Better Weather
apparently I can't write things that aren't gen/prompts/bb!Dean anymore even though really the list of things I need to/want to write isn't getting any shorter.
Bobby, bb!Dean, Sam, a puppy | gen | written for a prompt at hoodie_time
Dean gets hit by a curse that makes him deage until he turns six; Sam panics and takes him
to Bobby's. Shenanigans involving snow, cocoa and puppies ensue.
“Bobby,” Sam says through the mesh screen door on a day in the middle of December. He can’t see Dean but the Impala is parked in the distance behind the six foot something giant and Bobby is a little bit worried. Sam’s tone of voice isn’t exactly helping. “Bobby, I need your help.”
“Get inside then, you idjit, you’re letting all the cold in.” Bobby peers around, trying to spot Dean over Sam’s shoulder of something. “Where’s your brother?”
Sam hesitates and his smile slips. “That’s uh... See, that’s kind of the thing.” As if on cue, the back door of the Impala facing the house opens and a kid tumbles out and runs up the stairs, attaching itself to Sam’s leg. The top of his head doesn’t even touch Sam’s hip and Bobby stares at the face of a six-year old boy he knew some twenty-odd years ago. There’s a gap between his front teeth and his hair is messy. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose and he tucks his face into the side of Sam’s leg, rubbing his cheek against the worn denim.
“Sammy it’s cold in the car,” this six year old Dean says and Bobby isn’t sure what’s more shocking: the fact that Dean is six again or that he just called the Impala a car. He takes a step back, opens the screen door with him and the kid runs inside uninvited, eager to get into the warmth that’s already seeping out into the open air. Sam exhales with a frozen cloud and gives Bobby an apologetic look, stepping inside and walking through to the kitchen unbidden. He needs a beer.
It’s not until they’re both sitting down with a beer in hand that Bobby even asks. “What in the name of -” he stats, and Sam cuts him off. “Coven of witches. He got hit by a curse and I barely managed to get him out of there without the wrong people getting killed.” They both turn and look at Dean, sleeping in a blanket and wrapped up in front of the fire, at the same time. “He doesn’t even know, is the thing.” Sam pauses, biting at his lip. “He’s not just physically six, he’s mentally six too. Dean doesn’t know that he’s actually thirty-two. He’s just... he’s just a kid.” There’s a quiet moment and the wind whistles outside of the house. There’s a blizzard coming and Sam is really grateful that he doesn’t have to take care of Dean in a seedy motel where the heating most likely doesn’t work.
“I’ll start hitting the books to find a counter curse or a spell to get him back to himself,” Bobby says, already halfway out of his chair by the time he’s said three words in the sentence. “Just keep him out of the way once he’s up - and for Christsake, don’t let him near the guns.” Sam tries hard - he really, really does - not to roll his eyes but he does and Bobby doesn’t miss the what do you think I am, dumb? look that crosses his face.
After his nap Dean has like three times more energy than he did before and Sam thinks that if he was anything like this when he was six then ten-year-old Dean must have been a saint to put up with him all the time. “Sam,” Dean says, pulling on his sleeve. He tries his best to ignore him and focus on the book that he’s looking through, trying as hard as Bobby is to find a cure because he thinks he might go nuts if he has to deal with Dean as a child like this. “Sam,” Dean says again, even more insistently. “Sammy!”
“Sam,” Bobby says, looking up at Sam from the other side of his desk. “If you don’t answer that boy in the next two seconds I’m going to take one of you and hit you repeatedly with the other.” He doesn’t even look like he’s kidding, and Sam closes the book and gives Dean his full and undivided attention.
The boy leans in and up on his toes, close to Sam’s face. “It’s snowing outside,” he says confidentially, and Sam resists the urge to give the no shit, Sherlock answer he’d have given to a normal Dean. “I want to go play in it.” He still leaning up, right up on the tips of his toes and even sitting down Sam towers over him. He doesn’t ever remember his big brother being this small; Dean was bigger than him until he grew for three months straight during the summer he turned sixteen, and even then he was still over six feet tall.
He says, “And?” and Dean rolls his eyes. “Come out and play with me!” Sam turns his head outside and thinks about how much he really doesn’t want to go out and play with him. Staying inside where there’s warm and coffee sounds so much more appealing than being outside in the snow. Dean blinks slowly at him, bottle green eyes framed by eyelashes that go on for miles and - that’s definitely not normal for a six year old dude, way, way too pretty. It’s like running into a brick wall, trying to say no to Dean. Even when he isn’t six years old and adorable he’ll just wear at you until it’s impossible to deny it. “Fine,” Sam sighs finally, deciding to forgo the whole debate on whether he should go outside and play or not.
Outside, there’s a two second span between the door opening and a blur running out and down the stairs and tripping face first into the bright white snow. Sam stands on the porch stairs and watches while Dean makes backwards snow angels and then pushes himself up, cheeks already bright pink and flushed. “Come on, Sammy!” he yells excitedly, mittened hands pulling snow towards him and then rolling it into a ball. It hits Sam while he’s walking towards him but it lacks the power (and ice) that’d normally be in it. Dean bears his teeth and Sam and he laughs, leaning down to roll a snowball himself.
Dean starts running away, snow pants and jacket making him look like a blue marshmallow and waddle like a penguin. The snowball hits him square in the back and he trips forwards, getting another facefull of snow. “Hey!” the kid pouts, spitting snow out of his mouth. “That’s not fair! I wasn’t ready.” His lip trembles and Sam really, really doesn’t want him to cry, so he puts his hands up in surrender.
“You can hit me with as many snowballs as you want from there,” he offers, and Dean brightens up so fast that it’s clear that the trembling lips and watery eyes was all an act. Sam doesn’t even have it in him to be surprised that even at six Dean was a conman. He stands and watches as Dean sits down in the snow and makes himself a pile of really round, really hard, snowballs, piled up and ready to chuck at his brother. They all hit him one at a time, shaped like baseballs and hitting him in the chest. It doesn't hurt, but Sam knows that he'll have at least a couple of bruises to show for this later.
He squints up at the sky while Dean sets about making another pile to throw at him and notices that the clouds are hanging low and heavy. They're dark grey in color and Sam thinks that maybe they should go inside soon. "Hey, Dean," he calls out, turning back around just on time to get a facefull of snow.
"I'll race you!" he yells, already waddle-running back towards the house. Sam thinks that it's almost a blessing that he doesn't have to reason with him to get him to go outside, and then Dean is tripping over a tire that was hidden by the banks of snow. He cries out and falls fowards, barely managing to catch himself but by the time Sam is over there and picking him up, there are tears tracking their way down his face and snot running from his nose.
Sam wipes away the tears with a gloved hand and says, “Hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” but Dean just shakes his head and tucks his face against Sam’s neck. He takes him inside, sitting him at one of the kitchen seats. The kid isn’t making any noises but his jaw is set firmly and a stray tear rolls down his face every few minutes and that’s how Sam knows it’s bad. “What hurts?” he asks quietly, kneeling next to him and Dean points at his foot, lip wobbling for real this time.
“My ankle,” he says, and Sam gets up and moves over to the fridge, opening the freezer to take out a bag of frozen peas. He holds it in one overly large hand and leans down and picks Dean up effortlessly with the other.
“Let’s go sit on the sofa, hm?” he says, moving into the living room where Bobby is tending to the fire. Dean goes down first, sitting with one leg propped up against the pillow and Sam arranges the bag of peas on top of his ankle. “Don’t move,” he warns and Dean just nods, looking considerably more comfortable and calm than he did five minutes ago.
The fire crackles and then Bobby says gruffly, “Who wants cocoa?” Dean perks up even more, nodding brightly. He says, “I’ll go heat up the milk,” right as a gust of wind hits the house like a fright train and Sam thinks that yeah, absolutely, lets be inside for this one. Bobby comes back with three mugs and gives the boys each one and saves one for himself. “I put whiskey in ours,” he mutters at Sam, taking his seat in the chair behind his desk. He’s just opened his mouth to say something when Sam tilts his head slowly to the side.
“Do you hear that?” he asks, looking puzzled, straining to hear over the whistling wind.
Bobby mirrors him and then says, “What, that scratching?” Sam’s heart sinks and he thinks, come on, what kind of a demon would attack in the middle of a blizzard? Dean doesn't look worried, intent on his cocoa and the frothy moustache it's giving his upper lip. Gun in hand, Sam moves slowly towards the front door and Bobby starts opening a flask of holy water. The door handle turns down slowly and then there's this ball of fur streaking inside the same way Dean had six hours previously, eager to get out of the cold and into the warmth.
"It's a mutt," Bobby says, looking so unamused at the fact that he was ready to throw holy water at a dog that it hurts. "It's a dog."
Against Sam's previous orders Dean kicks off the bag of peas and slides off the sofa, sitting on the floor and whistling for the dog - which actually, the thing's not even a dog. It's a puppy, a really, really furry pup. He starts cooing and petting it, running his hands through the cold and snowy fur and laughing delightedly while it licks his face. "It might have rabies or something," Sam starts, and then realizes he's still holding the knife in his hand, sheathing it with a cough. If the normal Dean knew that he was just planning on stabbing a puppy he'd never live it down.
They’re - Sam and Bobby both - are wondering where the hell the dog came from but Dean is being so enthusiastic about it that the only thing they can do is hope put a screen in front of the fireplace and hope that the dog doesn’t actually have rabies. Dean doesn’t start nodding off until about midnight, finally passing out on the sofa with the Grinch Who Stole Christmas playing on the TV.
“So, what’d you find?” Sam asks finally, cradling a glass of whiskey in his hands.
“As far as I can tell,” Bobby starts, leaning forwards to pull a heavy book off of a stack and opening it to a marked page. “It’s just a temporary thing. He should be back to normal in a day, maybe even a couple of hours if we’re lucky. If not, I’ll just have to keep looking.” He looks complentative, turning forwards a few pages. Sam turns around and leans against the desk, watches his older brother (younger brother?) sleep while warpped around a puppy and thinks that on the off chance things did stay like this, it wouldn’t be that bad.
Bobby, bb!Dean, Sam, a puppy | gen | written for a prompt at hoodie_time
Dean gets hit by a curse that makes him deage until he turns six; Sam panics and takes him
to Bobby's. Shenanigans involving snow, cocoa and puppies ensue.
“Bobby,” Sam says through the mesh screen door on a day in the middle of December. He can’t see Dean but the Impala is parked in the distance behind the six foot something giant and Bobby is a little bit worried. Sam’s tone of voice isn’t exactly helping. “Bobby, I need your help.”
“Get inside then, you idjit, you’re letting all the cold in.” Bobby peers around, trying to spot Dean over Sam’s shoulder of something. “Where’s your brother?”
Sam hesitates and his smile slips. “That’s uh... See, that’s kind of the thing.” As if on cue, the back door of the Impala facing the house opens and a kid tumbles out and runs up the stairs, attaching itself to Sam’s leg. The top of his head doesn’t even touch Sam’s hip and Bobby stares at the face of a six-year old boy he knew some twenty-odd years ago. There’s a gap between his front teeth and his hair is messy. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose and he tucks his face into the side of Sam’s leg, rubbing his cheek against the worn denim.
“Sammy it’s cold in the car,” this six year old Dean says and Bobby isn’t sure what’s more shocking: the fact that Dean is six again or that he just called the Impala a car. He takes a step back, opens the screen door with him and the kid runs inside uninvited, eager to get into the warmth that’s already seeping out into the open air. Sam exhales with a frozen cloud and gives Bobby an apologetic look, stepping inside and walking through to the kitchen unbidden. He needs a beer.
It’s not until they’re both sitting down with a beer in hand that Bobby even asks. “What in the name of -” he stats, and Sam cuts him off. “Coven of witches. He got hit by a curse and I barely managed to get him out of there without the wrong people getting killed.” They both turn and look at Dean, sleeping in a blanket and wrapped up in front of the fire, at the same time. “He doesn’t even know, is the thing.” Sam pauses, biting at his lip. “He’s not just physically six, he’s mentally six too. Dean doesn’t know that he’s actually thirty-two. He’s just... he’s just a kid.” There’s a quiet moment and the wind whistles outside of the house. There’s a blizzard coming and Sam is really grateful that he doesn’t have to take care of Dean in a seedy motel where the heating most likely doesn’t work.
“I’ll start hitting the books to find a counter curse or a spell to get him back to himself,” Bobby says, already halfway out of his chair by the time he’s said three words in the sentence. “Just keep him out of the way once he’s up - and for Christsake, don’t let him near the guns.” Sam tries hard - he really, really does - not to roll his eyes but he does and Bobby doesn’t miss the what do you think I am, dumb? look that crosses his face.
After his nap Dean has like three times more energy than he did before and Sam thinks that if he was anything like this when he was six then ten-year-old Dean must have been a saint to put up with him all the time. “Sam,” Dean says, pulling on his sleeve. He tries his best to ignore him and focus on the book that he’s looking through, trying as hard as Bobby is to find a cure because he thinks he might go nuts if he has to deal with Dean as a child like this. “Sam,” Dean says again, even more insistently. “Sammy!”
“Sam,” Bobby says, looking up at Sam from the other side of his desk. “If you don’t answer that boy in the next two seconds I’m going to take one of you and hit you repeatedly with the other.” He doesn’t even look like he’s kidding, and Sam closes the book and gives Dean his full and undivided attention.
The boy leans in and up on his toes, close to Sam’s face. “It’s snowing outside,” he says confidentially, and Sam resists the urge to give the no shit, Sherlock answer he’d have given to a normal Dean. “I want to go play in it.” He still leaning up, right up on the tips of his toes and even sitting down Sam towers over him. He doesn’t ever remember his big brother being this small; Dean was bigger than him until he grew for three months straight during the summer he turned sixteen, and even then he was still over six feet tall.
He says, “And?” and Dean rolls his eyes. “Come out and play with me!” Sam turns his head outside and thinks about how much he really doesn’t want to go out and play with him. Staying inside where there’s warm and coffee sounds so much more appealing than being outside in the snow. Dean blinks slowly at him, bottle green eyes framed by eyelashes that go on for miles and - that’s definitely not normal for a six year old dude, way, way too pretty. It’s like running into a brick wall, trying to say no to Dean. Even when he isn’t six years old and adorable he’ll just wear at you until it’s impossible to deny it. “Fine,” Sam sighs finally, deciding to forgo the whole debate on whether he should go outside and play or not.
Outside, there’s a two second span between the door opening and a blur running out and down the stairs and tripping face first into the bright white snow. Sam stands on the porch stairs and watches while Dean makes backwards snow angels and then pushes himself up, cheeks already bright pink and flushed. “Come on, Sammy!” he yells excitedly, mittened hands pulling snow towards him and then rolling it into a ball. It hits Sam while he’s walking towards him but it lacks the power (and ice) that’d normally be in it. Dean bears his teeth and Sam and he laughs, leaning down to roll a snowball himself.
Dean starts running away, snow pants and jacket making him look like a blue marshmallow and waddle like a penguin. The snowball hits him square in the back and he trips forwards, getting another facefull of snow. “Hey!” the kid pouts, spitting snow out of his mouth. “That’s not fair! I wasn’t ready.” His lip trembles and Sam really, really doesn’t want him to cry, so he puts his hands up in surrender.
“You can hit me with as many snowballs as you want from there,” he offers, and Dean brightens up so fast that it’s clear that the trembling lips and watery eyes was all an act. Sam doesn’t even have it in him to be surprised that even at six Dean was a conman. He stands and watches as Dean sits down in the snow and makes himself a pile of really round, really hard, snowballs, piled up and ready to chuck at his brother. They all hit him one at a time, shaped like baseballs and hitting him in the chest. It doesn't hurt, but Sam knows that he'll have at least a couple of bruises to show for this later.
He squints up at the sky while Dean sets about making another pile to throw at him and notices that the clouds are hanging low and heavy. They're dark grey in color and Sam thinks that maybe they should go inside soon. "Hey, Dean," he calls out, turning back around just on time to get a facefull of snow.
"I'll race you!" he yells, already waddle-running back towards the house. Sam thinks that it's almost a blessing that he doesn't have to reason with him to get him to go outside, and then Dean is tripping over a tire that was hidden by the banks of snow. He cries out and falls fowards, barely managing to catch himself but by the time Sam is over there and picking him up, there are tears tracking their way down his face and snot running from his nose.
Sam wipes away the tears with a gloved hand and says, “Hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” but Dean just shakes his head and tucks his face against Sam’s neck. He takes him inside, sitting him at one of the kitchen seats. The kid isn’t making any noises but his jaw is set firmly and a stray tear rolls down his face every few minutes and that’s how Sam knows it’s bad. “What hurts?” he asks quietly, kneeling next to him and Dean points at his foot, lip wobbling for real this time.
“My ankle,” he says, and Sam gets up and moves over to the fridge, opening the freezer to take out a bag of frozen peas. He holds it in one overly large hand and leans down and picks Dean up effortlessly with the other.
“Let’s go sit on the sofa, hm?” he says, moving into the living room where Bobby is tending to the fire. Dean goes down first, sitting with one leg propped up against the pillow and Sam arranges the bag of peas on top of his ankle. “Don’t move,” he warns and Dean just nods, looking considerably more comfortable and calm than he did five minutes ago.
The fire crackles and then Bobby says gruffly, “Who wants cocoa?” Dean perks up even more, nodding brightly. He says, “I’ll go heat up the milk,” right as a gust of wind hits the house like a fright train and Sam thinks that yeah, absolutely, lets be inside for this one. Bobby comes back with three mugs and gives the boys each one and saves one for himself. “I put whiskey in ours,” he mutters at Sam, taking his seat in the chair behind his desk. He’s just opened his mouth to say something when Sam tilts his head slowly to the side.
“Do you hear that?” he asks, looking puzzled, straining to hear over the whistling wind.
Bobby mirrors him and then says, “What, that scratching?” Sam’s heart sinks and he thinks, come on, what kind of a demon would attack in the middle of a blizzard? Dean doesn't look worried, intent on his cocoa and the frothy moustache it's giving his upper lip. Gun in hand, Sam moves slowly towards the front door and Bobby starts opening a flask of holy water. The door handle turns down slowly and then there's this ball of fur streaking inside the same way Dean had six hours previously, eager to get out of the cold and into the warmth.
"It's a mutt," Bobby says, looking so unamused at the fact that he was ready to throw holy water at a dog that it hurts. "It's a dog."
Against Sam's previous orders Dean kicks off the bag of peas and slides off the sofa, sitting on the floor and whistling for the dog - which actually, the thing's not even a dog. It's a puppy, a really, really furry pup. He starts cooing and petting it, running his hands through the cold and snowy fur and laughing delightedly while it licks his face. "It might have rabies or something," Sam starts, and then realizes he's still holding the knife in his hand, sheathing it with a cough. If the normal Dean knew that he was just planning on stabbing a puppy he'd never live it down.
They’re - Sam and Bobby both - are wondering where the hell the dog came from but Dean is being so enthusiastic about it that the only thing they can do is hope put a screen in front of the fireplace and hope that the dog doesn’t actually have rabies. Dean doesn’t start nodding off until about midnight, finally passing out on the sofa with the Grinch Who Stole Christmas playing on the TV.
“So, what’d you find?” Sam asks finally, cradling a glass of whiskey in his hands.
“As far as I can tell,” Bobby starts, leaning forwards to pull a heavy book off of a stack and opening it to a marked page. “It’s just a temporary thing. He should be back to normal in a day, maybe even a couple of hours if we’re lucky. If not, I’ll just have to keep looking.” He looks complentative, turning forwards a few pages. Sam turns around and leans against the desk, watches his older brother (younger brother?) sleep while warpped around a puppy and thinks that on the off chance things did stay like this, it wouldn’t be that bad.