Disclaimer; I don't own supernatural thanks to everyone who reviewed. It means a lot.

Chapter 3 Getting Used to Being Twelve

Sam didn't move much for the rest of the night. He simply lay on his dad's chest and listened to his heart beat. It was proof that he actually had a Dad again. John was alive, and if Sam wanted to keep him that way he was going to have to do some planning.

So plan Sam did. He devised ways of finding out who certain demons had been in life and went over every fact he had ever known about any of them.

He knew Ruby had been a witch in another life, that had to narrow things down a little bit….


At four thirty in the morning, Sam decided he had pretended to sleep for long enough. He needed to get his body into shape before anything else. Contrary to what he always told Dean ("Sammy was a chubby twelve year old") Sam had never really been chubby, but his muscles also hadn't come naturally. He had to work out to make sure he stayed in shape.

He carefully climbed out of bed, his tiny frame having no trouble slipping away without too much disturbance to the two sleeping figures beside and under him. Sam deduced that John and Dean must have been up late for some hunt or other a couple nights in a row, or else he would never have been able to move without waking them.

He dressed quickly in an old t-shirt and some sweatpants. Same as he always wore when he worked out.

Sam wrote a note for his family and slipped out the door. He couldn't work out in their room; it was too small.


It was hours later that John burst out of the motel door, searching the surrounding area frantically. He relaxed slightly as he caught sight of Sam doing pushups only a few feet away.

"Sam!" he cried, running towards his son.

Sam gave a gasp of surprise and fear when he was seized around the waist and lifted into the air. It was so much more awkward when he hadn't been on his feet to begin with. He clung instinctively on to his father to be sure he wasn't going to fall. It would be a long drop for him at this height.

"Are you alright?" John questioned frantically searching Sam all over for injuries.

"I'm fine, Daddy," Sam replied slowly, unable to miss the way John tensed at the name. He suddenly remembered he had stopped calling his father "Daddy" at ten and a half. Oh well, it wasn't like he was going to stop now. He had needed his daddy for too long to risk turning the man into his dad again.

"I left you a note," he continued.

"What're you doing out here?" John inquired. His hand went to Sam's forehead, and Sam mentally groaned. If he was even the slightest bit warm his father would freak, not taking into consideration that Sam had just been working out and that would make him warmer then usual.

"I was working out!" he proclaimed like the proud twelve year old he should have been. His father had always praised him for going the extra mile when they worked out. That was before Sam turned thirteen, of course, but still….

"What!?" John thundered, something that would've scared Sam out of his wits at twelve. He tensed and whimpered, drawing closer to his father and trying to hide his face in the man's shirt. John seemed to suddenly realize how much he must have frightened his son with his tone, because his free hand started to run soothingly through Sam's hair.

"Shh, Sammy, I'm sorry I yelled ," John crooned. "I was just worried because I woke up and you weren't there. You still have a fever, Baby," he added at the end in a disapproving voice tinged with worry.

He always got this way when he thought Sam was sick. He would talk to Sam like he was a small child, and treat him like a toddler unable to do anything for himself. It had driven him crazy during his teenage years and led to him hiding a fair few sickness until they got so bad he couldn't deal with them on his own anymore. It was the one thing John hadn't changed when he suddenly went from "Daddy" to "Dad", and the one thing Sam could've done without.

Sam thought it might have something to do with how pathetic he got when he was really sick. He hallucinated easily and his fever climbed quickly. He could start out the day with a temperature one degree above normal, but reach a hundred and three degrees before lunch time.

"Feel fine," Sam sniffled, withdrawing his face from its hiding place.

"Yeah, well, fever says otherwise," John commented. He carried Sam back into the motel room where Dean was just beginning to stir.

"Wh't's goin' on?" Dean slurred as he started to wake up.

"Your brother decided he would be a good idea to work out this morning. Out side," John replied.

"What!?" Dean cried, shooting upright instantly. He scrambled out of bed and to John's side in a moment. "You're not supposed to go out by yourself, Sammy," he scolded.

Sam had actually forgotten that rule. No wonder his father had freaked. Being twelve again was certainly going to be a challenge. In his adult form, if he wanted to go somewhere while Dean was asleep then he would just leave a note saying where he had gone. In his child form, if he went missing for so much as a second his father and Dean were going to blow a gasket. Great.

"You need a bath," John told him.

"I'll go start one," Dean volunteered from where he was still hovering close to Sam.

"Make it cold, will you?" John requested.

Dean nodded, but Sam remembered enough of these scenes from his childhood to know he wasn't supposed to agree to that.

"No," he pleaded, squirming around in his father's arms.

"Hey, Sammy, look at me," John didn't quite order, but there was a hint of sternness in his voice. As soon as Sam stopped wriggling around looked him in the eye he started continued. "You know how bad your fevers can get. We have to take care of fevers quickly or you can get really sick. "

"But it's just from working out," Sam protested.

"You had one last night too," his father reminded him. "And besides, if it were just from working out it would've gone down by now."

Sam was surprised that he hadn't thought of that before. Maybe he was getting sick. He hoped not. Besides, it was more then likely a left over side effect from the merging of his body and his soul. But he didn't want a cold bath.

"But it'll be cold," he complained to his dad.

He could feel John's chest rumbling as the man chuckled. "That's kind of the point, Sammy," he pointed out.

Sam pouted. Dean exited the bathroom and looked amused at Sam's expression. Sam had the childish urge to sick his tongue out at his older brother.

"It's ready," Dean declared to Sam's dread. Didn't they understand that it was cold?

John carried him into the bathroom and put him down on the closed toilet lid. He pulled Sam's shirt off and tested the temperature. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to Sam.

"Are you going to keep pouting?" Dean asked. "'Cause if you are I'm gonna go get the video camera."

Sam looked up at him, and saw (to his horror) that his brother had snapped several pictures of him pouting. He knew he was cute at this age, but really?

"Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeean," he whined. "Stop!"

"But you look so cute," Dean teased.

"Daddy!" Sam exclaimed, turning to the man for back up.

"I don't know, Sam, he is right; you are cute," John teased. "But you can't get the video camera, Dean," he informed his older son almost regretfully. Sam knew if he were actually twelve and sick he would feel like they were picking on him and deepened his pout accordingly.

John's fingers flew across his stomach, and Sam doubled over, laughing and trying to bat his father's fingers away.

"Don't!" he squealed. "Don't, Daddy!"

"Let's get you in," John ordered.

He stood from where he had been crouching in front of Sam, and Sam waited for him to leave. His father did nothing, however, simply standing there and staring at him.

"Com'mon Sammy," John urged when Sam didn't move to strip off his pants and get in the tub.

"You're still here," Sam pointed out uncertainly. Surely they didn't expect him to bathe with them watching, did they?

"Of course we are," Dean confirmed in a puzzled voice. They did.

"I'm twelve, Dean," Sam proclaimed in a "duh" voice. "I can take a bath by myself."

John made an exasperated noise, and apparently got tired of waiting, because he stripped Sam's pants for him. Next thing Sam knew, he was being lifted in to the cold water of the tub wearing only boxers.

"Be a good boy, and I might let you wash yourself," John teased, gently poking Sam's noise.

Sam blinked in surprise and squeaked.

This set John and Dean laughing, probably purely at his expression.

His father dipped a cup in the water. Sam barely had time to wonder what the man was going to do with it, before he found it being tipped over his head. He spluttered and gasped, shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.

Soon bath time escalated into a splashing fight, just as it always did. This lasted for quite a long time, but no one seemed to mind.

When Sam finally got out of the bath, John and Dean left him alone to dress; something he was infinitely grateful for. Dean had brought in a pair of pajamas at some point, though how he managed to keep them dry was anyone's guess.

As soon as Sam stepped foot out of the bathroom he was hurried back into his bed by Dean. Overprotective idiot. The older boy then went back to the kitchen to help their father with breakfast, leaving strict instructions to not move.

Sam looked around the room with curiosity. It was odd for them to stay anywhere long enough to get an apartment, and he wondered what they had been hunting that took so long.

He needed to find out what was going on before someone asked him a question he couldn't remember the answer to. He dug under his pillow for the journal he had kept ever since he was old enough to know how to write. It was a very thick book in his time, containing an entry from nearly every single day in his life.

It was difficult to never run out of pages at first, but then Bobby gave him a spell that made sure he was well supplied. It was one of the very few spells that was commonly used by hunters. Even Sam's dad had no objection to that particular spell, so Sam didn't feel guilt in the least for using it.

He flipped to the back of the book with the latest entries and quickly read through them. They had been hunting a werewolf, which explained their need for a real house. Dean was failing one of his classes, and John actually cared, something that surprised Sam. He had a lot of homework to do because he had been too busy with the hunt to have time for school….

School! He had school today! He couldn't miss school.

He jumped out of bed and rushed through the room like a whirlwind, grabbing clothes, books, and partially finished homework along the way.

He speed out of his room, hopping on one foot while he tried to put his shoe on, spare pencils clenched between his teeth, and his backpack hanging from his shoulder. His father (who's approach Sam had missed) steadied Sam just before he fell.

"What're you doing?" John inquired, looking half anxious, half amused.

"I have school today!" Sam cried, his eyes bright with worry and the fever he could feel was beginning to rise.

"Not today you don't, little boy. You're not going in with a fever," John informed him somewhat sternly. Dean (who had also somehow appeared without Sam noticing) took Sam's backpack from him and John lifted him back into his arms.

"You know the rules, Sam," Dean reproached. "A fever, no matter how small, always means no school. Your fevers get so bad so fast that you could end up in the hospital in the blink of an eye."

Sam had forgotten that. It was another reason he always attempted to keep his father from realizing he was sick.

John carried him back into his room and put him down on the bed. His father pulled the formal school shirt over his head and soon replaced it with a plain white t-shirt.

"Can do it myself," Sam complained as the shirt made it over his head.

"Yeah, 'cause you did such a good job dressing yourself for school," Dean snorted.

Sam gave him an insulted look, and then took the time to notice what he was wearing and blushed. He had forgotten to change his pants and put on mitch-matched socks.

"You're staying in bed today," John interrupted. "I don't want to see you out of bed again unless you're in the bathroom or your fever's gone down."

"And you don't get to decide if your fever's gone down," Dean added in. "You're more than likely to get up whether you've got one hundred and three or not. Wait until Dad or I tell you it's gone down enough," he instructed sternly.

Sam pouted again.

"Anyway," John began in a much more cheerful tone, "it's time for breakfast. You just stay here and Dean and I will bring it in."

Sam had forgotten about that too. He hated being stuck in bed if he was running even a slight fever, but he never minded having breakfast in bed.

He was feeling even more feverish now, however, so he didn't think he could eat much.

Breakfast was an enjoyable affair, but afterwards Dean had to go to school. It turned out that Sam wouldn't have been late if he was actually going to go to school. There were advantages to getting up at four in the morning.

Dean threw and absolute fit about having to leave Sam, but John was firm in the decision that Dean needed to go. He reminded Dean that he was already failing a class, and told him that if he wasn't failing it he might have been allowed to stay home.

This, understandably, didn't make Dean any happier.

Sam was actually stunned at how much his brother resembled a two year old that hadn't gotten its way. He remembered that Dean didn't like leaving him alone while he was sick, but he didn't remember Dean throwing himself down on the floor and yelling at the top of his lungs that he wasn't leaving, and no one could make him.

He watched with a dropped jaw as Dean looked like he was about ready to start kicking the floor and throwing things any second. Maybe Dean was getting sick too?

Apparently this was the effect Dean was hoping to achieve, but he fell a little short of his goal.

John watched Dean with amusement for a few seconds, then interrupted before it could escalate like Dean obviously planned.

"I checked you for a fever this morning," he informed his son strictly, but with a hint of humor. "I know you're not getting sick so we have two choices here. One, you can get up and get ready for school like the teenager you were when you woke up this morning. Two, you can continue throwing a temper tantrum and get treated like the two year old you're acting like. What's it gonna be?" he asked.

A small silence, and then…"Damn," Dean muttered, all signs of a tantrum gone.

Sam heard John muttering something along the lines of, "New one, gotta watch out for that," as Dean waltzed towards his own room to get dressed.

Sam was floored. Dean had just thrown a temper tantrum because he thought it gave him a better chance of being allowed to stay home with his sick brother who was most likely going to get grumpier and whiner as the day went on and his fever got higher. That was definitely new.

Dean left the room to ready himself for school, and Sam stared after him. "Are you sure he isn't sick?" he finally asked his father, unaware of the adorably childish confusion on his face.

John full out laughed at Sam's question and the look on his baby son's face. "I'm sure, Baby," he assured after he calmed down again. He ran his hand through Sam's impossibly curly hair (it was actually just lose curls, but after being without them for so long they felt ridiculous) then sighed a little.

"I gotta go make sure your big brother's actually getting ready. Do you want to drive to school with us?" John continued.

Sam nodded feverishly. He didn't want to be left alone in the house; it seemed like every time he wasn't within eyesight of his father or big brother something was attacking him, and he just didn't have the energy to deal with that today.

"'K, I'll be right back," John stated. "Don't get out of bed," he added more sternly.

"Won't," Sam promised with a yawn. He almost wanted to go to sleep, but he was afraid of having a real nightmare this time. He hadn't had a good dream in a long long time. He actually didn't remember the last time he had had a good dream.

Sam heard his dad shouting for Dean to hurry up and quit stalling through the walls, and grinned at the little hint of familiarity. Everything had been so strange when he was twelve, and it was putting him a bit on edge. He trusted John and Dean with everything, but it was disconcerting to have them watching over him so diligently again.


Driving Dean to school was…..interesting. Dean kept making attempts to slow them down, but the attempts were so ridiculous that all they were doing was making Sam laugh and starting to annoy their father.

The first excuse was plausible. They were halfway out of the driveway when Dean started shouting that he had left his homework. From there it was all down hill.

By the time the got to the school, Sam was in stitches (and almost in tears) from laughing so hard and John was gritting his teeth while praying for patients and the strength to resist the urge to physically drag Dean from the car.

Dean himself was wildly claiming that he was sure that his locker was haunted, but he had forgotten to bring the salt with him. According to him, the ghost only wore pink, was only visible to him, didn't leave any traces, and had cat breath.

There was a pregnant pause after Dean finished his description. He had managed to shock even Sam out of his nearly helpless state of hilarity.

The pause stretched five seconds….

Then ten…

Then fifteen…..

Then Sam couldn't hold back his laughter anymore and broke into somewhat hysterical giggles. Stupid twelve year old body giggled instead of chuckling.

After Dean was finally safely on his way in to the school building, John started the drive back home.

Soon enough Sam was all tucked back into bed with a protective Daddy hovering over him. It was going to be a long day.


Hours later, Dean had returned home from school, and the three of them were sitting at a table in the living room. Dinner had been eaten, and Sam was finally deemed well enough to be allowed out of bed.

He was rather grumpy, but had felt fine when his father had let him up.

Now was a different story. He was exhausted, because apparently twelve year olds weren't made for all nighters. He had a headache and was feeling extremely feverish again, but was determined not to say anything that would land him back in that horrible bed.

He was so out of it that he was having trouble with his thus far neglected sixth grade homework. It was always hard to do his homework around hunting, doubly so for him more than anyone else, because he did all the research.

He rubbed his forehead viciously as he attempted to remember what the capital of Russia was. Why did he even need to know this shit? He had been to Stanford and they didn't care what the capital of Russia was there. And that was supposed to be one of the toughest schools around for God's sake!

He should probably stop saying things like that now, with his half-breedish status.

He pulled his wandering attention back to his assignment and nearly cried with frustration when he saw how much more work he had to do. Stupid feverish twelve year old body!

"Time for bed, Sammy," his father announced.

"No," Sam protested, not noticing his father and brother exchanging shocked looks over his head. "I gotta finish this. It's due tomorrow."

"You're not going to school tomorrow," Dean said in surprise. "Why did you let it go so long anyways? You don't normally."

"It was assigned on Monday, and Dad wanted me to do researching for hunting all week. And then last night we had the hunt…." He trailed off into silence and let his head drop onto the pointless question sheet. Suddenly Dean's first statement registered in his mind.

"Wait, why aren't I going to school?" he asked, his head popping up again.

"Because you're sick," John replied as though this should be obvious.

"Not anymore," Sam protested.

John raised his d his eyebrows. "Care to let me test that theory?" he challenged.

"No," Sam backed down, averting his eyes. He was really too tired to continue this argument.

"So it's bed time," John concluded.

Sam reluctantly nodded.

"Don't be so down about it," his father encouraged. "I'm even letting you walk on your own now!"

Sam managed a weary smile at his dad's teasing, but honestly felt like it would be really, really nice to be carried to bed. He didn't know if he was going to be able to make it on his own.

"How much sleep did you get last night?" Dean questioned from where he was still seated at the table.

Sam shot him a wry smile. "You mean I was supposed to go back to sleep?" It was the reply of the almost thirty year old man trapped inside, not the innocent twelve year old that he appeared to be.

Thirty four year old Dean would've just shaken his head, lips a little tighter than normal. Sixteen year old Dean freaked, and so did their father.

"Sam!" two voices admonished at once.

"I'm alright," Sam tried to insist, even as he practically fell against the wall to remain standing.

"We can see that," John snorted.

Sam found himself being lifted into the air for what felt like the millionth time today (did he mention how much he hated being twelve and small?) but couldn't find the energy necessary to protest.

He fell asleep against his father on the way to his room, and didn't feel the man gently lay him down and tuck him in before brushing a kiss on his forehead. He also didn't see the worried frown at how high his temperature had gotten again. If he had he might have been prepared for John to be keeping a much closer eye on his baby boy.

Ok, so it's been forever. Sigh. I've had a lot of things going on in my life lately. We moved fourteen hours and three states away over the summer, and didn't have internet access when we got here. :(We've also been having computer problems for a long time, and even after we got internet, wireless wasn't working.

I've also started public school for the first time in my life. My writing time has been cut because of that.

To top everything off, I've been horribly sick. Seriously, I've missed two or three full weeks of school, and I'm still not well. I'm exhausted and dizzy. I doubt you would have wanted to read anything I wrote recently (blushes). I'm feeling somewhat better now, though not 100%.

I went to a Halloween party today. I was supposed to be Dorothy until about 2:30 this afternoon. At this time I discovered that my dress didn't fit me. (rolls eyes). My mom got it for me at a second hand store at the beginning of the week and I didn't bother to try it on until today.

So I ended up going as a fairy. We had an old pair of wings laying around, and I put them on with a prom dress. It was great. Everyone kept telling me that I was really pretty. It made me happy.

I'm listening to "Scar Tissue" by Red Hot Chili Peppers.