Title: If you're coming, come prepared for a fight

Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,104
Genre: schmoop, fluff, H/C
Disclaimer: Don't own SPN or the characters. I'd never let them leave my house if I did. ;)
Summary: He may be little, but he's not dumb. He sure is cranky though.
"Dean fidgets in Sam's clutch, throwing his hands up in the air and bouncing up and down on Sam's leg to the greatest extent possible. "Sam! Lemme go! Don't wanna eat! Don't wanna sit! Don't wanna look like a hobo in this owewsized Led Zeppwin T-shirt."

Prompt: Written for a hoodie_timemember at LJ who requested "physical de-aged!Dean riding around on Sam's giant shoulders (or just being picked up)"

"Not fair!"

Sam doesn't respond, but continues sipping from his beer bottle.

"Why'd this hafta happen to me? You were there wit' me."

"Yeah," Sam began in agreement. "I was. But I wasn't the one who called the head witch a 'wabid wabbit-hatin' whore.'"

"Hey! I was still an adult when that happened. I said those words the wight – the wight," Dean pauses, clearly agitated. He thinks, and tries again, "rrright way."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you say, midget," Sam says, chuckling and taking the opportunity to ruffle Dean's overly blonde and fluffy hair. "Now," he commands. "Eat your broccoli."

Dean sighs, angrily. "I twied an' I hate it. Stupid bwoccli tastes gwoss!"

"Dude, I'm not going to give you a bacon cheeseburger. Two year olds can't have that, okay. And since I'm feeding you, you'll eat what I give you."

"NO! An' why do I hafta sit on your Sasquatch leg? I need my pewsonal space, Sammy!"

"'Cause, Dean. We don't have a highchair and you can't reach the top of the table otherwise."

"I wanna have lunch on the sofa! You said I could when we were dwiving here!"

"That's before I had to book the only room left in the place, which, turned out to be the most expensive. Our credit cards are all maxed; I had to pay by cash and we just can't afford to dirty up the white carpet and beige sofa. Seriously, what kind of idiot hotel owner chooses colors like that?" Sam asks rhetorically.

Dean frowns. "A super-big stupid idwiot."

Then he reaches for Sam's beer with pudgy fingers and Sam lightly slaps his hands away.

"No!" Sam says, sternly.

Dean fidgets in Sam's clutch, throwing his hands up in the air and bouncing up and down on Sam's leg to the greatest extent possible. "Sam! Lemme go! Don't wanna eat! Don't wanna sit! Don't wanna look like a hobo in this owewsized Led Zeppwin T-shirt," Dean whines, staring down at the T-shirt that he was wearing in the morning, before the spell had been cast.

Sam tries to stifle a laugh. He had to admit, he thought it was pretty cute how the T-shirt covered Dean right down to his ankles! Most times, only his squirmy toes and part of his soft feet were visible.

"Oh, c'mon, munchkin," he says, knowing the pet name will frustrate his brother more, revenge for all the times he suffered such nicknames growing up. "It's not so bad. It makes you look adorable."

Dean tries with all his might to push off the hold that Sam's hand has around him. "Don't wanna be adowable! Don't wanna be a munshkin!" At this point, Sam spots Dean's eyes getting redder and puffier. In an instant, tears are falling from his eyes like cascades. "Bad 'nough I was alweady showter than my wittle bwother when I was a gwown-up!" Dean pouts, pushing at Sam's arm, again. "LEMME GO, SAM. LEMME GO! LEMME GO! LEMME GO!" he shouts loudly, as if he were literally exerting all his lung capacity into the screams.

Probably enough for the whole floor to hear, Sam thinks. Not wanting to attract any attention, Sam grabs Dean from both sides and sets him on the floor.

"Fine. Ok, ok. Shhh... you gotta calm down, man, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Dean sniffles and hiccups, nodding his head, making his blonde locks fall into his soaking eyes.

"Here," Sam offers, quickly dashing across the room to grab a box of tissues. "Here, blow your nose," he orders, bending down on both knees to greet Dean face-to-face, holding the tissue as he puts it up to Dean's nose. Dean's blows hard, mucus sinking through to Sam's palm. Sam grimaces, but says, "Good, good. Feeling better?"

Dean shrugs awkwardly, although Sam can hardly see his shoulders in the oversized T-shirt. Sam brings his hand up to Dean's floppy hair and adjusts it so it's out of the boy's eyes.

"Okay, how's this?" Sam shuts his eyes and breathes in, asking some possibly non-existing god for patience. "I'm going to put the rest of your lunch in the fridge. And we'll go out to get you some new, better-fitting clothes while Bobby works on finding a reversal spell. Then we'll come back, watch some TV, and eat some more broccoli and drink some more milk. I'll throw in some extra cheese to take away from the yucky taste of it, okay?"

Wiping his wet cheeks with his shoulders, Dean mumbles, "Okay."

"Great. Good." Sam breathes in relief. "Good," Sam says, turning around to stick the plate of food into the fridge. "Glad you agree." Sam grabs the light jacket from the back his chair and puts it on. "All right, I'm ready. You need to go to the bathroom first?"

"No. But Sam?" Dean stands still, looking up at Sam with less-red eyes and bright green eyes.


"We're on the ewewenth floor."

"Yeah. Being stuck on the eleventh floor can happen when you're hunting a witch in a big city. And?"

"And the elewator's out of sewvice."

"Okay…" Sam says, still unsure of what Dean is hinting at.

"That's … that's a lotta walkin' to do. To get down ewewen flights o' stairs. An' I have no shoes."

"Oh. Okay." In that moment, Sam realizes what his brother is trying to tell him, but he so wants to hear him say it. "So what are we gonna do about that?"

Dean looks down at the floor. He won't give him the satisfaction.

Sam smirks, "Want me to carry you?"

Dean nods, still staring at the ground, running his left foot through the white carpet.

"All right, dude," Sam acquiesces, bending down for what seems to be the hundredth time that day. "Get aboard my shoulders."

Dean clasps and tugs roughly at Sam's sleeves and collar until he gingerly sets himself up on Sam's shoulders.

"You good?" Sam asks.


Sam rises and takes a few steps forward. "Still good?"

"Yep. Sammy, it's an undershatement when I call you Sasquatch. You're weally tall. Like weally, weally, weally. Kinda cool."

"So are you gonna quit calling me Sasquatch now that my Sasquatchness has been an asset for you," Sam questions jokingly, not in the least hopeful that Dean would actually agree.

"Mmmmm," Dean murmurs briefly, before saying, "nah, pwobably not. Now, giddyup, cowboy!"

And Sam can't decide if he should give an uproarious laugh or a painful moan as Dean tugs on his hair, pretending to rein a horse.

He settles for a wide grin as he sets out to open the door.


-feedback is greatly appreciated!

-title stolen from Damien Rice's Childish