dean said, gently tugging the covers back from little Sammy, who was sitting cross-legged under the blankets. “How much of that is still you? Do you know who I am?”
Small Sam sniffled some more, but fixed him with a glare all the same. “You’re old but you’re still Dean.”
“I see your charming disposition is in place,” Dean grunted. “I’m not old, you’re young. It’s 2010– you can thank Cas for being all of five years old again.”
Huge, shining puppy eyes turned up to look at him. “I’m supposed to be old, too? Who’s Cas?”
“He’s an angel. You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
“Why do the angels want me to be little?” Sam asks, ever the curious one.
“Well, not all the angels. Just this one. Most of the angels want to kill you– except for Michael, who wants me to kill you, and Lucifer, who wants to wear you to the prom.”
Sam stared. Sam’s lower lip trembled. Sam said, “I want Dad,” and managed to keep his voice admirably steady.
“Yeah. Dad’s dead,” Dean said, aiming for gentle and missing. Sam’s eyes got wider, and wetter. Dean backtracked: “Hey, hey, it’s ok! You can only be possessed by Satan if you say yes, and you’re not gonna! I mean, he’ll come to you in your dreams and show you some pretty awful shit like your girlfriend burning to death, but he can’t touch you, right? So that’s good, right?” Sam burst into terrified sobs. Dean realized that his idea of “good” had been thrown pretty out of whack by the last few years.
It’d been a while since Dean had to deal with children, and even longer since he dealt with Sam. “You want some soup?” he asked. Sam shook his head. “A toy? How about a gun?” Another sob and another shake of the head. Dean tried to remember what had calmed his brother at this age, and came up with a vague memory of holding Sam close the night after he found out about the family business, when he was so scared and the usual promise that there was nothing in the closet wasn’t enough any more.
So Dean patted the kid on the back, tentatively. His brother hadn’t wanted to be touched very often since Lucifer got out, much less by him, and he was a little worried that this would just make it worse.
But Sam threw himself into Dean’s arms, buried his small face in Dean’s neck and clambered into his lap. Dean was so shocked it took him a moment to remember what to do. But he got there eventually, wrapping his arms around the trembling kid dripping snot onto his t-shirt.
“Hey, it’s ok, I gotcha,” he murmured, and felt his (very) little brother calm down, stop shivering. Dean ruffled his hair affectionately. “I gotcha, you’re safe” he repeated, and for the first time in a year it didn’t feel like a lie.
Filled!
“I found a way to save Sam,” Cas said, in that way that people do when they really want you to ask about it.
“Great,” Dean replied, hoping that Cas had learned enough about human vocal cues to catch the sarcasm. The angel deflated a little, so…mission accomplished.
Dean wondered when his mission went from “Saving people! Hunting things!” to “pissing off a messenger of God.”
“De-ean?” came a small, wavering voice. A small, very familiar voice that Dean hadn’t heard for more than twenty years, not even counting hell.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like that would make the world sensible again. “Cas. What did you do?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Sometimes he wished that he could this kind of thing could still surprise him.
“I de-aged Sam,” Cas answered proudly. “In this form, he’s too weak to house Satan; he’ll implode if he says yes, so Lucifer would never dare possess him.”
“Implode,” Dean echoed.
“DEAN,” small-Sam’s terrified voice demanded, muffled like maybe he was hiding under the covers.
Cas’ face fell, as if he was only now realizing the flaws in his plan.
“Can you just… put him back?” Dean asked wearily.
“I’m cut off from heaven,” Cas evaded and was he blushing? “I really should be looking for God. I’ll-be-back-in-a-week-when-I-can-put-him-back.” And he disappeared.
“Wait, in-a-w…in a WEEK?!” Dean asked the empty room.
Or, not quite empty. The other bed was sniffling suspiciously.
“Uh, hey,” Dean said, gently tugging the covers back from little Sammy, who was sitting cross-legged under the blankets. “How much of that is still you? Do you know who I am?”
Small Sam sniffled some more, but fixed him with a glare all the same. “You’re old but you’re still Dean.”
“I see your charming disposition is in place,” Dean grunted. “I’m not old, you’re young. It’s 2010– you can thank Cas for being all of five years old again.”
Huge, shining puppy eyes turned up to look at him. “I’m supposed to be old, too? Who’s Cas?”
“He’s an angel. You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
“Why do the angels want me to be little?” Sam asks, ever the curious one.
“Well, not all the angels. Just this one. Most of the angels want to kill you– except for Michael, who wants me to kill you, and Lucifer, who wants to wear you to the prom.”
Sam stared. Sam’s lower lip trembled. Sam said, “I want Dad,” and managed to keep his voice admirably steady.
“Yeah. Dad’s dead,” Dean said, aiming for gentle and missing. Sam’s eyes got wider, and wetter. Dean backtracked: “Hey, hey, it’s ok! You can only be possessed by Satan if you say yes, and you’re not gonna! I mean, he’ll come to you in your dreams and show you some pretty awful shit like your girlfriend burning to death, but he can’t touch you, right? So that’s good, right?” Sam burst into terrified sobs. Dean realized that his idea of “good” had been thrown pretty out of whack by the last few years.
It’d been a while since Dean had to deal with children, and even longer since he dealt with Sam. “You want some soup?” he asked. Sam shook his head. “A toy? How about a gun?” Another sob and another shake of the head. Dean tried to remember what had calmed his brother at this age, and came up with a vague memory of holding Sam close the night after he found out about the family business, when he was so scared and the usual promise that there was nothing in the closet wasn’t enough any more.
So Dean patted the kid on the back, tentatively. His brother hadn’t wanted to be touched very often since Lucifer got out, much less by him, and he was a little worried that this would just make it worse.
But Sam threw himself into Dean’s arms, buried his small face in Dean’s neck and clambered into his lap. Dean was so shocked it took him a moment to remember what to do. But he got there eventually, wrapping his arms around the trembling kid dripping snot onto his t-shirt.
“Hey, it’s ok, I gotcha,” he murmured, and felt his (very) little brother calm down, stop shivering. Dean ruffled his hair affectionately. “I gotcha, you’re safe” he repeated, and for the first time in a year it didn’t feel like a lie.