A/N: Wrote this silly little fic over at livejournal a few weeks ago. It was inspired by a picture *see bookcover*. Decided I'd share it here too, since you can have your own bookcovers for stories now.

Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural and still not getting paid for this.


Dean shuffled to the bathroom half asleep, using the streetlight that seeped in through the sides of the motel curtains as a guide. Not that he needed it. No matter what part of the country they were in, these places were all the same. He could probably take a piss in one of these dumps with his eyes shut if he had to. And that was a damn good thing, because he couldn't remember the last time he was so friggin exhausted. He could barely hold his eyes open.

He was a little ashamed of himself to be quite honest. Here they were in New Orleans - just blocks from the French Quarter no less - and he'd drank exactly one beer, and even that was while in the room. After putting down the ghost of a hoodoo priestess last night, he'd been so wiped that he skipped dinner and went straight to bed. It was embarrassing. He must be getting old.

He didn't feel old though. Truth was he felt pretty awesome. Sure, he was tired, but it was a good tired. The kind of tired you get from a hard day of physical labor, without all the accompanying aches and pains.

Usually his back ached when he got out of bed. Years of digging up graves, being thrown into walls, and sleeping on shit mattresses tended to jack up a man's spine. Plus, most of his joints had been wrenched, popped, or plain ripped apart at one time or another and they all tended to complain loudest at around 5 A.M. But he heard nothing from them this morning, not even a peep. It was weird.

Another thing that was weird was the fact that his bladder was apparently now the size of a walnut. He'd literally almost pissed the bed. But on the other hand, his boxers had grown at least two sizes and kept trying to slide off his hips. He had to keep a grip on his waistband just to keep from mooning his unconscious brother on the way to the bathroom. Yeah, he realized his appetite had been crap lately, but surely he hadn't lost that much weight.

He really should take better care of himself, he decided. Eat right, drink less, exercise, sleep more - all that good stuff. In fact, maybe he should start right now, he thought as he splashed some cold water on his face in an effort to wake up. He could take a jog before breakfast. It had been years since he'd done that.

As he toweled off his face with one of the threadbare hand towels, he noticed something else. No stubble. None. His face was as smooth as a baby's butt. That was definitely not right. As far as he remembered, it had been two days since he'd last shaved. He should be rocking the full-on Don Johnson look right about now.

Dean dropped the towel and flipped on the bathroom light that he'd purposefully left off until now. What he saw in the mirror caused him to cry out involuntarily and it was by no means a manly type of scream. He couldn't help it. His reflection was quite possibly the most terrifying thing he'd ever laid eyes on. Something was going to die for this. Slow and bloody.

"You okay in there?" Sam called out in a muffled voice. It sounded like he was still lying face down in his pillow.

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. He was hyperventilating. This was bad. Very, very bad. He kept a death grip on the sink as he leaned forward to examine the stranger in the mirror more closely. There was something familiar about this guy… unsettling familiar.

The bathroom door had been left ajar and his brother cautiously swung it the rest of the way open before letting loose with a scream that wasn't much more masculine than the one he'd let out the moment before. The shocked expression on his face was comical, but switched quickly to rage.

Good times.

His ginormous little brother was going to severely beat his ass and there was no way Dean could hold his own against him in this body. He was screwed.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam demanded angrily. "Better question – what the hell are you? And what the hell have you done with my brother?"

Dean held up his hands in an effort to ward-off the pissed off Hulk that looked like it wanted to rip him a new one.

"Dude!" he exclaimed in a voice that was a little too high. "It's me. I swear. Sammy, you've gotta help me. Something awful's happened."

Sam didn't look convinced and Dean braced himself for the inevitable beatdown, but Sam just stood there blocking the doorway with his freaky broad shoulders as he stared. After a few beats of silence, he deflated and his expression went from pure fury to amazement.

"Dean… dude! You're like fourteen/fifteen years-old again. You've been… I don't know… shrunk or something. Somebody's turned back the clock on you, man."

Dean snapped his head back around to examine his reflection once again.

No way. No freaking way. Okay, yeah, there was something familiar about that face, but that wasn't a younger version of him staring back at him. This kid was way too pretty to be him. He looked like a girl, and a good looking one at that.

"Hell no!" he squeaked in protest. He'd actually squeaked. It was like his voice was changing again. This was horrifying.

"This ain't me, Sammy," he pleaded in an effort to convince himself. "It's… Dude, I've been turned into the lead singer from a boy band!"

Then Sam huffed a laughed. It wasn't much of one, but Dean could tell he was trying to control himself. The appearance of the dimples always gave him away. The son of a bitch thought this was funny! This was the worst thing that had ever happened to Dean friggin EVER, and Sam was enjoying himself.

"Dean, this is you," Sam insisted as he gestured toward him. "Look at yourself. That's you!"

He leaned forward to stare at the kid in front of him again. "Uh, uh," he denied firmly as he watched the pretty boy in the mirror shake its head. He pointed a finger accusingly at the reflection. "That's not me, dude. Heeell no! I don't know what that thing is, but it's not me. It's blond! And it has Angelina Jolie's lips! I never looked like that. Come on!"

Sam shook his head and folded his arms across his chest, pasting on the infuriatingly know-it-all smirk that never failed to piss Dean off.

"You looked exactly like that. It's you, Dean," he said smugly. "Do I have to go out and dig through that old box of pictures in the trunk to prove it? Or do you want to figure out how that hoodoo priestess' spirit managed to curse you and try to undo it?"

Dean turned around so that his back was to the mirror and he didn't have to look at the terrifying image any longer. Otherwise, he was going to freak the fuck out and it wasn't going to be dignified. He searched for something smartassy to say that would wipe the amusement from Sam's face when his expression suddenly turned somber.

"Dean, what if this is a Benjamin Button thing?" his brother asked cautiously. "What if you keep getting younger? What if I have to change your diapers?"

Dean smirked at Sam's worried expression. The guy looked like he'd been sucking on lemons.

"That'd serve you right. I could get some payback for all the times I had to change yours. You were like a miniature poop factory, dude. It was horrible!"

"At least I didn't look like a girl," his brother taunted back.

"Hey! I never looked like this! Not really. Hoodoo Casper threw more whammy on top to make the curse extra hilarious. It's all part of the spell, Sammy."

"Uh huh… Whatever you say."

Dean pushed past Sam and went to try and find some clothes that would fit. They needed to move their asses and figure out how to break this curse. Now! Because maybe he couldn't beat Sam's ass at the moment, but he sure as shit could shoot him and it was only going to take a few more wise cracks to push him to it.