A Series of Somewhat Unfortunate Events for zelda_addict
Title: A Series of Somewhat Unfortunate Events (Depending Upon Your Point of View)
Recipient: zelda_addict
Artist: amberdreams
Characters: (deaged) Sam and Castiel, Dean, Kevin Tran
Warnings: crack!fic, de-aging (see prompt), takes place loosely around Clip Show in Season Eight
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3500
Original Prompt: Prompt 1: I would love something with de-aging of Cas (well, his vessel anyway), Dean, and Sam in the vein of "A Series of Unfortunate Events" with a young Dean who thinks on his feet to improvise tools, younger Sam who knows way too much about everything, and baby Cas who likes to bite smite things.
Summary: Both recovering from recent events between the second and third Trials, Sam and Castiel happen upon a disused magical laboratory in the Men of Letters Bunker, with rather interesting results. And of course, Sam wants to share everything with his idolized older brother - including the effects of a de-aging potion, much to Dean's dismay.
A/N: I wanted this to be far more polished and to incorporate at least one more of the awesome prompts I was given, but simply ran out of time due to Real Life issues - hope it suffices anyway. :) There is an in-progress Part Two forthcoming at some future date, which will feature all three de-aged characters.
Amazing art by amberdreams below the cut, due to flashing image - warning for that and for slight story spoiler, though the prompt itself is basically the same spoiler.
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Event One: Now you see me, now you...see less of me.
Silence, in their (family) business, is anything but golden.
For them, it usually means they're about to be jumped by the thing they're hunting. And even in this, their little slice of better-than-Heaven-because-Heaven-sucked, silence is still very much not a good thing. In the little over a year since they've moved into the Bunker, Dean has personally learned the hard way that it is never a good idea to walk the unfamiliar (meaning usually booby-trapped by overzealous 1950s nerd-men) corridors of the Bunker without turning on the flourescent lights, and that for the love of God don't. freaking. touch. anything. without gloves unless you know for sure, 100% beyond doubt, what it is. And even then, just don't.
Let's just say, Dean has learned the hard way that yes indeed, their Batcave does have secret passageways hidden in the walls - and yes indeed, there is a very long-dead Man of Letters in one either for atmospheric effect or just because the poor moron got himself trapped inside and didn't have a geeky little brother on the other side to figure out the algorithm needed to unlock the trap he'd sprung. (Sam had not appreciated having a femur lobbed at his head for his 'skeletons in the closet' crack once his overgrown ass finally figured it out and, after six hair-raising hours, managed to set his brother free.)
So it's with a sinking feeling in his gut and one hand on the gun at the small of his back and all the lights firmly on that Dean moves down the corridor toward the library's storage corridors, from where the ominous silence is very pointedly not-coming. A little over two hours ago his brother and their recovering guardian angel had wandered that direction, muttering in half-Enochian gobbledeygook about a possible reference for decoding the mystery surrounding the third Trial, and he'd let them be, mostly because Sam wandering around looking interested in something was better than Sam dozing practically on top of the library table, looking half-dead like he did sometimes now.
The murmur of geek-speak had stopped a little while ago, though, he had discovered when he came up for air from fixing chicken rice soup in the kitchen, and surely even a Tylenol-and-ginger-tea-drugged Sam would have gotten bored with Cas's monotonous drone by now?
Dean moves around the corner warily into the storage room and laboratory that houses the huge, somewhat creepy-looking bound books on spellwork and mysticism, and hopes that he's wrong.
--
He's not.
Head bouncing off the polished floor with a dull thud that rattles his teeth, Dean groans and stares in consternation as wide, frightened eyes peek at him from behind the rungs of the stool which apparently just bashed him unceremoniously in the kidneys. His head is still ringing from contact with the floor, and the throbbing in his lower back tells him clearly that he's been ambushed.
In all fairness, he had been the one to train the kid to strike first, ask questions later when threatened with danger unknown (he should probably be glad he was facing away from Sam at the time - parts of his anatomy twinge now just thinking about the painful possibilities).
The broken potion bottle in the outer storage room tells a clear story, as does the chaotic trail leading into the inner sanctum - trust Sam and their recovering angel to stumble upon the most dangerous magical laboratory in the Men of Letters bunker while neither of them is capable of walking steadily.
Now, he has been (literally) driven to his knees by Winchester stubbornness and defensive training in the body of a completely petrified five-year-old.
"Fu--udging hell, Sam," he corrects himself just in time, though God knows the kid had heard worse by then in his (sadly) eventful childhood. "Can you not?"
His back throbs particularly viciously to punctuate the sentence, and as his words break the silence he hears a breathy gasp of surprise. Sees the eyes move from peeking between the stool's rungs to peering in surprise over the top of the seat, framed by a mop of endearingly familiar messy hair. A gap-toothed grin, bookended by dimples, follows soon after, but before he can move to reassure his now (extremely) little brother there's a disturbance in the air just in front of them.
A gust of wind sends books and his jacket-flaps fluttering. A flash of white-hot light followed by a small pouf of tiny black feathers, and a bundle of white cloths and dark curls plops a few feet away from him, chubby hands waving excitedly.
Dean looks over at the baby, completely unimpressed. "You're kidding me, right."
"Bean!" Another startlingly warm flash of light and the baby reappears three inches from the elder Winchester's still-kneeling stance. Castiel smiles angelically and looks extremely satisfied with himself.
Dean inhales a settling feather and chokes on it.
"Laugh it up, short stack," he mutters, in response to Sammy's muffled snickering. "Shelf life on that potion is three months, and you thought I was 'mean' at nine years old..."
Freaking witches.
--
Event Two: Friendship is Magic. Family, on the other hand, is just...well, a part of life.
"Elixir of Eternal Youth? Is that even a Thing?"
"Considering I'm looking at Sammy at like five years old and a freakin' apparating angel-baby, yeah - I'd say it's a thing, Kevin!"
Muffled laughter, hastily choked into a cough through the phone connection, tells him that their resident prophet finds this much more amusing than he does. Sammy looks up from his peanut butter and banana sandwich as Dean scrubs an exasperated hand over his face, praying for patience.
Castiel eyes the remaining banana slices on Sam's plate with a calculating blue gleam.
Dean flips wearily through the tome which had been lying beside the shattered remains of the potion bottle. "I'm tellin' you, man - there's nothing in there that says anything about reversing the effects, only that the stuff has a shelf life of three months, can be absorbed through the skin or drunk, either one. Oh, and it says not to O.D. Which obviously already happened, thanks to Shaky McShakerson and his 104-degree fever wandering around the place, dropping breakable crap!"
"I'm wracking my brain, but I don't remember anything from the angel tablet that even references fledgling angels and their abilities, much less how to help them learn to control them, Dean. My guess is, the teleporting's an instinct and it's just not refined yet in a baby angel, that's why you can still see his wings for a second aand he can't control the location he lands in, exactly. I think their ability to move between locations only requires, like, a knowledge of the landing - it's obviously not precise enough in his mind yet for that."
Dean closes his eyes in exasperation. "So don't let him see pictures of the South Pole or something, or he could just zap himself there and not be able to get back again?"
"Yes?"
"Not filling me with confidence here, Kevin."
"There isn't a manual for this stuff, you know!"
A hair-raising screech from behind him sets his teeth on edge, and he whirls around just in time to see his sweet, good-natured little brother stab angrily at Castiel's retreating hand with a plastic spork.
"Mine!"
Castiel hastily shoves the fruity spoils of war into his mouth with a wounded look, despite the fact that the red mark on his hand is already disappearing with angelic rapidity.
"Sam Winchester!"
Sam looks only vaguely remorseful, and stuffs the entire remainder of his sandwich into his mouth with a baleful look at the infant angel, who only returns the scowl with a banana-infused smile.
Dean absently makes a mental note to make sure their off-brand aspirin bottle indeed has a child-proof cap, as he will probably be emptying it today.
--
Charlie only cackles in his ear and hangs up the phone, obviously thinking he's pulling her leg, and he's not quite to the point where he wants to bring the full wrath-slash-motherly-love of Sheriff Jody Mills down on his head, so he sucks it up like a man and designates Kevin as errand boy while he does a hasty baby-proofing of the Bunker. Who knew there were YouTube videos about how to toddler-proof a refrigerator?
Their Prophet of the Lord whines and bitches like the teenager he is, until Dean shoves a fifty into his hand along with their latest and greatest credit card, and tells him to knock himself out in the video game section in the Super Wal-Mart three towns over. Provided he gets everything else on the list, and if you forget the pretzel goldfish or apple juice boxes (and none of that fruit punch crap, understand?) I will end you, so help me Kevin.
Kevin smirks and points out that Dean has angel-baby barf on his shoulder, then dodges the empty peanut-butter jar that's winged at his skull with deadly accuracy as he darts out the door, laughing his head off.
Dean regards the hiccuping infant in his arms with resigned despair.
"You're disgusting, dude."
Castiel's blue eyes blink at him solemnly.
A mighty crash from the other room tells him Sam has probably just tried to climb a bookshelf in the library for the fifth time in the last hour.
Castiel jolts in his arms, and promptly disappears in a small pouf of feathers.
Three steps take him to the entrance of the library, where he sees a pile of books strewn haphazardly all around, some open on their spines, a couple several feet away against the table legs - and yes, there is a bookcase with several empty upper shelves.
Castiel is sitting in the middle of the pile with one chubby finger in his mouth, looking slightly puzzled.
"Cas did it!" Sam hollers from across the room, where he is perched innocently on the back of the closest upholstered couch.
Dean resists the urge to laugh, as the strategist in him has to admire the quick thinking.
Wonder where the kid got that from?
--
"Dude. Who the f...heck is this?"
Kevin blinks at him, looking miffed at Dean's dissing of his child-pajama choices. "Uh, hello? Iron Man? Dude, what planet do you live on these days?"
Sammy regards the unfamiliar red and yellow decal with severe skepticim. "Who dat?"
"I dunno either." Dean favors their prophet with a look of utter betrayal. "Guess Kevin's not cool enough for Batman, Sammy. Sorry, kiddo."
Apparently unconcerned, Sammy digs through the bag, then holds up a baby blue onesie in infant size against Castiel's torso with a snigger.
Castiel looks highly unamused, and smacks Sam unceremoniously in the face.
"Ow! Deeeeeean!"
"Oh, for cryin' out loud." Dean picks the infant angel up like a football and hoists him under one arm, chubby limbs dangling. "Tell me you bought kiddie Benadryl so I can knock 'em both out."
"I'm pretty sure that's like, illegal or something."
"I'm guessin' that's a no."
"That's a no, Dean!"
"Damn it."
"You sweared," Sam points out cheerfully, pouncing on a package of strawberry Twizzlers hiding in a small bag at the bottom of the pile. The child has it open and half-devoured before Kevin can squeak out a protest that those weren't meant for Winchester consumption.
"Uh…"
"Awesome." Dean glares at them both. And five years old Sam may be, but he knows when retreat is the better part of valor, and he scampers off with his prize before either can say anything more.
"Was he always that smart?" Kevin asks finally, with complete sincerity.
Glancing after the sound of retreating small footsteps, Dean's features relax into a small smile as he allows some of the few happy childhood memories they do have to resurface. "Always," he answered, grinning. "Gave Dad - and me - fits for years. Probably the only thing that kept him alive, too, since he was way too trusting at that age."
Castiel, obviously tired of being hoisted around like a sack of potatoes, huffs a small sigh and yawns, settling down and starting to drool on Dean's arm. "Now this one?" Dean continues, glancing down at the drowsing cherub and raising an eyebrow. "I dunno if there even is a brain somewhere under that invisible halo - you sure your angel tablet didn't give you anything on baby angels?"
"I dunno if there even are baby angels, technically! They're interdimensional waves of light, Dean; the vessel is what's, like, a year old. I have no idea how old the angel inside it really is!"
Castiel, entirely unconcerned by this unflatteringly clinical discussion of his intelligence, merely starts snoring into Dean's elbow.
--
Continue to Part Two, as apparently LJ doesn't permit this size post anymore...