Rock-a-Bye Baby
Title: Rock-a-Bye Baby
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean comes down with a fever while Ellen is visiting.
I'm breaking my no posting during NaNo rule to make nwspaprtaxis feel better with this tiny, rushed piece of fluffy hurt. I'm not really convinced that this is any good, but it's all I could come up with tonight.
Fill for 'Homesickness' on my hc_bingo card.
Star Night, Star Bright
Pattycakes
Dean's throat feels wrong. Thick and swollen and stinging hot around the cold air in Bobby's kitchen. His fork is slipping in his clammy grip and Dean wonders when his ears started buzzing like an old, stuttering engine.
"Dean, baby, are you alright?" Ellen asks in a weird, soft sort of voice that he's only ever heard her use with Sam or Jo. And even then only when they weren't paying attention.
Dean scowls. He isn't anyone's baby. Least of all Ellen's who's never much liked him before. She's nice to him now, that he's all small and cuddly and she can't see that on the inside he's still the same no-good screw-up who made her only daughter walk out on her. "'m fine," he mumbles, but his voice dulls over the words, rough and scratchy in a way that makes him feel even smaller.
"Has he been running around in the yard without a jacket?"
Ellen doesn't even look at Dean. Just points her fork in his direction and fixes Sam and Uncle Bobby with that scary, no-nonsense glare she's got.
"No," Sam shoots back. It'd be funny how he actually squeaks and raises both hands in surrender if laughing didn't hurt Dean's head so much. "No, Ellen, he hasn't. We know he can't be outside without a jacket this time of - ow!"
Sam yelps and clutches his knee and Dean hurries to sit upright in his chair again, toes throbbing like crazy. "I'm right here," he growls and it doesn't sound like a bratty pout at all. "Quit talkin' about me like I'm not fu-"
"Dean!"
Dean almost falls out of his chair he flinches so hard from the three-voiced yell. Uncle Bobby has to reach out and put a hand on his back.
"Eat you dinner," Sam says in that deep, gravely way he knows Dean can't help but obey.
Ellen's made lasagna. It's way too salty and the pasta-y bits are hard and crunchy and they hurt going down Dean's throat, but he figures it's good to have a change from Chinese take out and Bobby's scrambles eggs. He tries real hard not to make a face at the taste. God knows what Ellen will do to him if he starts kicking up a fuss over her cooking.
I made this only because you asked for it.
I could've spent the day working on a cure for your curse.
Better be fuckin' grateful for whatever grub you can get, boy.
Dean sniffs loudly, drags the sleeve of his shirt across his face, smearing snot and tomato sauce all over the dark fabric. Okay, so maybe he's been throwing off the stupid midget parka Sam makes him wear as soon as he's out of sight from the kitchen window, but it's only because the sleeves are too tick and he can't move his arms properly and oh, also because he's not a snot-nosed kid who needs to be told what to wear, thank you very much.
"Maybe Ellen's right," Bobby muses, probably so he can use his fork to point, rather than shove his food from one end of his plate to the other. "You sound like a damn Tylenol commercial."
Dean glares, prepared for a snarky comeback, but the words get stuck in his throat, stuckstuckstuck until he's suddenly sneezing hard and fast onto his plate.
"Ugh..." He looks up from the mess of snot and spit, sitting in on top of his lasagna in tiny, glittering droplets. "I think I'm done." He pushes his plate away from himself, feels his mouth pull into The Frown. The one that hurts his face and that makes Sam and Bobby chuckle when they think he isn't looking.
"Of course I'm right," Ellen says, shaking her head. "I know a sick kid when I see one. C'mon, sweety, time for bed."
She's already getting up and Dean feels his scowl darken as he slides off his chair before she has a chance to get any closer and...and pick him up or something. He can walk just fine.
He makes it all the way to the kitchen door before she catches up with him, hand on his shoulder, slipping under the hem of his shirt and crap.
"Holy mo...boy, you have one hell of a fever."
Dean glares up at her. He doesn't have to throw his head all the way back into his neck, like he has to do with Sammy and Uncle Bobby, which is at least something.
"Do not," he mumbles, trying to twist away from her small, calloused hands.
Sam is half standing at the table, one hand slightly raised in Dean's direction and Ellen shuts him down with a pointed glare. "Eat your dinner, boy. I'll take care of him."
Ellen's hand never once slips from his shoulder as she walks him up the stairs. It's cool and rough and Dean doesn't like it. He tries to shrug and twist and dodge and she just holds on tighter.
"I can handle it from here," he tells her, pointedly once they reach his room and she just smiles and pushes him inside in that aw, shucks isn't he cutie kind of way that never would have flown when he was still his proper size. "Can't you just leave me alone?"
There's no use denying he's strayed into bratty pout territory this time, but he doesn't care. His head hurts and his eyes are burning and he just wants to be left alone.
"Watch your tone and get your butt into bed." It's an order, definitely, but it's also just a tiny bit gentle and soft and something hot explodes in Dean's belly, filling him up with a vague feeling that's too big for him to wrap his head around.
Ellen tries to hide her smile behind her hand, when Dean crawls under his covers before he starts to twist out of his dusty jeans. She pulls his sheets up around his shoulders and still Dean shivers, the sheets cold and stiff against his bare legs. The cold trickles up his spine, settles high in his back and he turns to face the wall, arms wrapped around his too-tiny frame.
Fingers start carding through his hair and Dean tries real hard not to flinch away. Her hand is small and the nails are long and slightly scratchy and Dean bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself thinking.
Ellen smells nice, he realizes. There is leather there and whiskey and motor oil, but there's something sweet underneath it. It's comforting in a way that makes Dean feel angry and sad and like his head is crowded and full and ready to explode.
"My head hurts," he sighs into his pillow. Miserable and small when the words tumble off his lips and sink right into his pillow.
Ellen doesn't say anything, just moves her fingers down to the top of Dean's neck, massaging small circles without twisting and tugging at his soft, blonde locks.
"You want some juice, sweety?"
Dean shakes his head, starts to say "no," but ends up choking on the dry coughs that feel like breathing through barbed wire.
"Soup?" Ellen asks, once the coughing's stopped. She leans over him, one hand resting flat on his chest and Dean feels long strands of yellow hair tickle his nose and cheeks and his throat starts closing up around a thick ball of bad all over again. "What kind of soup do you want, honey?"
It's too much. Too many thoughts and memories and too many big feelings for his tiny heart. Dean hears a broken, chopped off sound, but he doesn't care, just buries his face deeper in his pillow, shaking his head left and right until it's throbbing and buzzing and he feels like he's close to throwing up.
She's supposed to know. Know what kind of soup Dean wants and know what song to sing and stop being almost right in all the wrong ways.
Dean's fists are cramping, pulling his sheets close to his face, over his head, hoping for the world to just go away.
"Please leave me alone," he whispers, feeling sick with the silent sobs that have him shaking all over.
He stays locked in place, rocking under his thin blanket, angry buzzing clogging up his ears and it takes him forever to realize that that warm hand is still there, rubbing gentle circles on his back.
"It'll be okay," she says, deep and husky and her voice wraps itself around the sharp, bad feelings in his throat. "Everything's gonna be alright. Promise."
Dean shakes his head. Nothing's ever okay.
He knows that much and he knows Ellen will be mad 'cause he's not listening to her, but she stays right there, hand on his back, warm and solid.
She doesn't offer to make him soup again and Dean thinks maybe this is gonna be okay.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1500
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean comes down with a fever while Ellen is visiting.
I'm breaking my no posting during NaNo rule to make nwspaprtaxis feel better with this tiny, rushed piece of fluffy hurt. I'm not really convinced that this is any good, but it's all I could come up with tonight.
Fill for 'Homesickness' on my hc_bingo card.
Star Night, Star Bright
Pattycakes
Dean's throat feels wrong. Thick and swollen and stinging hot around the cold air in Bobby's kitchen. His fork is slipping in his clammy grip and Dean wonders when his ears started buzzing like an old, stuttering engine.
"Dean, baby, are you alright?" Ellen asks in a weird, soft sort of voice that he's only ever heard her use with Sam or Jo. And even then only when they weren't paying attention.
Dean scowls. He isn't anyone's baby. Least of all Ellen's who's never much liked him before. She's nice to him now, that he's all small and cuddly and she can't see that on the inside he's still the same no-good screw-up who made her only daughter walk out on her. "'m fine," he mumbles, but his voice dulls over the words, rough and scratchy in a way that makes him feel even smaller.
"Has he been running around in the yard without a jacket?"
Ellen doesn't even look at Dean. Just points her fork in his direction and fixes Sam and Uncle Bobby with that scary, no-nonsense glare she's got.
"No," Sam shoots back. It'd be funny how he actually squeaks and raises both hands in surrender if laughing didn't hurt Dean's head so much. "No, Ellen, he hasn't. We know he can't be outside without a jacket this time of - ow!"
Sam yelps and clutches his knee and Dean hurries to sit upright in his chair again, toes throbbing like crazy. "I'm right here," he growls and it doesn't sound like a bratty pout at all. "Quit talkin' about me like I'm not fu-"
"Dean!"
Dean almost falls out of his chair he flinches so hard from the three-voiced yell. Uncle Bobby has to reach out and put a hand on his back.
"Eat you dinner," Sam says in that deep, gravely way he knows Dean can't help but obey.
Ellen's made lasagna. It's way too salty and the pasta-y bits are hard and crunchy and they hurt going down Dean's throat, but he figures it's good to have a change from Chinese take out and Bobby's scrambles eggs. He tries real hard not to make a face at the taste. God knows what Ellen will do to him if he starts kicking up a fuss over her cooking.
I made this only because you asked for it.
I could've spent the day working on a cure for your curse.
Better be fuckin' grateful for whatever grub you can get, boy.
Dean sniffs loudly, drags the sleeve of his shirt across his face, smearing snot and tomato sauce all over the dark fabric. Okay, so maybe he's been throwing off the stupid midget parka Sam makes him wear as soon as he's out of sight from the kitchen window, but it's only because the sleeves are too tick and he can't move his arms properly and oh, also because he's not a snot-nosed kid who needs to be told what to wear, thank you very much.
"Maybe Ellen's right," Bobby muses, probably so he can use his fork to point, rather than shove his food from one end of his plate to the other. "You sound like a damn Tylenol commercial."
Dean glares, prepared for a snarky comeback, but the words get stuck in his throat, stuckstuckstuck until he's suddenly sneezing hard and fast onto his plate.
"Ugh..." He looks up from the mess of snot and spit, sitting in on top of his lasagna in tiny, glittering droplets. "I think I'm done." He pushes his plate away from himself, feels his mouth pull into The Frown. The one that hurts his face and that makes Sam and Bobby chuckle when they think he isn't looking.
"Of course I'm right," Ellen says, shaking her head. "I know a sick kid when I see one. C'mon, sweety, time for bed."
She's already getting up and Dean feels his scowl darken as he slides off his chair before she has a chance to get any closer and...and pick him up or something. He can walk just fine.
He makes it all the way to the kitchen door before she catches up with him, hand on his shoulder, slipping under the hem of his shirt and crap.
"Holy mo...boy, you have one hell of a fever."
Dean glares up at her. He doesn't have to throw his head all the way back into his neck, like he has to do with Sammy and Uncle Bobby, which is at least something.
"Do not," he mumbles, trying to twist away from her small, calloused hands.
Sam is half standing at the table, one hand slightly raised in Dean's direction and Ellen shuts him down with a pointed glare. "Eat your dinner, boy. I'll take care of him."
Ellen's hand never once slips from his shoulder as she walks him up the stairs. It's cool and rough and Dean doesn't like it. He tries to shrug and twist and dodge and she just holds on tighter.
"I can handle it from here," he tells her, pointedly once they reach his room and she just smiles and pushes him inside in that aw, shucks isn't he cutie kind of way that never would have flown when he was still his proper size. "Can't you just leave me alone?"
There's no use denying he's strayed into bratty pout territory this time, but he doesn't care. His head hurts and his eyes are burning and he just wants to be left alone.
"Watch your tone and get your butt into bed." It's an order, definitely, but it's also just a tiny bit gentle and soft and something hot explodes in Dean's belly, filling him up with a vague feeling that's too big for him to wrap his head around.
Ellen tries to hide her smile behind her hand, when Dean crawls under his covers before he starts to twist out of his dusty jeans. She pulls his sheets up around his shoulders and still Dean shivers, the sheets cold and stiff against his bare legs. The cold trickles up his spine, settles high in his back and he turns to face the wall, arms wrapped around his too-tiny frame.
Fingers start carding through his hair and Dean tries real hard not to flinch away. Her hand is small and the nails are long and slightly scratchy and Dean bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself thinking.
Ellen smells nice, he realizes. There is leather there and whiskey and motor oil, but there's something sweet underneath it. It's comforting in a way that makes Dean feel angry and sad and like his head is crowded and full and ready to explode.
"My head hurts," he sighs into his pillow. Miserable and small when the words tumble off his lips and sink right into his pillow.
Ellen doesn't say anything, just moves her fingers down to the top of Dean's neck, massaging small circles without twisting and tugging at his soft, blonde locks.
"You want some juice, sweety?"
Dean shakes his head, starts to say "no," but ends up choking on the dry coughs that feel like breathing through barbed wire.
"Soup?" Ellen asks, once the coughing's stopped. She leans over him, one hand resting flat on his chest and Dean feels long strands of yellow hair tickle his nose and cheeks and his throat starts closing up around a thick ball of bad all over again. "What kind of soup do you want, honey?"
It's too much. Too many thoughts and memories and too many big feelings for his tiny heart. Dean hears a broken, chopped off sound, but he doesn't care, just buries his face deeper in his pillow, shaking his head left and right until it's throbbing and buzzing and he feels like he's close to throwing up.
She's supposed to know. Know what kind of soup Dean wants and know what song to sing and stop being almost right in all the wrong ways.
Dean's fists are cramping, pulling his sheets close to his face, over his head, hoping for the world to just go away.
"Please leave me alone," he whispers, feeling sick with the silent sobs that have him shaking all over.
He stays locked in place, rocking under his thin blanket, angry buzzing clogging up his ears and it takes him forever to realize that that warm hand is still there, rubbing gentle circles on his back.
"It'll be okay," she says, deep and husky and her voice wraps itself around the sharp, bad feelings in his throat. "Everything's gonna be alright. Promise."
Dean shakes his head. Nothing's ever okay.
He knows that much and he knows Ellen will be mad 'cause he's not listening to her, but she stays right there, hand on his back, warm and solid.
She doesn't offer to make him soup again and Dean thinks maybe this is gonna be okay.