Pattycakes
Title: Pattycakes
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean, birthdays, timeouts and Sammy (who's way too big to be a little brother, anyway)
Birthday fic for the ever awesome calmena who asked for ruined cake and something cute and fluffy that wouldn't make her cry for a change.
Fill for 'Wrongful Imprisonment' on my hc_bingo card.
And saberivojo and geckoholic? Your fics are up next. Promise.
Dean smacks his lips together until he comes up with the loud plop that echos around the room. He pretends he can hear the sound bounce off the walls until it paints a picture in his head.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Cot. Fan. Shelf.
He's a bat.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Books. Salt. Paint.
Plop.
Dean sighs. Imagining the room around him gets boring pretty fast. He knows what the panic room looks like. Knows the fan in the ceiling, the cot at the far wall. He knows every single one of the stupid books inside out. The entire room isn't any less boring than the one corner he's staring at.
He can hear something rustling behind his back and really hopes it's not a rat. The place has been crawling with the things ever since Rumsfeld died. Uncle Bobby insists the poison he puts out is enough to fend them off, but Dean knows better. He can hear them all the time, crawling through the walls, eating his food, spreading disease.
The rustling sound again. The back of Dean's neck starts to tingle.
Definitely a rat.
Dean managed to save one of his knives before Sam came and took them away. It's really small, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He's pretty sure he could nail the sucker first try, knife right through his little rodent brain. But that kinda throw sort of requires turning around and Uncle Bobby's been pretty clear on that.
Dean tries to ignore the nervous bitter feeling in his stomach and kicks the wall in front of his face. Not too hard because he did that earlier and turns out kicking concrete walls can be pretty painful when you're not wearing any shoes.
This is stupid.
It's stupid.
He may be in the body of a six-year-old, but he's still himself, no matter what Sam and Uncle Bobby say.
Bobby, Dean corrects himself quickly. Just Bobby.
He tries to remember if Bobby told him how long he'd have to stay here for. He probably did, but Dean has no idea if it was five minutes or three hours and even if he did, he's got no way of telling time, because his watch kept falling off his tiny wrist and buying a kid-sized watch wouldn't make sense because Sammy's gonna figure out what to do about this curse any day now.
Dean kicks the wall again. Harder this time and yelps when a sharp stab of pain shoots up his leg.
"Hey, buddy, what'cha doin'?"
That's Sammy's voice. Except it's not. It's Sam and he's all huge and gigantic and not what a little brother is supposed to be.
Except that's ridiculous because Dean doesn't actually expect Sam to be a toddler. That'd just be weird.he's totally used to Sammy being all gigantic and three times his size.
"Timeout," he mumbles. He meant for it to come out sarcastic, like he's just doing Bobby a favor by indulging his senile whims, but his face pulls into a pout all on its own accord and good God, his eyes are starting to sting. Good thing he's got that corner to focus on. Having Sam see the tears well up would so suck.
"What for?"
Sam doesn't sound mad. That's good. He got mad once before, when he found the gun under Dean's pillow and Sam is kinda scary, the way he's all huge and strong and sounds exactly like Dad when he's mad.
Dean shrugs. He starts fidgeting, his fingers twist themselves into the hem of his shirt and his shoulders are starting to shake.
"Hey." Sam's closer again. His voice is right next to Dean's ear and Dean jumps and does not make a surprised squeaking noise. Little kids make surprised squeaking noises.
"There's a huge mess in the kitchen," he explains. He cringes when he tongue stumbles over the last word. Kitt-then. Embarrassing.
Sam's hand is on his shoulder now, turning him away from his corner to look at him and Dean guesses that's okay, because Sammy's a grown-up too, just like Uncle Bobby.
Not that Dean isn't.
"Mess in the kitchen?" he asks and Dean nods. He can't look Sam in the eye, 'cause if he does he's gonna say something stupid again and Sammy will get just as mad as Uncle...just as mad as Bobby.
"You didn't make that mess," Sam says.
Dean's breath catches in his throat, because that's what he told Bobby and Bobby wouldn't believe him no matter how much Dean promised he had nothing to do with the white stuff on the floor and the dead, smoking heap of black on the counter.
Dean shakes his head from left to right to tell Sam no, he didn't do it. He'd say it out loud, but all he can do is hiccup every time he tries to open his mouth.
Sam is saying something, but Dean keeps shaking his head, screws his eyes shut against the big, fat baby tears that are welling up again.
Suddenly Sam's arms are around his shoulders and his face is being pressed into his brother's chest and no matter what he tries, the tears keep right on coming.
"Shh."
Sam is whispering in his ear, rubbing small circles on his back and Dean is sucking in huge, painful gulps of of air. Because no matter what this stupid curse did to him, he is not a little kid and he's not gonna cry in front of his baby brother. Anymore.
"UncleBobbythinksI'mlyin'to'im?" he mumbles into Sam's chest and the overwhelming despair from earlier washes over him again, makes his entire body shiver. "But I'm not." Dean pushes away from Sam, just as far as the strong arms will let him. "I'm not."
"Hey, I know," Sam tells him in that weird, soft voice. Dean has to tilt his head all the way back to look at him, even though Sam's on his knees. "I know. I'm gonna talk to Bobby."
Dean sniffs loudly. He drags his sleeve across his nose, smearing snot and tears all over the oversized shirt. "He's really mad about the oven."
Sam's mouth twitches slightly and Dean thinks he should probably huff and shoot him a death glare for laughing at him, but all that hiccuping he's doing is kinda getting in the way.
"Maybe I'll just stay down here with you and not talk to him," Sam whispers. He actually throws a nervous glance over his shoulder, like he's expecting Bobby to come down the stairs right now, yelling and hollering about damn Winchesters trying to burn down his house.
"What'cha do in there anyway?" Dean asks. Because he's not stupid. He knows that if there's only three possible suspects and you know you didn't mess up the kitchen and you know Bobby didn't mess up the kitchen, it was probably Sam.
Sam groans, but he's kinda laughing through it. He shifts around until he's sitting on the floor and pulls Dean down with him. His bad knee makes a little crack-plopping sound when he draws it up to his chest.
"Was trying to make you a cake," he mumbles and Dean thinks he can see a faint blush creep up his brother's neck. "I kinda dropped the flour and then I got so distracted cleaning it up that I forgot to get the cake out of the oven and it burned and got all black and smelly before I could get it out and then it was already light outside and I knew you'd be up soon, so I went out to buy you a real cake."
Dean stares and Sam is looking down at him, managing to look like a Godzilla-sized puppy with his hair falling into his eyes and his face pulled into a small pout.
"Guess I shoulda told Bobby about setting his kitchen on fire before I left."
Dean nods. A big nod that almost hurts his head. "You shoulda." He socks Sam in the arm and Sam yelps and pretends it hurts real bad, even though Dean's little fist uselessly bounces off the hard muscle. "Why were you tryin' to make me cake anyway?"
"'cause it's your birthday, kiddo," Sam grins. He loves calling Dean kiddo. And buddy and sport and it makes Dean wanna puke. Really, totally does. "How old are you today, anyway?"
Dean glares, punches Sam's leg this time. "I'm twenty-nine, bitch."
That stupid catch around the ch again. Dean looks away so Sam doesn't see him blush.
"Let's go with six."
"Twenty-"
"Six, or I'm telling Bobby it wasn't me."
Dean huffs. He stomps his foot down on the floor and a little cloud of dust tickles his nose.
"Fine."
Dean doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly his feet are off the floor and the walls are rushing down around him and he finds himself thrown over Sam's massive shoulder.
"Lemme go!" he yelps.
Yelps. Not giggles. He's definitely not giggling.
"I got you presents," Sam laughs and okay, maybe Dean is sort of giggling a little bit. "And chocolate cake."
Two fingers starts tickling Dean's side and Dean shrieks with laughter.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1400
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: De-aged!Dean, birthdays, timeouts and Sammy (who's way too big to be a little brother, anyway)
Birthday fic for the ever awesome calmena who asked for ruined cake and something cute and fluffy that wouldn't make her cry for a change.
Fill for 'Wrongful Imprisonment' on my hc_bingo card.
And saberivojo and geckoholic? Your fics are up next. Promise.
Dean smacks his lips together until he comes up with the loud plop that echos around the room. He pretends he can hear the sound bounce off the walls until it paints a picture in his head.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Cot. Fan. Shelf.
He's a bat.
Plop. Plop. Plop.
Books. Salt. Paint.
Plop.
Dean sighs. Imagining the room around him gets boring pretty fast. He knows what the panic room looks like. Knows the fan in the ceiling, the cot at the far wall. He knows every single one of the stupid books inside out. The entire room isn't any less boring than the one corner he's staring at.
He can hear something rustling behind his back and really hopes it's not a rat. The place has been crawling with the things ever since Rumsfeld died. Uncle Bobby insists the poison he puts out is enough to fend them off, but Dean knows better. He can hear them all the time, crawling through the walls, eating his food, spreading disease.
The rustling sound again. The back of Dean's neck starts to tingle.
Definitely a rat.
Dean managed to save one of his knives before Sam came and took them away. It's really small, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He's pretty sure he could nail the sucker first try, knife right through his little rodent brain. But that kinda throw sort of requires turning around and Uncle Bobby's been pretty clear on that.
Dean tries to ignore the nervous bitter feeling in his stomach and kicks the wall in front of his face. Not too hard because he did that earlier and turns out kicking concrete walls can be pretty painful when you're not wearing any shoes.
This is stupid.
It's stupid.
He may be in the body of a six-year-old, but he's still himself, no matter what Sam and Uncle Bobby say.
Bobby, Dean corrects himself quickly. Just Bobby.
He tries to remember if Bobby told him how long he'd have to stay here for. He probably did, but Dean has no idea if it was five minutes or three hours and even if he did, he's got no way of telling time, because his watch kept falling off his tiny wrist and buying a kid-sized watch wouldn't make sense because Sammy's gonna figure out what to do about this curse any day now.
Dean kicks the wall again. Harder this time and yelps when a sharp stab of pain shoots up his leg.
"Hey, buddy, what'cha doin'?"
That's Sammy's voice. Except it's not. It's Sam and he's all huge and gigantic and not what a little brother is supposed to be.
Except that's ridiculous because Dean doesn't actually expect Sam to be a toddler. That'd just be weird.he's totally used to Sammy being all gigantic and three times his size.
"Timeout," he mumbles. He meant for it to come out sarcastic, like he's just doing Bobby a favor by indulging his senile whims, but his face pulls into a pout all on its own accord and good God, his eyes are starting to sting. Good thing he's got that corner to focus on. Having Sam see the tears well up would so suck.
"What for?"
Sam doesn't sound mad. That's good. He got mad once before, when he found the gun under Dean's pillow and Sam is kinda scary, the way he's all huge and strong and sounds exactly like Dad when he's mad.
Dean shrugs. He starts fidgeting, his fingers twist themselves into the hem of his shirt and his shoulders are starting to shake.
"Hey." Sam's closer again. His voice is right next to Dean's ear and Dean jumps and does not make a surprised squeaking noise. Little kids make surprised squeaking noises.
"There's a huge mess in the kitchen," he explains. He cringes when he tongue stumbles over the last word. Kitt-then. Embarrassing.
Sam's hand is on his shoulder now, turning him away from his corner to look at him and Dean guesses that's okay, because Sammy's a grown-up too, just like Uncle Bobby.
Not that Dean isn't.
"Mess in the kitchen?" he asks and Dean nods. He can't look Sam in the eye, 'cause if he does he's gonna say something stupid again and Sammy will get just as mad as Uncle...just as mad as Bobby.
"You didn't make that mess," Sam says.
Dean's breath catches in his throat, because that's what he told Bobby and Bobby wouldn't believe him no matter how much Dean promised he had nothing to do with the white stuff on the floor and the dead, smoking heap of black on the counter.
Dean shakes his head from left to right to tell Sam no, he didn't do it. He'd say it out loud, but all he can do is hiccup every time he tries to open his mouth.
Sam is saying something, but Dean keeps shaking his head, screws his eyes shut against the big, fat baby tears that are welling up again.
Suddenly Sam's arms are around his shoulders and his face is being pressed into his brother's chest and no matter what he tries, the tears keep right on coming.
"Shh."
Sam is whispering in his ear, rubbing small circles on his back and Dean is sucking in huge, painful gulps of of air. Because no matter what this stupid curse did to him, he is not a little kid and he's not gonna cry in front of his baby brother. Anymore.
"UncleBobbythinksI'mlyin'to'im?" he mumbles into Sam's chest and the overwhelming despair from earlier washes over him again, makes his entire body shiver. "But I'm not." Dean pushes away from Sam, just as far as the strong arms will let him. "I'm not."
"Hey, I know," Sam tells him in that weird, soft voice. Dean has to tilt his head all the way back to look at him, even though Sam's on his knees. "I know. I'm gonna talk to Bobby."
Dean sniffs loudly. He drags his sleeve across his nose, smearing snot and tears all over the oversized shirt. "He's really mad about the oven."
Sam's mouth twitches slightly and Dean thinks he should probably huff and shoot him a death glare for laughing at him, but all that hiccuping he's doing is kinda getting in the way.
"Maybe I'll just stay down here with you and not talk to him," Sam whispers. He actually throws a nervous glance over his shoulder, like he's expecting Bobby to come down the stairs right now, yelling and hollering about damn Winchesters trying to burn down his house.
"What'cha do in there anyway?" Dean asks. Because he's not stupid. He knows that if there's only three possible suspects and you know you didn't mess up the kitchen and you know Bobby didn't mess up the kitchen, it was probably Sam.
Sam groans, but he's kinda laughing through it. He shifts around until he's sitting on the floor and pulls Dean down with him. His bad knee makes a little crack-plopping sound when he draws it up to his chest.
"Was trying to make you a cake," he mumbles and Dean thinks he can see a faint blush creep up his brother's neck. "I kinda dropped the flour and then I got so distracted cleaning it up that I forgot to get the cake out of the oven and it burned and got all black and smelly before I could get it out and then it was already light outside and I knew you'd be up soon, so I went out to buy you a real cake."
Dean stares and Sam is looking down at him, managing to look like a Godzilla-sized puppy with his hair falling into his eyes and his face pulled into a small pout.
"Guess I shoulda told Bobby about setting his kitchen on fire before I left."
Dean nods. A big nod that almost hurts his head. "You shoulda." He socks Sam in the arm and Sam yelps and pretends it hurts real bad, even though Dean's little fist uselessly bounces off the hard muscle. "Why were you tryin' to make me cake anyway?"
"'cause it's your birthday, kiddo," Sam grins. He loves calling Dean kiddo. And buddy and sport and it makes Dean wanna puke. Really, totally does. "How old are you today, anyway?"
Dean glares, punches Sam's leg this time. "I'm twenty-nine, bitch."
That stupid catch around the ch again. Dean looks away so Sam doesn't see him blush.
"Let's go with six."
"Twenty-"
"Six, or I'm telling Bobby it wasn't me."
Dean huffs. He stomps his foot down on the floor and a little cloud of dust tickles his nose.
"Fine."
Dean doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly his feet are off the floor and the walls are rushing down around him and he finds himself thrown over Sam's massive shoulder.
"Lemme go!" he yelps.
Yelps. Not giggles. He's definitely not giggling.
"I got you presents," Sam laughs and okay, maybe Dean is sort of giggling a little bit. "And chocolate cake."
Two fingers starts tickling Dean's side and Dean shrieks with laughter.