& this is my fic!face
title: all the times that come for you (1/?)
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
rating: pg
warnings: um, excessive schmoop?
word count: 1,453
notes: my attempt at de-aging Dean. started this...June of last year? & since then it's gone through about ten different drafts. but it seems this one's gonna be the one that sticks. apparently ray lamontagne is good for the muse. & yes Virginia, this is another one of my ongoing projects.
eta: this will no longer be a multi-chapter story, but a stand alone in a verse. I realised my other stuff for this doesn't really fit otherwise.
Sam knows they’re screwed when they start digging, and instead of one set of bones, there are groupsof them, one skeleton stacked on top of another. A basement full of bones means just that many spirits, no telling which ones are violent and which ones are just restless until it’s almost too late.
What was supposed to be a routine salt ‘n burn turns into a ghost free for all.
Somewhere in the middle of all hell breaking loose, they lose sight of each other. Sam grits his teeth and keeps throwing salt for all he’s worth. Trades off tossing matches in the holes with letting the nearest spirit have a bellyful of rock-salt. He ends up with a split lip, a gash up the back of his arm, and more bruises than he really wants to count.
Dean spends two hours locked in a hall closet until Sam finds the right set of bones to torch. When Sam gets the door open, his brother is a crumpled heap on the floor. Panic flares in his belly. He drags Dean up by the collar, calls his name.
"Leh’me lone," Dean slurs. His eyes flutter open and for a second, Sam fights the urge to punch his brother in the face for making him worry. He doesn’t; he clings to Dean’s jacket a little tighter, mutters into the nape of his neck.
"Jerk."
Sam should’ve known better when Dean didn’t push him off, didn’t call him ‘bitch’ right away. It isn’t until they’re back at the Impala that it hits him that something is wrong. He feels like an idiot, that he didn’t notice it sooner.
Dean had to be hurting. There’s no way Sam could’ve gotten away with practically carrying him to the car otherwise, and Dean hasn’t said a word. Nothing. Just slumps against the seat when Sam settles him in the passenger side, rests his head against the window after Sam shuts the door.
Sam slides behind the wheel and hauls ass back to the motel. He has no idea how fucked-up things really are.
When he pulls into the parking lot, Dean's already half asleep. Sam has to go around and help his brother out of the car. He supports most of Dean’s weight on the way to the room, the two of them weaving back and forth, boots crunching across the gravel. At their door Sam holds Dean upright with his shoulder and unlocks the door.
"Dean, come on, help me out a little," he huffs.
His brother mumbles something against his jacket. Sam feels Dean shift a little, thinks Dean actually heard him. Instead, all he gets is Dean leaning forward, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder, slinging one of his arms around Sam’s neck. His breath puffs warm and moist against Sam’s skin.
The two of them tumble inside; Sam eases his brother down on the closest bed. Dean doesn’t even flinch. Sam pries his eyes open, checks the pupils. Dean’s not acting like he has a concussion, but Sam doesn’t know what the hell went on in that closet.
He pulls a chair up beside the bed and settles in for a night of ‘concussion watch’ anyway. Dean might not like being woken up repeatedly, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Two hours later Sam gets his answer. He’s dozing when he hears it: "Sammy --"
It’s the inflection that gets him. Sam's heard his name a dozen different ways, and Dean doesn't sound like that. Not drunk. Not high. Not drugged to the gills.
Something is wrong with his brother.
Dean’s sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes.
"Sammy," he says again. His voice is pitched high and plaintive. "Can I have some water?"
Sam just stares. His brother blinks at him, eyes still cloudy with sleep. "I want some water."
Sam gets up and fills one of the motel’s complimentary cups from the tap like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. He hands the water to Dean and watches what should be his almost thirty year old brother hold the cup between two hands like a child. This isn’t. This can’t be happening. "Dean…." He’s terrified of the answer, but he has to ask anyway. "How old are you?"
Dean wipes water from his lip with the back of his hand. Looks up at him and says, deadly serious, "You’re ‘sposed to know stuff like that Sammy."
"Um. It’s a..." Sam wracks his brains for a plausible explanation. "It’s a new kind of training."
"Oh. Like on tv? When they turtles people for their name and cereal numbers?"
Sam momentarily blanks on what turtles and breakfast have to do with anything, until he remembers all those war movies Dean was obsessed with as a kid. And suddenly Sam gets it - Dean’s talking about the name, rank, and serial number bit. He almost wants to laugh.
"Yeah, dude. Just like that."
Dean grins at him. "My name’s Dean Winchester. I’m five."
Sam does what any Winchester in a bind would do…or at least what he and Dean have been doing for months now. He calls Bobby.
He doesn’t know what else to do; they don’t have anyone else.
"Hey Bobby, I was wondering..." He doesn’t get to finish. He can almost see the expression on Bobby’s face.
"What’s wrong?"
Sam takes a deep breath. He sketches out the details over the phone, waits while Bobby processes what is definitely one of the strangest things to happen to them. He glances over at Dean, who’s curled in a nest of blankets on Sam’s bed, watching cartoons.
Bobby’s voice over the line is gruff. "You idjit. When’ve you boys ever had to ask? Get your ass on the road boy, and don’t worry about Dean. We’ll cross that bridge when you get here."
Sam flips his phone closed and rests his head in his hands. This is going to be a long day.
Dealing with a five year old Dean is disconcerting.
Sam is still trying to wrap his head around the crazy mechanics of the whole deal. He thinks it would’ve been easier if Dean were physically a kid - at least then he would have a visual reminder that his brother isn’t his brother, not in the ways he’s used to. As it is, it’s too easy for him to look over and believe everything’s fine.
It’s not. And that first morning teaches Sam just how much he has to learn.
He throws Dean a pair of jeans and a couple of shirts. Picks up the keys to the Impala and their duffle bags.
"Get dressed, we gotta get on the road," he calls to Dean on his way to pack up the car. He pops the trunk and stows their gear. Figures Dean’ll be ready to go when he walks back into the room.
It doesn’t quite work out that way.
Sam opens the door to find his brother still in his boxers, staring at the clothes on the bed like they’re going to bite him. Turns out Dean, at five, still needed help buttoning his jeans, and more often than not, ended up with something on backwards. Or inside-out.
The fourth time he fails to get Dean into a shirt, only to have Dean balk and refuse to lift up his arms, Sam snaps.
"Dean, damnit!" He yells, and snatches the shirt over Dean’s head anyway. He’s immediately sorry when he catches the look in his brother’s eyes. Dean pushes him away. Tries to pry his arm out of Sam’s grip.
"I’m sorry. Dean. Stop - please," Sam begs. This isn’t how he wanted the day to start. He feels like a monster. The feeling only gets worse when Dean starts crying.
"I don’t want you!" Dean screams at him. "I want Daddy!"
Sam flinches. Someone in the room next to theirs bangs on the wall.
Getting Dean into the car is the least stressful part of the morning. Sam buckles him into the front seat. Dean isn’t talking, but settles against the passenger window easily enough with a pillow Sam grabs from their room. He curls into himself, away from Sam, and closes his eyes.
Sam starts the car and pops Zepplin into the tape deck. His throat tightens at the way Dean visibly relaxes in his seat. Before they’re out of the parking lot, he glances over and Dean’s face is already slack with sleep, thumb halfway to his mouth.
Sam points the car west and prays. All they need to do is get to Bobby’s; he’ll know how to fix this. His foot presses down on the gas a little harder.
- end
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don’t own em
rating: pg
warnings: um, excessive schmoop?
word count: 1,453
notes: my attempt at de-aging Dean. started this...June of last year? & since then it's gone through about ten different drafts. but it seems this one's gonna be the one that sticks. apparently ray lamontagne is good for the muse. & yes Virginia, this is another one of my ongoing projects.
eta: this will no longer be a multi-chapter story, but a stand alone in a verse. I realised my other stuff for this doesn't really fit otherwise.
Sam knows they’re screwed when they start digging, and instead of one set of bones, there are groupsof them, one skeleton stacked on top of another. A basement full of bones means just that many spirits, no telling which ones are violent and which ones are just restless until it’s almost too late.
What was supposed to be a routine salt ‘n burn turns into a ghost free for all.
Somewhere in the middle of all hell breaking loose, they lose sight of each other. Sam grits his teeth and keeps throwing salt for all he’s worth. Trades off tossing matches in the holes with letting the nearest spirit have a bellyful of rock-salt. He ends up with a split lip, a gash up the back of his arm, and more bruises than he really wants to count.
Dean spends two hours locked in a hall closet until Sam finds the right set of bones to torch. When Sam gets the door open, his brother is a crumpled heap on the floor. Panic flares in his belly. He drags Dean up by the collar, calls his name.
"Leh’me lone," Dean slurs. His eyes flutter open and for a second, Sam fights the urge to punch his brother in the face for making him worry. He doesn’t; he clings to Dean’s jacket a little tighter, mutters into the nape of his neck.
"Jerk."
Sam should’ve known better when Dean didn’t push him off, didn’t call him ‘bitch’ right away. It isn’t until they’re back at the Impala that it hits him that something is wrong. He feels like an idiot, that he didn’t notice it sooner.
Dean had to be hurting. There’s no way Sam could’ve gotten away with practically carrying him to the car otherwise, and Dean hasn’t said a word. Nothing. Just slumps against the seat when Sam settles him in the passenger side, rests his head against the window after Sam shuts the door.
Sam slides behind the wheel and hauls ass back to the motel. He has no idea how fucked-up things really are.
When he pulls into the parking lot, Dean's already half asleep. Sam has to go around and help his brother out of the car. He supports most of Dean’s weight on the way to the room, the two of them weaving back and forth, boots crunching across the gravel. At their door Sam holds Dean upright with his shoulder and unlocks the door.
"Dean, come on, help me out a little," he huffs.
His brother mumbles something against his jacket. Sam feels Dean shift a little, thinks Dean actually heard him. Instead, all he gets is Dean leaning forward, resting his head on Sam’s shoulder, slinging one of his arms around Sam’s neck. His breath puffs warm and moist against Sam’s skin.
The two of them tumble inside; Sam eases his brother down on the closest bed. Dean doesn’t even flinch. Sam pries his eyes open, checks the pupils. Dean’s not acting like he has a concussion, but Sam doesn’t know what the hell went on in that closet.
He pulls a chair up beside the bed and settles in for a night of ‘concussion watch’ anyway. Dean might not like being woken up repeatedly, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
Two hours later Sam gets his answer. He’s dozing when he hears it: "Sammy --"
It’s the inflection that gets him. Sam's heard his name a dozen different ways, and Dean doesn't sound like that. Not drunk. Not high. Not drugged to the gills.
Something is wrong with his brother.
Dean’s sitting up in bed, rubbing at his eyes.
"Sammy," he says again. His voice is pitched high and plaintive. "Can I have some water?"
Sam just stares. His brother blinks at him, eyes still cloudy with sleep. "I want some water."
Sam gets up and fills one of the motel’s complimentary cups from the tap like this is the most ordinary thing in the world. He hands the water to Dean and watches what should be his almost thirty year old brother hold the cup between two hands like a child. This isn’t. This can’t be happening. "Dean…." He’s terrified of the answer, but he has to ask anyway. "How old are you?"
Dean wipes water from his lip with the back of his hand. Looks up at him and says, deadly serious, "You’re ‘sposed to know stuff like that Sammy."
"Um. It’s a..." Sam wracks his brains for a plausible explanation. "It’s a new kind of training."
"Oh. Like on tv? When they turtles people for their name and cereal numbers?"
Sam momentarily blanks on what turtles and breakfast have to do with anything, until he remembers all those war movies Dean was obsessed with as a kid. And suddenly Sam gets it - Dean’s talking about the name, rank, and serial number bit. He almost wants to laugh.
"Yeah, dude. Just like that."
Dean grins at him. "My name’s Dean Winchester. I’m five."
Sam does what any Winchester in a bind would do…or at least what he and Dean have been doing for months now. He calls Bobby.
He doesn’t know what else to do; they don’t have anyone else.
"Hey Bobby, I was wondering..." He doesn’t get to finish. He can almost see the expression on Bobby’s face.
"What’s wrong?"
Sam takes a deep breath. He sketches out the details over the phone, waits while Bobby processes what is definitely one of the strangest things to happen to them. He glances over at Dean, who’s curled in a nest of blankets on Sam’s bed, watching cartoons.
Bobby’s voice over the line is gruff. "You idjit. When’ve you boys ever had to ask? Get your ass on the road boy, and don’t worry about Dean. We’ll cross that bridge when you get here."
Sam flips his phone closed and rests his head in his hands. This is going to be a long day.
Dealing with a five year old Dean is disconcerting.
Sam is still trying to wrap his head around the crazy mechanics of the whole deal. He thinks it would’ve been easier if Dean were physically a kid - at least then he would have a visual reminder that his brother isn’t his brother, not in the ways he’s used to. As it is, it’s too easy for him to look over and believe everything’s fine.
It’s not. And that first morning teaches Sam just how much he has to learn.
He throws Dean a pair of jeans and a couple of shirts. Picks up the keys to the Impala and their duffle bags.
"Get dressed, we gotta get on the road," he calls to Dean on his way to pack up the car. He pops the trunk and stows their gear. Figures Dean’ll be ready to go when he walks back into the room.
It doesn’t quite work out that way.
Sam opens the door to find his brother still in his boxers, staring at the clothes on the bed like they’re going to bite him. Turns out Dean, at five, still needed help buttoning his jeans, and more often than not, ended up with something on backwards. Or inside-out.
The fourth time he fails to get Dean into a shirt, only to have Dean balk and refuse to lift up his arms, Sam snaps.
"Dean, damnit!" He yells, and snatches the shirt over Dean’s head anyway. He’s immediately sorry when he catches the look in his brother’s eyes. Dean pushes him away. Tries to pry his arm out of Sam’s grip.
"I’m sorry. Dean. Stop - please," Sam begs. This isn’t how he wanted the day to start. He feels like a monster. The feeling only gets worse when Dean starts crying.
"I don’t want you!" Dean screams at him. "I want Daddy!"
Sam flinches. Someone in the room next to theirs bangs on the wall.
Getting Dean into the car is the least stressful part of the morning. Sam buckles him into the front seat. Dean isn’t talking, but settles against the passenger window easily enough with a pillow Sam grabs from their room. He curls into himself, away from Sam, and closes his eyes.
Sam starts the car and pops Zepplin into the tape deck. His throat tightens at the way Dean visibly relaxes in his seat. Before they’re out of the parking lot, he glances over and Dean’s face is already slack with sleep, thumb halfway to his mouth.
Sam points the car west and prays. All they need to do is get to Bobby’s; he’ll know how to fix this. His foot presses down on the gas a little harder.
- end