Mother Issues, [PG-13] 2/?, Sam, Dean, Ellen
Title: Mother Issues
Author: deanie_mcqueen
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, Family, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean, Ellen
Word Count: 1,823
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up through S2, de-aging!fic, WIP
Summary: Set at some ambiguous point in S2, Sam and Dean find themselves in a small situation after a hunt goes awry. Lucky for them they chose to stay at The Roadhouse, a lovely one-star resort complete with all the amenities: cots, booze, sandwiches...fine, maternal specimens named Ellen Harvelle...
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
__________________________
Sam was still sniffling, still wiping the back of his hand against his nose, scrubbing his palms over his cheeks, and hating himself for it. He had no idea why he was crying, or what made him cry, or why he wasn't together and calm and reasonable like he was prone to being in the face of Dean's ridiculous over-protective nature, but oh well. His body was tiny and doing terrible things to his mind, obviously, and Sam was willing to go with it.
He pulled away from his brother and reached for Ellen. She was crouched down and staring at them, her elbows resting on her knees, with brown eyes that were concerned and a tiny bit fascinated. She smelled like vanilla and jasmine and lemongrass and all sorts of sweet scents Sam couldn't decipher, he just knew she smelled nice, like women's body wash, probably like Mom would smell if she were alive. If she had ever been alive. Sometimes Sam doubted that Mom had ever existed - she was just some fantasy Dad made up, and Dean believed, some twisted creation of a deity-like woman to avenge. Mom was a plight, a religion, a code.
Mom wasn't here, might have never been here, but Ellen was. Ellen opened her arms and Sam climbed into them, vaguely embarrassed that he wasn't wearing pants. They'd slipped right off of him when his feet had touched the ground that morning, and he'd been too resolute on waking Dean to care too much about finding something as a replacement, or attempting to belt his boxers around his waist which might have been an appropriate and successful maneuver.
"Aw, it's okay, Sam," Ellen said into his hair, "We'll get you boys back to normal in no time." Sam tucked his head into her neck and attempted to disappear into his humungous purple T-shirt that he usually filled out pretty well. The whippet on the front of it, which used to be a joke, was now legitimately pleasing to his eyes. The little boy in Sam had always wanted a faithful canine companion.
"Sammy," Dean's now high-pitched voice came from somewhere behind him. Sam ignored it in favor of melting underneath Ellen's touch, underneath that hand rubbing up and down his now tiny back. He was getting lost in the moment, getting lost in this small thing he had suddenly become and Dean was no longer the biggest person in the room to him. Dean was just a brother, someone to be cast aside in favor of an adult's attention. "Sam," Dean repeated, and this time there was more insistence in the tone. Again, Sam didn't respond.
A few seconds later, he felt the tug at the back of his shirt. It was persistent, this tug, and strong considering the size of the tugger, and it annoyed Sam to no end. He latched onto Ellen, growled, "Go away."
Dean yanked him back and off and Sam fell to his ass on the floor, tried again to disappear into his shirt because he didn't need anyone seeing his bits and pieces now that he was little and what the hell did Dean think he was doing, anyway?
"What the fuck, Dean?" he asked.
"We need to figure this out," Dean replied, and there was something of an apology in his eyes, but Sam was too wound up in every indiscernible way to comprehend it. He got up and launched himself at his brother.
The tangle of teeny tiny limbs that commenced was broken up shortly thereafter by an aggravated Ellen and a freshly-woken Ash, who blinked hooded and mildly surprised eyes at the Winchester brothers.
"Whoa," he said, knocking Dean gently away from Sam with the side of one denim-covered leg. "I take it last night didn't go so well?" He paused, scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. His eyes widened with a thought. "Didja get the bunnies out, at least?"
Dean huffed, brushing a strand of baby-soft hair away from the fresh scrape on his forehead. "We did," he said. "Best part of the goddamn evening."
Ash nodded. "It was all good until you woke up as midgets, then?"
"The correct term is little people!" Sam exploded. He couldn't help it - these people and their lack of political correctness would be the death of him. "And we're not little people. We're..." he trailed off. He wasn't exactly sure what they were.
"Six," Ellen supplied, placing a placating hand on Sam's shaggy head. "You're about six. Ash, go get the first aid kit, will you?" Ash opened his mouth to say something else or perhaps protest, but Ellen was exuding that make-it-snappy aura that Dad used to encompass (Do what I say when I say it) and Ash scampered off and back in within a matter of moments.
"I don't have any injuries," Sam informed her, because he didn't. Maybe a bruise on his left leg, there was a teensy space on his thigh that ached just a little. Dean had got in one good shot.
"Good," Ellen said. "It's for your brother." She opened the kit up and pulled out supplies with which to clean Dean's scrape - but when she reached for him, Dean skidded back, glaring a distrustful glare.
"I can clean it myself, Ellen," he said. "M'twenty-seven years old. And I'm not a pansy like this one here," he added, nodding in Sam's direction. "It doesn't need to be cleaned at all, really."
"It does," Ellen replied, and Sam could see that she was reaching the end of this morning's rope. She was gritting her teeth and there was fire in her eyes. "It's small, but so are you. Small things get infected easily."
"I'm not a small thing," Dean replied, grossly offended. "I'm six foot one and built like a Greek god, you'll be happy to know."
Sam snorted. His brother was delusional. "You're soft around the middle."
A bull's outraged breath escaped Dean's minuscule nose. "I am not soft around the middle, you stupid little-"
"Your abs are barely defined. I'm built like a Greek god."
Sam felt incredibly immature, taunting his brother in such a way, but Dean deserved it. Dean was being mean to Ellen. Ellen, who was going to take care of them. Ellen, who was catching Dean before he could lunge all three feet and five inches of himself at Sam for a second round.
"Enough." Ellen's voice was deafeningly quiet, and the word was spoken in a way Dad had spoken it on those rare occasions when he was sober and Sam and Dean were fighting. Sam and Dean didn't used to fight all that often. "You're both going to make this harder if you can't get along." Dean tried to pull away, struggled, but Ellen held fast and growled, "Settle."
And Dean went still.
"Now, you listen to me, boy. You can clean it or I can clean it, but that scrape's getting cleaned. And you're gonna drop this goddamn attitude because you can't handle this one all by yourself. You're six."
"M'twenty-seven," Dean shot back and this time, he did manage to push his way out of her arms. "Almost twenty-eight. Just because some bitch witch fucked me over and made me small doesn't give you the right or reason to infantilize me. I can take care of myself and my brother. I mean, thanks for your hospitality and everything, Ellen, but I think we're gonna be cuttin' out of here as soon as-"
"How?" Ellen asked, cutting him off. "How do you plan on getting out of here, exactly?"
"In my car," Dean snapped. "How else?"
Ellen shook her head, amazed. "Kid, you're crazy if you think your feet can reach the pedals."
"And you're crazy if you think I'm gonna put up with this shit," Dean shot back. He stomped over to his bed and picked up the boxers that had fallen off of him earlier, made a show of stuffing them in his duffel. "Me and my underwear are out of here," he grumbled. "Sammy, get your shit. We're gonna go back to the witch's place and see what we can find."
Sam raised an eyebrow. He wasn't going anywhere. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he said. "Ellen's right. Your feet can't reach the pedals. Stop and think about it, will you? We're too small. Pretty much anything or anyone could overtake us and no one in their right mind will take us seriously. Everything we can do, we'll do from here."
But Dean wasn't listening, apparently. He was dragging his duffel across the floor by a strap, trying his best not to show the effort he was putting in to do so and failing. Failing miserably.
Ellen sighed. "Ash? Go get 'em some clothes, will you?"
Ash, who had been standing quietly off to the side during this entire altercation, blinked and sucked in a breath, waved a hand over Dean's struggling little form. "What about this?" he asked.
"He'll tire himself out by the time he gets to the lot," Ellen replied and it was true. Ash left, and Dean was panting by the time he reached the Impala. He slumped over his bag and searched his charcoal-gray sleep shirt for his keys for several moments before realizing that his keys wouldn't be in a T-shirt with no pockets.
"Where are my freakin' pants?" he demanded, turning around on one bare heel and wincing at the feel of the tiny, sharp pebbles under his feet. He pointed an accusing finger at Sam.
"You left 'em in the room. Only picked up your boxers," Sam told him cheerfully from the entrance of the bar. Sam, at least, knew better than to walk outside on his bare feet.
Dean made a noise like an angry dog and kicked his duffel. His toes must have hit something hard because he squealed after the fact and hopped around on one foot, cursing up a storm.
Ellen strode over and bent down, swept Dean into arms that must have been stronger than they looked. "Give it up, kid," she said. "We'll fix you as soon as possible, I promise, but you gotta cut this out."
Sam saw some of the fight leave his brother in that moment, like there was wind all built up in that little body and Dean just, kind of...deflated.
"At least the bunnies are free," Dean said, and it sounded like a sound that was trying very hard not to sound like a whimper. He reached for his hurt foot and moaned.
"Yeah," Ellen agreed. "At least there's that." She carried Dean back inside and set him down on one of the bar stools.
Sam trotted after them and watched as this fine, maternal specimen known as Ellen Harvelle tended to his brother's scrapes and wounds.
Next
Author: deanie_mcqueen
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, Family, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sam, Dean, Ellen
Word Count: 1,823
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers up through S2, de-aging!fic, WIP
Summary: Set at some ambiguous point in S2, Sam and Dean find themselves in a small situation after a hunt goes awry. Lucky for them they chose to stay at The Roadhouse, a lovely one-star resort complete with all the amenities: cots, booze, sandwiches...fine, maternal specimens named Ellen Harvelle...
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
__________________________
Sam was still sniffling, still wiping the back of his hand against his nose, scrubbing his palms over his cheeks, and hating himself for it. He had no idea why he was crying, or what made him cry, or why he wasn't together and calm and reasonable like he was prone to being in the face of Dean's ridiculous over-protective nature, but oh well. His body was tiny and doing terrible things to his mind, obviously, and Sam was willing to go with it.
He pulled away from his brother and reached for Ellen. She was crouched down and staring at them, her elbows resting on her knees, with brown eyes that were concerned and a tiny bit fascinated. She smelled like vanilla and jasmine and lemongrass and all sorts of sweet scents Sam couldn't decipher, he just knew she smelled nice, like women's body wash, probably like Mom would smell if she were alive. If she had ever been alive. Sometimes Sam doubted that Mom had ever existed - she was just some fantasy Dad made up, and Dean believed, some twisted creation of a deity-like woman to avenge. Mom was a plight, a religion, a code.
Mom wasn't here, might have never been here, but Ellen was. Ellen opened her arms and Sam climbed into them, vaguely embarrassed that he wasn't wearing pants. They'd slipped right off of him when his feet had touched the ground that morning, and he'd been too resolute on waking Dean to care too much about finding something as a replacement, or attempting to belt his boxers around his waist which might have been an appropriate and successful maneuver.
"Aw, it's okay, Sam," Ellen said into his hair, "We'll get you boys back to normal in no time." Sam tucked his head into her neck and attempted to disappear into his humungous purple T-shirt that he usually filled out pretty well. The whippet on the front of it, which used to be a joke, was now legitimately pleasing to his eyes. The little boy in Sam had always wanted a faithful canine companion.
"Sammy," Dean's now high-pitched voice came from somewhere behind him. Sam ignored it in favor of melting underneath Ellen's touch, underneath that hand rubbing up and down his now tiny back. He was getting lost in the moment, getting lost in this small thing he had suddenly become and Dean was no longer the biggest person in the room to him. Dean was just a brother, someone to be cast aside in favor of an adult's attention. "Sam," Dean repeated, and this time there was more insistence in the tone. Again, Sam didn't respond.
A few seconds later, he felt the tug at the back of his shirt. It was persistent, this tug, and strong considering the size of the tugger, and it annoyed Sam to no end. He latched onto Ellen, growled, "Go away."
Dean yanked him back and off and Sam fell to his ass on the floor, tried again to disappear into his shirt because he didn't need anyone seeing his bits and pieces now that he was little and what the hell did Dean think he was doing, anyway?
"What the fuck, Dean?" he asked.
"We need to figure this out," Dean replied, and there was something of an apology in his eyes, but Sam was too wound up in every indiscernible way to comprehend it. He got up and launched himself at his brother.
The tangle of teeny tiny limbs that commenced was broken up shortly thereafter by an aggravated Ellen and a freshly-woken Ash, who blinked hooded and mildly surprised eyes at the Winchester brothers.
"Whoa," he said, knocking Dean gently away from Sam with the side of one denim-covered leg. "I take it last night didn't go so well?" He paused, scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. His eyes widened with a thought. "Didja get the bunnies out, at least?"
Dean huffed, brushing a strand of baby-soft hair away from the fresh scrape on his forehead. "We did," he said. "Best part of the goddamn evening."
Ash nodded. "It was all good until you woke up as midgets, then?"
"The correct term is little people!" Sam exploded. He couldn't help it - these people and their lack of political correctness would be the death of him. "And we're not little people. We're..." he trailed off. He wasn't exactly sure what they were.
"Six," Ellen supplied, placing a placating hand on Sam's shaggy head. "You're about six. Ash, go get the first aid kit, will you?" Ash opened his mouth to say something else or perhaps protest, but Ellen was exuding that make-it-snappy aura that Dad used to encompass (Do what I say when I say it) and Ash scampered off and back in within a matter of moments.
"I don't have any injuries," Sam informed her, because he didn't. Maybe a bruise on his left leg, there was a teensy space on his thigh that ached just a little. Dean had got in one good shot.
"Good," Ellen said. "It's for your brother." She opened the kit up and pulled out supplies with which to clean Dean's scrape - but when she reached for him, Dean skidded back, glaring a distrustful glare.
"I can clean it myself, Ellen," he said. "M'twenty-seven years old. And I'm not a pansy like this one here," he added, nodding in Sam's direction. "It doesn't need to be cleaned at all, really."
"It does," Ellen replied, and Sam could see that she was reaching the end of this morning's rope. She was gritting her teeth and there was fire in her eyes. "It's small, but so are you. Small things get infected easily."
"I'm not a small thing," Dean replied, grossly offended. "I'm six foot one and built like a Greek god, you'll be happy to know."
Sam snorted. His brother was delusional. "You're soft around the middle."
A bull's outraged breath escaped Dean's minuscule nose. "I am not soft around the middle, you stupid little-"
"Your abs are barely defined. I'm built like a Greek god."
Sam felt incredibly immature, taunting his brother in such a way, but Dean deserved it. Dean was being mean to Ellen. Ellen, who was going to take care of them. Ellen, who was catching Dean before he could lunge all three feet and five inches of himself at Sam for a second round.
"Enough." Ellen's voice was deafeningly quiet, and the word was spoken in a way Dad had spoken it on those rare occasions when he was sober and Sam and Dean were fighting. Sam and Dean didn't used to fight all that often. "You're both going to make this harder if you can't get along." Dean tried to pull away, struggled, but Ellen held fast and growled, "Settle."
And Dean went still.
"Now, you listen to me, boy. You can clean it or I can clean it, but that scrape's getting cleaned. And you're gonna drop this goddamn attitude because you can't handle this one all by yourself. You're six."
"M'twenty-seven," Dean shot back and this time, he did manage to push his way out of her arms. "Almost twenty-eight. Just because some bitch witch fucked me over and made me small doesn't give you the right or reason to infantilize me. I can take care of myself and my brother. I mean, thanks for your hospitality and everything, Ellen, but I think we're gonna be cuttin' out of here as soon as-"
"How?" Ellen asked, cutting him off. "How do you plan on getting out of here, exactly?"
"In my car," Dean snapped. "How else?"
Ellen shook her head, amazed. "Kid, you're crazy if you think your feet can reach the pedals."
"And you're crazy if you think I'm gonna put up with this shit," Dean shot back. He stomped over to his bed and picked up the boxers that had fallen off of him earlier, made a show of stuffing them in his duffel. "Me and my underwear are out of here," he grumbled. "Sammy, get your shit. We're gonna go back to the witch's place and see what we can find."
Sam raised an eyebrow. He wasn't going anywhere. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he said. "Ellen's right. Your feet can't reach the pedals. Stop and think about it, will you? We're too small. Pretty much anything or anyone could overtake us and no one in their right mind will take us seriously. Everything we can do, we'll do from here."
But Dean wasn't listening, apparently. He was dragging his duffel across the floor by a strap, trying his best not to show the effort he was putting in to do so and failing. Failing miserably.
Ellen sighed. "Ash? Go get 'em some clothes, will you?"
Ash, who had been standing quietly off to the side during this entire altercation, blinked and sucked in a breath, waved a hand over Dean's struggling little form. "What about this?" he asked.
"He'll tire himself out by the time he gets to the lot," Ellen replied and it was true. Ash left, and Dean was panting by the time he reached the Impala. He slumped over his bag and searched his charcoal-gray sleep shirt for his keys for several moments before realizing that his keys wouldn't be in a T-shirt with no pockets.
"Where are my freakin' pants?" he demanded, turning around on one bare heel and wincing at the feel of the tiny, sharp pebbles under his feet. He pointed an accusing finger at Sam.
"You left 'em in the room. Only picked up your boxers," Sam told him cheerfully from the entrance of the bar. Sam, at least, knew better than to walk outside on his bare feet.
Dean made a noise like an angry dog and kicked his duffel. His toes must have hit something hard because he squealed after the fact and hopped around on one foot, cursing up a storm.
Ellen strode over and bent down, swept Dean into arms that must have been stronger than they looked. "Give it up, kid," she said. "We'll fix you as soon as possible, I promise, but you gotta cut this out."
Sam saw some of the fight leave his brother in that moment, like there was wind all built up in that little body and Dean just, kind of...deflated.
"At least the bunnies are free," Dean said, and it sounded like a sound that was trying very hard not to sound like a whimper. He reached for his hurt foot and moaned.
"Yeah," Ellen agreed. "At least there's that." She carried Dean back inside and set him down on one of the bar stools.
Sam trotted after them and watched as this fine, maternal specimen known as Ellen Harvelle tended to his brother's scrapes and wounds.
Next