Please more de-aged Sam, I'm in love😻🙈
@mangomochaa asked too, so here it is!!
notes: set in season 5.
[part one]
–
“What do you mean you don’t know when he’ll be back!” Dean snaps into the phone. “It’s been a week!”
Cas sighs over the phone. “These things are not always predictable, Dean. It could take anywhere from a few days to a few months.”
“A few months?” Dean repeats incredulously. “Cas, the world is ending! How are we supposed to save it if Sam’s a child?”
“When I examined him the day before I told you he had only a few traces of magic left in his system,” Cas tells Dean patiently. “He will be back in some time, Dean. I cannot predict exactly when.”
“And you’re sure you can’t do anything?” Dean asks, not caring how desperate he sounds, or that it’s the sixth time he’s asking.
“No, Dean,” Cas says. “I cannot. The magic must wear off on its own. I do not want to accidentally cause even more damage.”
“Fine,” sighs Dean. “Fine. If he’s not back within another week, though,” he adds, “I’m kicking your ass.” And then he hangs up before Cas can say anything else.
Pocketing his phone again, Dean steps back inside the motel room. Sam is lying in his bed, curled under the covers, his little chest rising and falling as he sleeps. His head is poking out from the blankets, messy brown curls everywhere, and he’s got his face pressed into his pillow.
Dean sighs again, kicking his shoes off and getting into his own bed. He sits with his back against the headboard, eyes on Sam. His little brother is unusually pale; he’d been complaining of a “tummyache” before Dean had put him to bed, and Dean’s afraid he might be coming down with something. His little nose is red, and he’s sniffling a little in his sleep, and Dean’s worried it might be the flu. Some of that’s been going around, and while adult Sam may be immune, little Sam definitely isn’t.
Dean’s fears are proven right when Sam wakes up a couple hours later, cranky and miserable. He reaches out for Dean as soon as he’s awake, clinging to him tightly when Dean gets into bed with him. “’M sick,” he mumbles, climbing into Dean’s lap.
Dean puts the back of his hand to Sam’s forehead first, and then his neck. “Yeah, you’ve got a temperature,” he mutters, heart sinking. “Does your tummy still hurt?”
Sam shakes his head. “No, but m’head does.” He sniffles. “An’ my nose feels funny.”
Dammit, curses Dean silently. Definitely the fucking flu. They’ve got some meds in the first aid kit, but all of them are too strong for someone of Sam’s size and age – and in any case, Sam can’t have them on an empty stomach, and there’s nothing to eat except for some crackers and a bag of gummy bears.
(Dean vaguely remembers adult Sam telling him they should stock up on food that was actually healthy, and he remembers just scoffing at him before loading their shopping cart with junk. Should’ve listened to him, but no point crying over spilled milk.)
There’s nothing else for it – he’s going to have to take Sam out.
He doesn’t want to; Sam’s absolutely miserable, sniffling into Dean’s shirt and probably spreading snot all over it. There’s also the very real risk of them being tailed by some angel or demon, and the last thing Dean needs is for word to spread that Sam Winchester, for the time being, is a child. He’s not an easy target, not when he’s got Dean with him, but Dean doesn’t want to give any opportunity to angels, demons, or any hunters still gunning for Sam.
But he can’t leave Sam alone in the motel either, especially when he’s sick.
Sending up a wordless prayer to no one in particular, Dean gathers Sam in his arms and gets off the bed, lifting Sam with him. At five, Sam should be too old to be carried, but he’s ill, and so damn tiny it makes Dean’s heart hurt, and fuck, he just wants his little brother close.
“Where are we going?” Sam asks, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck.
“Gotta get you some food and medicine, kiddo,” Dean tells him. He gives Sam a once-over, making sure he’s dressed fine, and then picks up his car keys from the motel side table. He’s still in his jacket from when he’d gone outside to talk to Cas, and Sam is wearing a hoodie over two shirts, so they should be fine.
Thankfully the town is really small, and Dean doesn’t have to drive for too long to reach the pharmacy. Sam’s growing lethargic now, head heavy on Dean’s shoulder, one pudgy little hand tangled in Dean’s shirt under his jacket. His skin is too hot against Dean’s, and he tries to ignore the curl of stress in his belly as he loads up a basket with children’s flu medicine and lozenges.
The cashier coos at Sam as she rings them up, and Sam, shy on his best day, is absolutely not having it. He buries his face into Dean’s neck, arms tightening around him, and Dean forces a chuckle as he fishes his wallet one-handed out of his pocket. “He’s shy,” he murmurs to the cashier. “And not doin’ too good right now.”
“I hope he feels better soon,” she says with a sympathetic smile as she accepts the hundred Dean hands her. She tries to get Sam’s attention again when she hands Dean his change back, but Sam’s not having it -- he tightens his limbs around Dean, until it feels like Dean’s holding on to a particularly nervous octopus.
“The lady just wanted to say hi, you know,” he tells Sam once they’re back at the car.
“I know,” Sam mumbles, curling up in the back seat.
Dean fastens the seatbelt over him before getting in the driver’s seat. “You still feelin’ sick?”
“Uh huh,” Sam says from the back. “Where we goin’ now?”
“Gettin’ you some food,” Dean tells him.
“‘Kay.” Then, a second later, “Dee?”
“Yeah?”
“How come Daddy lets you drive his car?”
Dean pauses. “Well, uh,” he says. “He said I might need it, so he let me have it. Made me promise to take real good care of it.”
“Then what’s Daddy drivin’?”
“Ah, you know, I’m sure he found a car,” Dean hedges, pulling up in front of the supermarket. “All right, kiddo, what d’you feel like having?”
Sam shrugs. “Dunno. When’s Daddy gonna be back?”
“Couple days,” Dean says as he gets out, hoping hope against hope Sam’s an adult by then. He really does not want to have to explain the circumstances of John’s death to his toddler brother. “What do you think ‘bout soup?”
Sam shrugs again, letting Dean unfasten his seatbelt. He reaches out for Dean as soon as he’s free, and, getting the hint, Dean picks him up, letting Sam wrap his limbs around him again. Sam’s nose is cold when he presses it against Dean’s neck, and Dean resolves to get him back to their room as soon as possible.
It takes him no more than ten minutes to gather the ingredients he’s looking for, and another two to check them out. The cashier here, a tired-looking college-aged student, makes no effort to talk to him or Sam any more than necessary, something both of them are grateful for. Ten more minutes, and they’re back at the motel.
Dean settles Sam back in bed with a lozenge as he throws together the ingredients for tomato rice soup. There had been instant options at the supermarket, and Dean had been tempted, but had thought better of it in the end. He’d had the luxury of someone making an effort to make him feel better when he’d been sick as a child, and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive Sam of that. Besides, instant had nothing on Mary’s recipe.
Sam manages to get through half a bowl before declaring he’s full, at which point Dean pours some medicine down him and settles him back against the pillows, sheets pulled up to his chest. He undresses, stripping down to his shirt and boxers, and is just about to get into his own bed when Sam asks, voice impossibly small, “Dee?”
Dean turns to smile at him. Sam looks even paler in the lamplight, just his head poking out from under the covers. “What is it, Sammy?”
“Can you - can you sleep with me? Please?”
“‘Course I can,” Dean says after a moment. He changes course, getting into bed with Sam, and his little brother immediately burrows into his side, grabbing on to Dean’s arm and wrapping it around himself. Dean chuckles, letting himself be manipulated into whatever position Sam wants. “You comfortable?” he asks, when Sam has managed to situate himself securely between Dean’s arms.
“Mm-hmm,” Sam says, pressing his face into the space between Dean’s chin and shoulder. “You’re warm.”
“How are you feelin’ now?” Dean asks, running a hand down Sam’s back. His brother is so small right now that Dean’s palm almost covers his entire back. Sam had always been a bit on the small side for his age, Dean remembers fondly, until the Great Dramatic Teenage Growth Spurt, better known as the time Dean spent endlessly bitching about Sam being taller than him.
“‘M okay,” Sam tells him sleepily. “Dee?”
“Yeah, Sammy?”
“What happened to big me?”
Dean pauses in the act of rubbing Sam’s back. In his worry over Sam being sick, he’d almost forgotten the kid’s propensity for questions and his endless curiosity. “Well, big you became small you,” he says in the end. “It’s the same ol’ you, kiddo. You’re just a bit smaller now.”
Sam is quiet at that. Just when Dean begins hoping his curiosity is satisfied, though, he asks, “Is big me good?”
“Is big you good?” Dean hums thoughtfully. He has no idea how to even begin to answer. There’s nothing about adult Sam’s life that’s even halfway palatable for a child to hear. All the pain and horror, and not to mention the fact that until Sam had become a child, Dean hadn’t been speaking much to him... he has no idea how to explain it.
Sam, it seems, takes the worst possible idea from his silence. He sniffles, in a wet sort of way that has nothing to do with his illness, and then asks, voice watery, “Dee? Am I a bad person?”
“What? Sammy, no,” Dean says at once, heart sinking. Sam sounded so afraid when he asked, like he thought the answer would be yes, and Dean can’t fathom how someone this young could worry so intensely about something like this. “Sammy, you’re not a bad person at all! You’re like a hero, kid. A superhero, like Dad. But even better,” he adds.
“I don’ feel like a superhero,” Sam says after some time, voice thin and shaky. “I feel... I feel bad.”
“Like sick?” Dean asks, though he knows that’s not what Sam meant.
Sam shakes his head, curls tickling Dean’s chin. “No, not like ‘m sick. Just... bad, Dee.”
“But you’re not,” Dean tells him, moving his hand from Sam’s back to his head so he can run his fingers through Sam’s hair. He scratches lightly at Sam’s scalp, knowing he likes it, and sure enough, Sam lets out a small sound of contentment, almost against his will. “You’re not bad, Sammy. Not small you, and definitely not big you. In fact, you’re the best person I know.” And as he says it, he realizes it’s true; despite every mistake Sam’s made, he’s the bravest person Dean knows, and the strongest. Not everyone has the strength to keep on fighting against the worst odds in the world like Dean’s little brother does.
“Even when I’m big?” Sam asks, sounding infinitely hopeful. He raises his head to look at Dean, eyes wide and bright, and the innocence of his expression makes something stick in Dean’s throat.
“Yeah,” he says, trying not to sound choked up. “Especially when you’re big. You’re my favorite person, Sammy. In the whole wide world. Nothing’s ever gonna change that, kiddo.”
“Promise?” Sam asks, voice small.
Dean nods. “Promise,” he whispers, and tilts his head forward so he can kiss Sam’s forehead.
Sam watches him for a few seconds, as if searching his face for the truth. Whatever he finds satisfies him; he smiles and presses a tiny, pudgy hand to Dean’s cheek. “You’re my favorite too, Dee,” he tells him, and plasters a wet kiss to Dean’s face. “On the whole planet.”
And then he lays his head back down on Dean’s chest, thankfully before he can see Dean begin to tear up. Dean takes a moment to compose himself, swallowing the lump in his throat and discreetly wiping at his tears with his free hand, before settling back down with both arms around Sam again. “Thanks, Sammy,” he murmurs into Sam’s hair.
What he wouldn’t give, he thinks as Sam begins dozing off, to hear the same words from the adult version of his brother. He misses him so much, so ferociously it’s an ache in his chest, even though little Sam makes him smile and makes his heart feel lighter than it has in forever. And it’s strange, he thinks, to want someone when they’re right next to you, literally sleeping in your lap, but there it is. He misses his Sam, with his stupid floppy hair and his bitchfaces and his weird obsession with salad.
But until the spell wears off, and he gets his Sam back, he’s going to make the most of his time with little Sam. And if Dean has to tell him every day that he’s the best person in the whole world, he’ll do it and not complain even once. It’s the least Sammy deserves.
God, he’d move heaven and hell for Sam if he had to. Any version of him. And every part of him aches to be able to tell his Sam that. He just hopes he gets the chance soon.