Star Night, Star Bright
Title: Star Night, Star Bright
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1700
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them, long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean with a gun under his pillow and memories of Dad.
Pattycakes
Yes, here it is. The prequel. Pattycakes is now officially a 'verse. I feel kinda proud. And I'm feeling better in general. You know, randomly, just like I was randomly depressed. Anyway, I made myself an icon with inspiration from the awesome biketest.
This is a fill for 'Bodyguards' on my hc_bingo card. Shut up, it totally makes sense.
"I'm twenty-eight!" Dean hollers. He tries real hard to ignore the way his chest hurts. All constricted and tiny and trying to squash his little-bird heart, that's playing drums on his rib cage.
"I don't care," Sam grits out. His teeth are pressed together and his face is getting red, but Dean can't see that vein that always pulses away on Dad's temple when he gets mad, so that's good. Used to pulse, Dean corrects himself and feels a deep stab of bad, down in his tummy, when he remembers that Dad only used to do things now, isn't doing anything anymore. "You have trouble cutting your pancakes, how the hell you figure you can handle this?"
Sam is waving Dean's Colt 1911 in front of his face. Dean wants to jump off his bed and just grab it, 'cause it's his and Sam can't just take it, but he figures launching himself at a loaded weapon would do little to prove to Sam that he knows everything there is to know about gun safety, so he slumps back against the headboard of his bed, draws his knees up to his chest and gives Sam a seething glare.
Bullshit, he wants to say, but he barely gets out half a sound before a small spasm of fear clamps his mouth shut. "'s stupid," he mumbles instead. He feels his lower lip jut out in what is very definitely not a pout, even though Sam is acting like such a big, stupid jerk, pouting would be very much justified.
"Oh, it's stupid?" Sam repeats. Loud and threatening in a way that wouldn't have scared Dean at all a couple of days ago. "You cannot sleep with a deadly fire weapon under your pillow when I can't even trust you with a fu-riggin' butter knife."
Dean glances down at the small bandage, wrapped around his stupid, small hand. That was an accident. The knife slipped, because it was all greasy with syrup, because Dean accidentally grabbed the wrong end. Which could've happened to anyone.
"That was an accident." Sam shoots him a look, like he doesn't believe a word Dean's saying and Dean feels his entire miniature body start to crumble under the overwhelming despair of Sam thinking he's lying. "It was too."
"Well fine, but I'm not risking you having another accident with this." Sam waves Dean's gun around one more time before he tucks it away in the waistband of his jeans. "I know you think you're all grown up, but you're just not. No, Dean, you're not. As long as you're in this fun-sized body, you're gonna do as I damn well say, understood?"
Dean glares. He puts all his hatred and irritation with Sam's bossy-ness and this stupid curse and all the other big feelings that are whirling around in his throat and that he can't even begin to name into the glare and waits for Sam to cave.
"Dean?"
"What?"
"Do we understand each other?"
Dean flinches at the way Sam's voice gets all dark and gravelly. Dad sounded like that sometimes. When Dean was being bad and a pain in the ass and Dad just couldn't take it anymore. That's when Dad would...Dean doesn't really want to think about what happened when Dad used that tone.
He drops his head to rest on top of his knobbly knees and nods, mumbles something into the soft fabric of his new pajama pants that hopefully sounds like an apology. He tries to pull his knees further up against his chest until he can feel his face getting smushed and he tastes the sharp, Walmart smell in his mouth. The thick tears seep into the flannel and Dean is pretty sure Sammy can't tell he's crying. Dad never much liked it when they cried.
"Hey." Dean tries to curl even further in on himself. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, because he's not going to start hiccuping in front of Sam. He's just not. Sam's hands are all over his shoulders and they're huge, like giant bear paws and suddenly Dean feels himself being dragged across the bedspread and he doesn't know what Sam is trying to do, but he knows it's because Dean is a pain in the ass and he never knows when to stop pushing.
"I'm sorry." It's like his voice wants to shriek, but it gets mixed up midway through and comes out all hoarse and breathless.
"Whoa, Dean!"
And then he remembers this is Sammy and not Dad and fighting back against Sammy is totally acceptable. Especially since Sammy isn't fighting fair with his gigantic, sasquatch arms and hands.
Dean figures he can nail Sam in the groin with a well-placed kick and get the hell away from him. He draws back his leg and ends up crushed against Sam's huge chest, his limbs flailing and uncoordinated. It makes him want to growl and scream. How is he supposed to defend himself from the monsters, if he can't even kick his brother in the nuts anymore? Especially now that Sam's taking away the only weapon he's got left.
"Hey," Sam coos again. He coos for crying out loud and somehow it makes the tears spill past Dean's eyelids even faster. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not mad."
Dean shakes his head. He's pretty sure he's smearing snot and tears all over Sam's shirt. "Yes, you are."
Dean can tell when Sam's mad. Sam and Bobby may think the witch and her curse permanently screwed up Dean's higher thought processes, but he knows his Sammy 101.
"Not mad." Dean can feel Sammy shake his head, where his chin is resting on top of Dean's floppy hair. "Just scared me 's all."
Dean takes a shaky breath, bites down on his lower lip until he's pretty sure he has the hiccups under control again. Scared. Sammy was scared for him. It makes his chest fill with a warm glow that's totally wrong, but kinda comforting at the same time.
"You were just scared?" he asks tentatively and his voice almost doesn't quiver. He can feel Sam nod again. "You still scared now?" Sam's chin scratches over Dean's head again, shaking it no this time. "Can have my gun back then?"
He pulls away, out of Sam's vice-like grip. He plasters a grin all over his face. The one that made Bobby give him extra ice cream yesterday, even though he was convinced Dean couldn't handle the sugar.
Sam shakes his head and Dean kicks the mattress in frustration.
"I'm twenty-eight." It comes out in a ridiculous whine and Dean can see Sam's mouth twitch, trying not to laugh at him. "I am. I'm your older brother and you better gimme back my gun before I make you."
Sam sighs and leans forward on the bed so he can look Dean in the eye. Bobby and him gotta do this all the time. Sam especially, 'cause he's a freakishly tall mutant and the top of Dean's head barely reaches his hip. "Look," he says quietly. "I know you're not actually a little kid." Dean nods his head in a big up and down motion that makes the room spin around him. "But you're also not actually a grown-up either. No, hear me out. I know you got all your memories 'n stuff in tact, but still...I mean you can't deny that you're a little kid on some level."
Dean glares. A lot. And his lower lip doesn't jut out even once.
"I need my gun," he growls (except it comes out high and squeaky and like he's begging for his teddy bear). He can't really look at Sam when he says it, because saying he needs his gun makes him think of the things he needs the gun for and those always make his heart speed up until it's almost jumping out of his throat.
Sam slings his crazy long arm around Dean's shoulders again and pulls him against his hip. "You're safe here," he says quietly and Dean almost laughs. Safe for the next five months, maybe. After that the hell hounds are gonna come after him, no matter how little meat they can actually rip off his bones. Not that he's planning on being his own mini me five months from now. Sam and Bobby are just on the verge of figuring out what the hell that witch did to him.
"I'd be saver with my gun," he mumbles miserably while Sam runs his hand up and down Dean's arm.
"Yeah, until you grab it in your sleep and accidentally blast your brains out."
Dean's guts twist uncomfortably at the thought, but Sammy's chuckling, so he pushes the fear back down and tries on a weak little smile.
Sam picks him up again, so they can look at each other. Dean wants to tell him to cut out all the ridiculous manhandling that's been going on, but Sam has that expression on his face that shuts Dean up faster than a gunshot.
"No more guns." Sam's voice is low and gravelly again and it makes Dean's belly jump with memories of Dad. "We clear?"
Dean nods quickly. "Yessir."
The words slip out before Dean knows what he's saying. He stares up at Sam who's mouth is hanging slightly open. "Whoa...that..." Sam stammers. He's inching away from Dean, looking like he might be about to say Christo. "That's just...no."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, quickly. He pushes himself back against the headboard again. "Yeah, that was..."
"That was wrong, dude."
"Totally."
"I'm gonna uh..." Sam gets off the bed, checking with one hand, to make sure Dean's Colt is still tucked away in Sam's jeans. "I'm gonna leave. And take a shower. No more guns."
Dean nods as Sam's back disappears. "G'night," he forces out, even though his voice kinda gives out halfway through.
Sam leaves the door slightly open, so light can filter into the now dark room. Not that Dean is afraid of the dark. He just likes to know what's going on 's all.
No more guns, he thinks.
Fine.
Dean crawls across his bed until he's dangling half off the mattress, his stupid, long bangs falling into his eyes. He clamps one hand over his mouth to stop the delighted squeal, when his fingers close around his old pocket knife.
"Yahtzee."
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1700
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them, long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean with a gun under his pillow and memories of Dad.
Pattycakes
Yes, here it is. The prequel. Pattycakes is now officially a 'verse. I feel kinda proud. And I'm feeling better in general. You know, randomly, just like I was randomly depressed. Anyway, I made myself an icon with inspiration from the awesome biketest.
This is a fill for 'Bodyguards' on my hc_bingo card. Shut up, it totally makes sense.
"I'm twenty-eight!" Dean hollers. He tries real hard to ignore the way his chest hurts. All constricted and tiny and trying to squash his little-bird heart, that's playing drums on his rib cage.
"I don't care," Sam grits out. His teeth are pressed together and his face is getting red, but Dean can't see that vein that always pulses away on Dad's temple when he gets mad, so that's good. Used to pulse, Dean corrects himself and feels a deep stab of bad, down in his tummy, when he remembers that Dad only used to do things now, isn't doing anything anymore. "You have trouble cutting your pancakes, how the hell you figure you can handle this?"
Sam is waving Dean's Colt 1911 in front of his face. Dean wants to jump off his bed and just grab it, 'cause it's his and Sam can't just take it, but he figures launching himself at a loaded weapon would do little to prove to Sam that he knows everything there is to know about gun safety, so he slumps back against the headboard of his bed, draws his knees up to his chest and gives Sam a seething glare.
Bullshit, he wants to say, but he barely gets out half a sound before a small spasm of fear clamps his mouth shut. "'s stupid," he mumbles instead. He feels his lower lip jut out in what is very definitely not a pout, even though Sam is acting like such a big, stupid jerk, pouting would be very much justified.
"Oh, it's stupid?" Sam repeats. Loud and threatening in a way that wouldn't have scared Dean at all a couple of days ago. "You cannot sleep with a deadly fire weapon under your pillow when I can't even trust you with a fu-riggin' butter knife."
Dean glances down at the small bandage, wrapped around his stupid, small hand. That was an accident. The knife slipped, because it was all greasy with syrup, because Dean accidentally grabbed the wrong end. Which could've happened to anyone.
"That was an accident." Sam shoots him a look, like he doesn't believe a word Dean's saying and Dean feels his entire miniature body start to crumble under the overwhelming despair of Sam thinking he's lying. "It was too."
"Well fine, but I'm not risking you having another accident with this." Sam waves Dean's gun around one more time before he tucks it away in the waistband of his jeans. "I know you think you're all grown up, but you're just not. No, Dean, you're not. As long as you're in this fun-sized body, you're gonna do as I damn well say, understood?"
Dean glares. He puts all his hatred and irritation with Sam's bossy-ness and this stupid curse and all the other big feelings that are whirling around in his throat and that he can't even begin to name into the glare and waits for Sam to cave.
"Dean?"
"What?"
"Do we understand each other?"
Dean flinches at the way Sam's voice gets all dark and gravelly. Dad sounded like that sometimes. When Dean was being bad and a pain in the ass and Dad just couldn't take it anymore. That's when Dad would...Dean doesn't really want to think about what happened when Dad used that tone.
He drops his head to rest on top of his knobbly knees and nods, mumbles something into the soft fabric of his new pajama pants that hopefully sounds like an apology. He tries to pull his knees further up against his chest until he can feel his face getting smushed and he tastes the sharp, Walmart smell in his mouth. The thick tears seep into the flannel and Dean is pretty sure Sammy can't tell he's crying. Dad never much liked it when they cried.
"Hey." Dean tries to curl even further in on himself. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, because he's not going to start hiccuping in front of Sam. He's just not. Sam's hands are all over his shoulders and they're huge, like giant bear paws and suddenly Dean feels himself being dragged across the bedspread and he doesn't know what Sam is trying to do, but he knows it's because Dean is a pain in the ass and he never knows when to stop pushing.
"I'm sorry." It's like his voice wants to shriek, but it gets mixed up midway through and comes out all hoarse and breathless.
"Whoa, Dean!"
And then he remembers this is Sammy and not Dad and fighting back against Sammy is totally acceptable. Especially since Sammy isn't fighting fair with his gigantic, sasquatch arms and hands.
Dean figures he can nail Sam in the groin with a well-placed kick and get the hell away from him. He draws back his leg and ends up crushed against Sam's huge chest, his limbs flailing and uncoordinated. It makes him want to growl and scream. How is he supposed to defend himself from the monsters, if he can't even kick his brother in the nuts anymore? Especially now that Sam's taking away the only weapon he's got left.
"Hey," Sam coos again. He coos for crying out loud and somehow it makes the tears spill past Dean's eyelids even faster. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not mad."
Dean shakes his head. He's pretty sure he's smearing snot and tears all over Sam's shirt. "Yes, you are."
Dean can tell when Sam's mad. Sam and Bobby may think the witch and her curse permanently screwed up Dean's higher thought processes, but he knows his Sammy 101.
"Not mad." Dean can feel Sammy shake his head, where his chin is resting on top of Dean's floppy hair. "Just scared me 's all."
Dean takes a shaky breath, bites down on his lower lip until he's pretty sure he has the hiccups under control again. Scared. Sammy was scared for him. It makes his chest fill with a warm glow that's totally wrong, but kinda comforting at the same time.
"You were just scared?" he asks tentatively and his voice almost doesn't quiver. He can feel Sam nod again. "You still scared now?" Sam's chin scratches over Dean's head again, shaking it no this time. "Can have my gun back then?"
He pulls away, out of Sam's vice-like grip. He plasters a grin all over his face. The one that made Bobby give him extra ice cream yesterday, even though he was convinced Dean couldn't handle the sugar.
Sam shakes his head and Dean kicks the mattress in frustration.
"I'm twenty-eight." It comes out in a ridiculous whine and Dean can see Sam's mouth twitch, trying not to laugh at him. "I am. I'm your older brother and you better gimme back my gun before I make you."
Sam sighs and leans forward on the bed so he can look Dean in the eye. Bobby and him gotta do this all the time. Sam especially, 'cause he's a freakishly tall mutant and the top of Dean's head barely reaches his hip. "Look," he says quietly. "I know you're not actually a little kid." Dean nods his head in a big up and down motion that makes the room spin around him. "But you're also not actually a grown-up either. No, hear me out. I know you got all your memories 'n stuff in tact, but still...I mean you can't deny that you're a little kid on some level."
Dean glares. A lot. And his lower lip doesn't jut out even once.
"I need my gun," he growls (except it comes out high and squeaky and like he's begging for his teddy bear). He can't really look at Sam when he says it, because saying he needs his gun makes him think of the things he needs the gun for and those always make his heart speed up until it's almost jumping out of his throat.
Sam slings his crazy long arm around Dean's shoulders again and pulls him against his hip. "You're safe here," he says quietly and Dean almost laughs. Safe for the next five months, maybe. After that the hell hounds are gonna come after him, no matter how little meat they can actually rip off his bones. Not that he's planning on being his own mini me five months from now. Sam and Bobby are just on the verge of figuring out what the hell that witch did to him.
"I'd be saver with my gun," he mumbles miserably while Sam runs his hand up and down Dean's arm.
"Yeah, until you grab it in your sleep and accidentally blast your brains out."
Dean's guts twist uncomfortably at the thought, but Sammy's chuckling, so he pushes the fear back down and tries on a weak little smile.
Sam picks him up again, so they can look at each other. Dean wants to tell him to cut out all the ridiculous manhandling that's been going on, but Sam has that expression on his face that shuts Dean up faster than a gunshot.
"No more guns." Sam's voice is low and gravelly again and it makes Dean's belly jump with memories of Dad. "We clear?"
Dean nods quickly. "Yessir."
The words slip out before Dean knows what he's saying. He stares up at Sam who's mouth is hanging slightly open. "Whoa...that..." Sam stammers. He's inching away from Dean, looking like he might be about to say Christo. "That's just...no."
"Yeah," Dean agrees, quickly. He pushes himself back against the headboard again. "Yeah, that was..."
"That was wrong, dude."
"Totally."
"I'm gonna uh..." Sam gets off the bed, checking with one hand, to make sure Dean's Colt is still tucked away in Sam's jeans. "I'm gonna leave. And take a shower. No more guns."
Dean nods as Sam's back disappears. "G'night," he forces out, even though his voice kinda gives out halfway through.
Sam leaves the door slightly open, so light can filter into the now dark room. Not that Dean is afraid of the dark. He just likes to know what's going on 's all.
No more guns, he thinks.
Fine.
Dean crawls across his bed until he's dangling half off the mattress, his stupid, long bangs falling into his eyes. He clamps one hand over his mouth to stop the delighted squeal, when his fingers close around his old pocket knife.
"Yahtzee."