Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lovely day

by Joseph Wilkes & Francis Bates

They ended up snowed in at a cabin in the woods. It belonged to someone who surely didn't use it in the depths of winter or there would be more fire wood stacked outside. Dean had stayed up all night to feed the fire, the second night in a row, because Sam was sick.

It was nothing too bad, a light fever and he felt exhausted, too exhausted to pick a fight with his brother over shared chores. Not when Dean seemed to manage just fine.

Sure, Dean cursed the wet heavy snow with every breath, but his eyes betrayed a happy glow whenever he came in from the sunny white outsides or when he turned his head to one of the small windows that let some friendly light into the dark cabin.

Cabin... more a shack really. It's moldy wood wasn't designed to keep the cold out and the badly ventilated fireplace filled the place with cooling smoke -a smell that mixed harsh with the menthol in the pasty white rub Dean had put on him. The stuff made Sam's eyes water, but it did clear his nose and thwarted the inevitable cough he always developed when he had a cold.

Packed into five layers Sam wasn't in any danger to freeze to death: one old downy cover, two sleeping bags wrapped up with two army blankets he felt like he was held by very warm, yet sweated through, clouds.

He sighed a little and shut his eyes to the lone sound of Dean cooking tea. It was nice. Far enough from civilization, covered by a silence that for once was not eerie but perfectly natural. A silence broken by soft sounds, like trees scrunching and gnashing due to frost or heaps of snow falling from the branches as they gave. Sam for once felt at peace with his life. Sure he was sick and kinda helpless, but he had a brother who took care of him – cared more than necessary and if that didn't describe the best in mankind he didn't know what did.

For once the world was alright with him. He would have been perfectly okay with staying in bed for another day or two and letting Dean fuss over him. Not that he had any say so in the matter, but it was different to when he just endured Dean's TLC because this time he happily indulged his overprotective Mama-bear of an older brother.

Dean sat at his bedside and put down another cup of this reddish over-sweetened fruit tea he had bought because the store had no herbal tea.

“You stink,” Dean told him lovingly, while he unpacked him to apply another coat of rub.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He was the one who had to lie here in his stink. It would have been no problem to him to go outside and wash in the snow -but no. No chance. Nurse Dean forbade snow baths. Not until his temperature was under 100.5 or he started to attract the local wildlife. And even then-

-yeah, Dean eyed him like that again.

“Don't even think about it, I draw the line at you sponge bathing me.”

“You could do it by yourself,” Dean suggested in a voice designed for brain-dead little brothers.

He could also apply that paste by himself -he didn't say. Because Dean liked to have an excuse to touch him and check on him and touch him some more. And usually when Sam was sick it got on his nerves, but he wasn't as sick this time. It was really just a fever, but no pains, a little bit of a runny nose. If it hadn't been for Deans fever-phobia he wouldn't be in bed at all. It was nice to have Dean apply the rub and shut his eyes a little bit more. Dean's hands were rough, but his touches were not. Sam could've fallen asleep like that.

Dean ordered him to put his shirt back in place way too soon.

“Did you take your pills?”

What? Dean had been there when Sam took them. Had handed him the water. “Nope, I hid them under my tongue.”

Dean didn't even blink. “Hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Drink your tea.”

Yes, Mom -he didn't say either. It would've been more fun to mock Dean if he wasn't so damn patient with him whenever Sam got a fever. Like he was ...not scared, something else.

Dean got angry when he was scared. Fever-scared was different. Sam didn't know why and he doubted Dean had ever spent a minute reflecting on his reasons or would spend a minute if asked why he felt the need to pack him in wool and hand feed him until the thermometer told him he could stop.

Okay, the hand feeding was just a hyperbole, Dean didn't actually do that. But he made him pancakes from scratch and stuff, put in a real effort in being nice and it felt good to be coddled.

Sure Dean had done everything for him when they were little, -still did, but he hadn't exactly spoiled Sam. Partially because he hadn't been able to give him more than the bare necessities, but mostly because that was not who Dean was, who any of them were.

Dad taught them to take care of each other, of their wounds, of their needs, but beyond that? Luxury was a warm shower, a bed to oneself and a piece of pie now and then. Four years of Stanford didn't successfully teach Sam otherwise. There he had pretended to take things for granted, and afterwards he hang on to some new essentials, like eating healthier or his better than necessary computer. He didn't miss the comforts of a stable environment nearly as much as he had expected. After over a year back on the road they were just a distant memory, hazy and unimportant.

What he really missed, was the feeling of safety. Not just for him, but for Dean too.

He hated that it took an irrational and obsessive fear to get his brother to drop his guard a little. Slow down to live a little. Be himself a little, instead of the John-Winchester-clone Dean tried to be.

The problem was, that Dean didn't really know what to do with himself when he had time of his own. He got a little lost, when there was no girl to chase or little brother to take care of.

So Sam mimed to be sicker than he was.

Until lying in bed all day gave him a headache.

Dean wouldn't let him come outside until he wore almost all the clothes he owned and the green army blanket, which was the thicker one.

“That was a stupid idea.” The sun hurt his eyes. The snowy forest was beautiful though.

Dean just shrugged, didn't complain, didn't agree with him, just put him back to bed and helped him out of the stubborn layers of clothes, because now the hurt of his head had traveled down his spine and his arms felt as heavy as lead and Sam felt a little miserable overall.

Not miserable enough to whine, but close.

He had really thought he would make it through this sickness without getting really sick.

An hour later his headache was gone and felt okay-ish again.

Dean tried to make him lie back down, but sitting kept the headache away, so Sam didn't budge.

His brother stood over him, worrying.

Sam saw the wheels turning behind Dean's eyes. Maybe he figured out what would bribe Sam to be a good boy.

Like that had ever worked on him.

Deciding for the alternative, Dean put his hand on Sam's forehead to check his temperature and probably tell himself Sam was getting better anyhow, he didn't need to lie down.

Dean took his hand away for a second and put it back again, unsure.

Sam looked up at him and got a little smile.

Smiling meant Dean was super worried. Temperature was probably up again.

“I'm fine.”

Stern eyebrows.

“I am. Quit worr-” dammit, the mother of all yawns got a hold of him, his nose tickled and he sneezed so hard, his jaw cramped.

When his eyes cleared up again, he was met with the disapproving stare of his older brother, pursing his lips kinda funny.

Digging out a tissue from his sleeve, he cleaned his nose and felt miserable enough to agree, “Okay, I will try to sleep another hour.”

Chapter Text

When he woke up, the contents of the Impala's trunk were laid out on the cabin floor and Dean was nowhere in sight.

His brother must have gotten bored enough to tidy out their stock. Because the weapons were sat aside and only the other stuff was piled into different piles.

Sam wasn't able to see any rhyme or reason to the piles, but that was Dean's style of cleaning, it only made sense after he was done. There were things Sam didn't recognize, that had be in the trunk since before he came back. Like this little iron curse box that sat with the weapons.

So carefully sat aside it immediately stood out.

Sam made a mental note not to touch it and unwound from the covers, throwing the blanket over his shoulder -first just for show, so that Dean wouldn't cuss him out- but then it was chillier than expected.

The fire had died down to embers.

He got it going again and because he wasn't really awake yet, he only wondered, before his mind caught up.

Something was wrong.

Dean wouldn't leave the fire alone so long. Dusk had settled outside already. Dean should've woken him up, pestered him about drinking liquids and taking pills and should've tried to take his temperature again. There was a pot of soup on the stove, barely lukewarm.

Sam lost no time wondering and geared up with clothes fit to hunt down a wendigo.

Not that anyone had ever heard of two wendigos in the same territory. Or anything hunting in a wendigo's territory. But that would've been just their luck. He already heard the Roadhouse story of their demise: Ever heard of the Winchester brothers? Those sorry bastards who got rid of a wendigo only to get eaten by a yeti? But it wasn't their fault, back then no one knew that wendigos and yetis are cohabiting just fine during the winters months. Shit happens...

The freezing cold hit him as soon as he opened the door. Woke up his senses. Sharpened his instincts.

It was so late that everything was only shades of gray but thanks to the snow the shapes were clear cut and he didn't need to use a flashlight.

Tracks, covered by fresh fallen snow surrounded the cabin, lead to it and then away from it.

Too small to be Dean's. Too small to be...no, that didn't make any sense. Sam didn't speculate, just followed them down the path to the Impala.

It stood there, black and sleek, glistering in the bluish gray glow, like their very own version of a Thomas Kinkade painting.

Whatever had left those tracks was inside the car, in the backseat.

Sam pulled the door open quick, was ready to shoot-

A kid.

Five years old with wide feral-scared eyes, clothed in Dean's T-shirt. Bare feet pushed out from the nest of ridiculously rolled up jeans and the kid moved-

Shit, the gun, he was still-

-the kid tried to get the door behind him to open-

“Dean-”

That stopped him.

Sam put the gun away before his brother turned to him, to take a second look at the stranger who knew his name. “It's okay. I wont hurt you.” He held his empty hands up.

Dean eyed them exactly as wide eyed as he had looked at the gun and his own little hands kept tearing at the doorhandle that wouldn't budge -the backseat door on the passenger side was stuck. Dean had meant to fix that, but then the wendigo hunt had come up...

Which was probably good, because if it had opened, Dean would've made a run for it. Braving the two feet high snow. Again. No, it was better that he was stuck where he was. Enough melted snow already colored Dean's clothes with dark spots. He would be frozen stiff in not time – his movements were already sluggish, as he let go of the handle and slid down to the foot space, trying to hide there.

Sam knew he should've said something.

But what to say to a little boy who didn't recognize you for his brother? Who probably thought Sam was some kind of kidnapper...

The truth, he would tell him the truth. He didn't really see that going down well, but he also saw no other option:

“Dean? You don't have to be scared, I'm sorry about the gun, I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't know that you were hiding here.”

Dean had never stopped staring at him, but his eyes were vivid, like his fear didn't keep him from thinking clearly. Sadly there was also no recognition. He sized Sam up, before he opened his mouth and asked stuttering due to chattering teeth, “W-here is m-my dad?”

Dead, for over three months now. So much for telling the truth, “He is working. But you don't have to worry, I will watch out for you. Why don't you come inside? I will explain everything, okay?”

Dean did not buy it.

Dammit. He was getting cold out here and he was fully clothed. They had to get back to the cabin before Dean caught his death out here. But how? The last thing Sam wanted to do, was to grab Dean and carry him by force. He saw really no other option but:

“I can show you where Sammy is. If you come with me.”

And wow, if that didn't make him feel like the worst kind of scum, stringing Dean along with the one thing that made him abandon all caution.

Sam watched his brother swallow and tighten his arms around his ribcage, but then nod.

He didn't move, for he didn't want Dean to balk again. He asked beforehand, “Is it okay if I pick you up?

Dean dipped his chin down, glared, set his jaw and shook his head ever so slightly. An expression that looked impressive on a grown Winchester, had looked especially menacing on their dad and looked downright adorable on a five? -six year old Dean.

Only, the thought of Dean walking back barefoot through the snow was anything but adorable.

“Look,” he tried reason, “You don't wear any shoes and you shouldn't walk like that through the snow again.”

Dean stared at him in a very familiar way, that made it easy to read his mind: I will only move if you get out of the way.

That was what he got for trying to reason with Dean. A Dean of any age, for that matter. Time for a another strategy, “Your dad is going to be mad at me if you get sick.”

Dean's gaze dropped for a moment, like he considered that that was something John would get mad over.

“Please, let me carry you. Only to the cabin.”

Dean thought about it, and then hefted his jeans up to his chest before he crawled closer and let himself be picked up.

Dean was so small in his arms, and skinny. He weighed nothing and was coiled so tight, like he was ready to jump off him at the first sign of foul play.

Sam felt the need to say, that it was okay, to offer some kind of reassurance, but he knew Dean better than that. Even at this age he was bound to be suspicious of too kind strangers.

Setting Dean down on the rug, Sam actually hesitated, knowing what kind of reaction it would get him, but he had to lock the door.

Dean needed only a fraction of a second to go from wide eyed scared of the tall guy who just locked them in together, to locating the next gun and going for it.

Unfortunately for Dean, Sam didn't even need to move more than his arm, to grasp and drag him away from the table.

“Nooo!” he screeched.

“Dean-” Sam just wanted him to calm down, but it was surprisingly hard to hold Dean where he was, without hurting him.

“You lied to me!!”

“I did, but I also did not. Sammy is here.”

Dean threw his head around wildly, searched the room. It was still empty and he asked so broken, that it hurt everything in Sam:

“What did you do to my little brother?”

“Nothing, I swear, he is okay. Just listen to me Dean-”

“I have to get to Sammy, he mus'n't be alone,” Dean babbled, stumbling over words, frantic, “he is just a baby please-”

Sam shook him once, “Dean, stop!”

A little sob hiccuped up, but other than that the little boy was perfectly still.

“You will listen to me and then I will let you take care of Sammy, deal?”

Dean looked at him silent, scared and not trusting him for a second time.

Silent and listening was good, trust would come later...somehow. “You know that magic is real, right?” Dean had to, their dad taught Dean about these things early, way too early. “See, I don't know exactly yet what happened, but-”

“Sammy can't be in the cold – he will die. Please, let me take care of him,” Dean spoke really fast, “I will be good, I wont be calling for help or anything, please, Mister, let me have Sammy, please-” Dean bit his lip, “-pplease-” swallowing the sobs that shook his tiny little body and Sam had never felt so helpless in his whole life.

He wanted to lie, he wanted to tell Dean, that Sammy was with John, that he was safe -but then what?

Tell Dean, that John had left him behind with a stranger?

Their dad had done some shitty things, but never something like that. Not without a proverbial gun to his head. Maybe Dean wouldn't even believe him -or worse, Dean would believe him.

Either way, Sam couldn't do that to him.

Dean swallowed and got a wild look on his face, that reminded Sam more of him as an adult,

“If you has hurt Sammy, my dad will kill you!”

He couldn't help the short huff of a laugh that escaped him, mostly because he was relieved Dean found the courage to threaten him, and because, “I know,” he was glad Dean had that much faith in their dad, “I know your dad pretty well and I would never be so stupid to make him angry.”

Dean relaxed a little under his hands and Sam too let up on the pressure, just enough not to hurt Dean anymore, but not so much that he got ideas.

“Your dad told you about magic, right?”

Dean nodded.

“About hunters?”

Another nod.

“Okay, good. I'm a hunter, I'm one of the good guys and I need your help figuring out what kind of magic happened here.” He actually just thought of that:

Something had done this to Dean. It was probably still around.

“Do you remember how you got here?”

“I want Sammy. If I get Sammy, I will tell you everything.”

Dammit. “Well that's a problem, because I can't tell you where Sammy is until we figure out how you got here.”

Dean viewed him with deep mistrust and rising worry.

“Did you just wake up in the Impala?”

A shake of head.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Dean frowned confused.

Okay, that questioned hadn't really a suited a six?year-old, “What did you do before you went to the car?”

“I searched for my dad and Sammy and then I found my dad's car and I waited there.”

“And before?”

“I saw you sleeping there,” Dean moved his shoulder to indicate the bed.

“And before?”

“My clothes were too big.”

“And before?”

Dean really thought about it, before he shrugged, “Dunno.”

He just had woken up in his too big clothes. Well that at least was good, was something Sam could use. “I can tell you what you did. Before you can't remember anymore, you were making soup. And then something, maybe a witch or something else used magic on you and you turned into a kid.”

Dean's expression froze somewhere between confused and annoyed. The adult version of him would've already called Bullshit.

“You're not supposed to be little. You are already grown up and magic turned you into a little kid. It is important that I find out what magic-”

“You're a liar! And a bad man! And my dad will hunt you down, Mister! You better run now or he will kill you, he is not far away! That's his car outside, he will be here soon and then he will shoot you!”

Sam took a deep breath, his headache was back and it would've really been important to find out what turned Dean into a little kid before it did the same thing to him, so he spurred things on a little:

“Actually, it's your car now. Dad gave it to you when you turned eighteen. And I'm not a liar, I told you I would show you where your little brother is and I did. I'm Sam,” he said and added a little helpless, “I'm grown up.”

He was able to see how Dean went from disbelieve to realizing that maybe the big guy wasn't lying, maybe the big guy was a crazy person. “Sammy is-,” Dean spelled out slowly, “-a baby,” and worded with care, “You're not my little brother,” he explained, like he dreaded that that would upset the crazy person.

“Yes, I am your brother, like in a fairy tale, you know?”

Dean's expression darkened.

Oh shit, bad choice of an argument – fairy tales are for babies or chicks, -Dean's own words of wisdom.

“How stupid do you think I am?” Dean asked him somewhat disgusted, “I'm six. I know fairy tales are not real.”

“No, they're not,” Sam lost what little had remained of his patience, “Magic isn't nice, it's dangerous and we are on our own out here. Dad is hunting somewhere far away and doesn't come back for another week. If I turn into a two-year-old, then we're in big trouble. That why I need to know how you got turned into a kid so it doesn't it happens to me too.”

Dean chewed on that. And at least the no-nonsense cadence -which, and Sam wasn't overly proud of that, resembled their dad's- got through to him. But still, he didn't say anything – maybe also because he probably didn't know how he got turned into a kid.

“Alright, first things first:” precaution. He let go of Dean, but kept an eye on him just in case he decided to go for a gun again. Showing Dean his cell phone, Sam explained, “This is a phone. If something happens to me, you need to know how to call Uncle Bobby. Not Dad, Dad's phone doesn't have reception where he is,” he lied fluently, “Here, look...now you do it,” he had Dean repeat the steps to find Bobby's number in the call log and explained to him, that they didn't have reception in the cabin either. If he wanted to call Bobby, he had to go outside to the car and if it didn't work he had to wait for a while to try again.

Leaving Dean with the phone in his hand he first checked the salt lines.

Unbroken. And then remembered, that he had done that before he went to search for Dean. Dammit, he was really not up to deal with this.

He got his other gun next – silver wasn't that good for hunting witches. And then spent some time searching for the EMF-meter within Dean's messy piles, before he turned it on. Just in case.

Didn't get any readings that said something about spirit activity, though. Not that he though he would.

“Mister?” Dean, who had seen exactly what Sam did – who had to have recognized it for what a hunter, what their father did to keep them safe.

“Yeah?”

Dean chewed on his lip, before he answered, “You don't look so good.”

“I'm a little sick, but it's okay. Not gonna faint on you.” At least as long he didn't turn into a two-year-old.

Maybe he should drink a some water-

The curse-box on the table.

How could he have forgotten about that?

Sam carefully advanced. It still seemed to be locked. Without touching it, he examined it.

Only when he saw the Elamite cuneiform he recognized it. And then he knew what had been inside:

A peri. Persian fairies – usually benevolent.

Now Sam remembered: Dean got into the possession of a locked in peri when him and Dad cleaned out a sorcerers dungeon.

The lore advised against freeing them, because unlike their natural enemies, the daevas, peri didn't care who had enslaved them. They threw temporary curses at whoever opened their cages – shoot first, ask questions never, because they usually didn't stay around, but fled as soon as they were free.

So at least, it wasn't around anymore. And it wasn't their problem either, because peri were certainly not the smartest supernatural beings, but also the most harmless. Example number one:

Tiny Dean.

“I know what turned you into a kid,” he showed Dean the box, which on closer inspection had been corroded by spilled salt and water.

“What is that?”

“It's a f-” -he stopped himself before he said the f-word again, because not even adult Dean was convinced fairies were a thing. “It's a prison for a genie. Like a bottle, only it's not a bottle but a box. The genie got out, through this hole. Here, see?”

Dean came, he saw, he didn't believe. “A genie? Like Jeanny on TV?”

“Yeah, like on TV”, actually wish-granting-jinns were a whole different ballgame, but six-year-old Dean didn't need to know that. “Exactly like on TV. Only this genie was pissed at you and didn't grant you a wish, but cursed you. Don't worry, you will turn back in a few days- ...I guess.”

“Why was she pissed?” Dean wore out the word like it was cool to say it.

“Because she thought you locked her into the box. These genies are not very smart.”

Dean heaved a heavy sigh and looked like three days rain.

“You still don't believe me that I'm Sammy, right?”

Another heavy sigh and a shake of head. But then Dean peaked up, like he got an idea and asked, “If you're really Sammy, what's your favorite thing in the whole wide world?”

He had to give Dean credit for being so smart to question him with something as specific like that, but sadly, “Believe or not, but I don't remember what was my favorite thing in the whole wide world when I was two.”

“Sammy is not really two yet. It's not his birthday yet. If you're Sammy you would know that.” He glared at Sam.

Who bit his tongue not to laugh. This here would've been a whole lot easier if little Dean wouldn't look so adorable whenever he aimed to look suspicious and menacing.

“I got pictures,” Sam offered, “Of us when we were little, they are around here somewhere...” Dammit, why did Dean had to clean out the trunk before he got himself turned into a six-year-old?

Sam spent five minutes -five minutes under the accusing stare of a little kid were an eternity- searching for the wooden chest that held their pictures. But of course Dean dragged everything in here, everything but the chest.

“I'm sorry, it's probably in the car-”

“I want my dad,” Dean interrupted him and shivered violently again, reminding Sam that inside the cabin it was still dangerously cold for a kid in wet clothes.

“I know. But he isn't here and I can't call him. But I will take care of you, I promise.” He knelt down, and crouched to get to eye-level with Dean. “You have to put on something warm, okay-”

Oh.

Not okay: He had made the mistake to reach out of for Dean, who stumbled away from him, jeans long abandoned, his T-shirt fluttering around his calves and he shivered worse than before, like moving made him feel only colder.

“Dean,” he pleaded.

But the little boy shook his head morose. “You're not allowed to touch me, Mister. If you do I will bite you and yell and when my dad comes, I will tell him everything.”

He remained kneeling. He was fucking exhausted. “Please, Dean, you have to believe me, I'm Sam. Ask me something,” there had to be stuff he remembered, “Like Dad's favorite song, it's-”

“Everyone knows that. Even Mister Jefferson knows that and he no friend. He is a bad man.”

“Okay. But I doubt any bad people know that you always read Dr. Seuss books to me, my favorite was Horton Hears a Who,” and he hated Green Eggs and Ham fiercely, once threw the book out of Pastor Jim's window. But that had been, when he had been six, after the shtriga, when Dean became-

“Wrong. Sammy's favorite is Goodnight Moon.”

“Right,” Goodnight Moon. If he hadn't been so exhausted- “You always made up stories about what the bunny did all day before it went to sleep. I didn't forget that,” he didn't, it was just, there weren't many good things he remembered. Mostly he remembered...pain..of course! Pain!

“It's okay Mister,” Dean took pity on him.

“Wait, I got-” he actually had an idea-

“I will just sit over there and wait for my dad.” Dean went over to the fire place, walking backwards so he was able to watch him for signs of trouble.

“Dean, there is something I remember, but I'm not sure it happened before I was two, but I think so:

I got a burn wound, a really bad one...?”

Dean's eyes went wide, like he couldn't believe that the big guy knew about that.

“You know what I'm talking about. It's was on my left foot.”

Dean nodded.

Finally, and even better, “I still got the scar. It's very pale now-” -frantically he pulled his boot off and then his sock-

Only to find nothing.

That couldn't be. It had been there- “Dammit, it's the other foot, I always get that wrong.”

But Dean had already shuffled closer and watched him take off his other boot and sock and point out the barely visible spot where only those who knew could make out a thumbnail sized scar. “Dad was ironing his shirt on the floor and I played with your toy soldiers right beside him and...”

Dean stared at him.

“-Dad turned away only a second-...” he stopped, because Dean knew. It probably had happened recently to him. And he didn't like this memory, didn't like it to this day.

“Sammy?” Dean stood next to him, looking him in the eye and really seeing him for the first time.

And again, Sam didn't know what to say. He just sat there and let Dean stare at him.

Until Dean came close and closer and hugged him all of a sudden.

“Hey, it's okay,” he told Dean, who poured all his relief into it, which meant he almost strangled Sam, hugging his neck.

Dean let go with a sharp sigh. Looking down at him, he still seemed a little bewildered about what had become of his baby-brother. “You're really big,” he actually said.

“Because you fed me so well.”

“It can't be just that,” Dean decided strict.

Sam didn't know what that meant, but down-sized Dean being so strict was the cutest thing he ever saw.

Before Dean caught him laughing about him, he cleared his throat and not completely by accident imitated their dad as he ordered Dean to finally put on some dry clothes.

With a little help Dean soon wore an under shirt, their coziest hoodie as a dress and two pairs of sport socks that went up to his knees. He even let Sam pack him into the smelly cooled down bed. He looked like a blanket ball with a head.

After Sam turned on the cooker to re-heat the soup, he put a few more logs into the fire and he stayed close to it to get a little warmer himself-

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

Only Dean's head peaked out of the blankets. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” why would-?

Dean looked as sad as he always looked when Dad had long since forgotten what he had chewed him out about and Dean still thought he was punished by the silence.

Sam had scared the little boy, shouted at him, hurt him and ordered him around – why wouldn't Dean think Sam was mad at him.

“Dean, I'm not mad at you,” he sat down beside the blanket ball and put an arm around him, “I was never mad at you. You're the best big brother in the whole world.”

That made Dean smile so bright and happy, Sam almost didn't recognize his brother in that little ball of sunshine beaming at him.

Purely out of instinct he leaned down and kissed Dean's head, like their Dad had done when they had been little, and he stayed a minute to cuddle Dean closer.

He didn't know what Dean had been like when he had been so small, but if he was as insecure as he had been later in life – Dean might hear his words, but as soon as Sam would turn away from him again, he would think he had done something wrong. Also Dean was not getting any warmer all on his own in the coarse blankets.

He knew better than to ask Dean if he was hungry, he just stated, “We have soup for supper, but don't ask me what's in it. It's your secret recipe of three-can-soup and you repeatedly told me it wouldn't be a secret if you told me what the secret ingredients are,” -it was Velveeta cheese and a pinch of instant coffee, “But whatever it is, it tastes very good.”

Dean untangled his hands from the blankets and took over the bowl. There Sam learned he had been right:

Dean's hand were like ice.

To be sure, Sam checked, but yeah: the core of Dean's body hadn't warmed up any either.

Dean wiggled away from his touch, a small smile, like it had tickled and only now Sam realized, how much Dean's demeanor had changed since he had accepted that Sam was Sammy.

He trusted him completely. Which meant he should be able to trust him too. Sleep a little without worrying that Dean would try to run away.

“Dean?” he asked him over shared soup, “I need to catch some sleep. Are you okay to nap a little with me?”

“Sure, Sammy,” he answered.

And because little Dean didn't eat, but just like big Dean -devoured his food, Sam got him another bowl before bedtime.

Putting another log on, he set the time for 80 minutes to get up and feed the fire again.

“Sammy?” Dean asked him very serious when Sam took off his jacket and prepared for bed.

“Yeah?”

“Are you badly sick?”

“No. Just a cold.”

“Okay.”

And that was it, Dean trusted his word as if it had been Dad's. He didn't worry, not one little bit. Whatever thing he had about Sam's fevers had to have come later in life.

With the lights off, the fidgety flames blinked a nervous glow on every surface. It looked scary, Sam supposed, but Dean had dived under the covers and stayed there. Breath already deepening, and his little hand clutching Sam's shirt like an afterthought.

Dean was bird bones and icy skin. And it felt strange to have a kid so close, more than strange. Completely unknown to have someone so small trust him so much.

Holding Dean close, he tried to remember, but he couldn't remember that Dean had ever cuddled like this with their dad. Or with any adult. It should've been strange for Dean too.

And about then, when he was sure, Dean had fallen asleep, Sam noticed that he wasn't getting any air through his nose. He should've blown his nose. Had to do it now, or he would fall asleep breathing through his mouth and wake up with a cough.

He tried to move carefully. But of course Dean stirred.

Finding a tissue and blowing his nose, Dean was awake again.

He didn't say anything, just waited until Sam lay back down, to snuggle closer and exhale heavy, like this was all a bit much.

Sam wondered if parents felt that guilty for waking their kids.

“Goodnight, Sammy, sleep well.”

Probably not. “You too, Dean.” You had to get used to feeling so helpless or no one would have more than one kid.

Dean slept just fine through the alarm. Sam knew that, because he almost slept through it too. His fever was up again, he felt heavy.

But Dean didn't sleep through him leaving the bed.

“Sammy?” sounded the small voice from the covers.

“I'm just taking care of the fire, Dean, go back to sleep.”

Dean didn't go back to sleep, he waited sitting up and watched how Sam took some pills. Reset the alarm.

It was the same 80 minutes later. As soon as Sam left, Dean was awake. Only this time the embers had thinned too much to simply put a log on and Sam needed to built up some more before he could return to sleep. It took about half an hour. Sam didn't make himself tea, because he thought Dean had gone back to sleep, but when he returned to bed he saw him wide awake and staring at the black ceiling.

Dean looked at him then, a question in his eyes already before he opened his mouth, “Are you sure my Sammy isn't here somewhere?”

“Yeah, Dean, I'm sure.”

Dean believed him, but he was so open, that anyone with eyes was able to see how unhappy he was.

Sam tucked them in and asked the obvious, “Do you miss your Sammy?”

Dean swallowed, his bottom lip quivered and he nodded and yet he refused to cry.

He was so damn small, and Sam didn't know how to take care of him. “Do you wanna tell me what the bunny did today?” he suggested. “I haven't heard about the bunny in years. Didn't he once eat Pastor Jim's cigarettes and got a sore tummy?”

“And the cellofan wrapper, he ate that too,” Dean chimed in, “And the candle wax that smelled good and looked like candy, but you mus'n' eat it or you have to go to hospital like the bunny, ya know, Sammy?”

“I know now,” Dean's tales had been very educational.

“And if the bunny eats batteries it runs around all night instead of sleeping and gets red eyes, did you know, Sammy?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“It's true.”

Very educational, at least about the workings of Dean's mind.

“But bunny must sleep now, Sammy and you too, do you wanna hear the bed time story?”

“Yeah-?” He wanted to point out that they didn't have the book anymore, but then Dean started to recite the whole thing, word for word.

He didn't pause to think, not once. Only his pace slowed down, like he managed to talk himself to sleep...

“…Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere,” he ended and added whispering, “Goodnight Sammy.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” he whispered back and told him, “I have to be up in an hour again, but if you hear me, you can stay asleep, I will be back to bed in no time, I promise, okay?”

“kay,” Dean sighed most sleepily.

Dean actually slept through the next three alarms. Sometime around two in the morning he did wake up again, and because Sam didn't fall asleep right away, he noticed Dean was very awake.

Thinking very loud for such a small kid.

Sam turned to his side to look down at Dean, who looked up to him, studying him for a while. Before he picked up the thinking again.

He was curious what Dean thought about, but he also didn't want to disturb him, because he seemed to be at peace with whatever went through his mind. He didn't flinch or react in any way when something outside started to cry out – a small animal getting killed noisily. Dean just turned to his side, fitting himself against Sam and shut his eyes impassive to the screeches and shrieks and simply went back to sleep.

Sam knew the feeling. These violent noises should've been blood-chilling. Not just to little kids, but to anyone with empathy. But to Sam...actually they were kinda comforting to him, mainly for three reasons:

One, he was a major freak. Second was, the reminder that this gruesomeness that was their life was perfectly natural. And last but not least, that while nature was gruesome, brutal and anything but innocent, humanity had the potential to be better.

He had always found the idea that nature was innocent and pure more than a little naive. At Stanford he had met people who argued that rather passionately. Only once he had asked this one guy if he would dare to explain tigers needed saving if his audience were made up by the people that had to live in the villages sharing territory with his majestic creatures. Asked him if he would really not shoot a tiger coming at him, at his family, at his kid. Told him, as he wasn't ready to let a tiger eat him, he should shut up and re-think his platitudes. Because the world wasn't as black and white as a rich brat's ideals. It was bloody and brutal and unfair and saving the tigers wouldn't change that one tiny little bit.

Aside from awkward stares from the activists and some of his friends, his little speech had no real impact. Well, Jess of course thought this was the perfect situation to tell the joke about the guy who was asked by the judge what bald eagle tasted like. Partially because she tried to take everyone's mind off Sam-the-gun-toting-tiger-killer, partially because she was wiser than him and therefore wouldn't take people serious who wore Che Guevara T-shirts made in China. But mostly she had told that joke because Jess had loved nothing more than to make people cringe and Sam laugh at the same time. She had been great, perfect even. If he hadn't been such an idiot she could've still been alive.

He had spent too many nights thinking about what ifs not to be sure, that if he had reached out to Dean, to their Dad, Jess would've lived.

Jess would've liked Dean. She would've had him wrapped around her little finger in no time.

Sam hadn't given her enough credit, had been too scared she would leave him. Today he knew that she would've been able to handle this craziness. She would've found the fun in a situation like this one, where a badass guy like Dean was suddenly helpless and small. She wouldn't have have scared little Dean, and not only because she had looked a lot like their mom. She would've planted her ass in the backseat, cranked up the heating and talked superheroes with the little boy until he came to her on his own. No lying, no bribing needed when it came to little kids; that had been Jess' credo. She had wanted at least three. She wouldn't marry him if he didn't agree to that, she had said. He had agreed. Technically she had asked him to marry her that night.

Sam missed her. He would always miss her, he had sworn to himself. He wanted it to hurt, he preferred it to forgetting. That was why he still imagined what it would be like to have her with him, wherever he was now: On a hunt, a stakeout, in bed with his shrinked brother. He missed her, but he started to learn to fall asleep with her memory watching over him.

He woke from Dean fidgeting.

Sam turned a little to the side, half-awake and aware that it was still in the middle of the night.

Then Dean tried to get up.

Sam reached for the light.

“I need to use the toilet,” Dean told him.

Well there wasn't one. None that was functional. But there was a hole in the snow Dean dug three days ago.

This time the cold didn't wake up his senses. It felt like he was drowning in the freezing dark night, as he waited for Dean to tinkle.

Thinking he missed a sound he shone the flashlight over the black depth of the woods and came up with nothing.

“Done,” Dean said and let himself be picked up again. He felt heavier than he was. Sam was exhausted. He needed to sleep.

Trying to weigh his options, his brain failed him and he fell asleep without setting an alarm.

Chapter Text

Snow reflected sunlight was a ghastly creature first thing in the morning, it crept into every corner of the room and tugged at Sam's eyelids, like little ants, with little hands.

He didn't want to move, he hurt everywhere, there hadn't been enough sleep and the fire was probably out now, because not enough sleep was still too much sleep to keep a fire going and his nose was cold and he felt like shit and his mouth tasted dry and cottony and his tongue was probably dead and of course:

On the edge of perception a tickle in his throat said, that soon he would be coughing his lungs out.

But he needed to get up.

If he fell asleep again...even if he got up now, he was probably too sick to take care of Dean. He would have to involve Bobby and hope Dean wouldn't see through their lie that Dad was okay.

No matter what, he needed to get up.

Uorghh, being the adult sucked.

Not until he moved, he felt how comfortably heavy Dean lay there tucked away under his arm:

Totally out of it.

It was weird that someone so terribly small, was such a presence even -especially, as he was unconscious. Dean felt so close and weighted, Sam could literally feel how relaxed Dean was at the moment. And he felt a little bit like the drama queen Dean always called him. Just one look at Dean and he knew they would be alright. His fever wasn't so bad, so what if he got a cough? They would have themselves a good time. Bobby was only a day's drive away, Sam could still call him if it really didn't work out. But for now, he wanted Dean to sleep for a little while longer.

By midday Dean had effectually taken over. He was 'cooking' dinner, took care of the fire, he even tried to insist on helping Sam stock up the fire wood, because Sammy mus'n't be in the cold as long as he was sick. But as there were no clothes or shoes that fit him, Dean lost that argument. He was pacified by the fact that Sam only needed a few minutes to carry the wood for today and tonight inside.

Oh, and he was trying to convince him that warmed up whiskey was medicine for grown-ups. Uncle Caleb's teachings. Which was really interesting, since the last time Sam had been sick with fever Dean had thrown a fit over Sam's improvised cough syrup:

Peppermint candies melted in wodka.

He had been seventeen, with a half a dozen kills under his belt, and had been taller than Dean and yet his brother had threatened a spanking.

Little Dean was much more sedate. More a cuddler than a spanker. He had no problem staying in bed all day. To keep Sammy warm – when in reality it was him, who got icy hands as soon as he spent more than five minutes outside of the covers.

Full sunshine, it was still only fifteen degrees outside. And inside the cabin...well, it was cool enough for a six year old to stay still under the covers -most of the time.

Right now Dean had climbed on top of him and looked at the book Sam was trying to read and then-

“Your hair is greasy, Sammy. We mus' wash it. I know you don't like to wash your hair, but i''s 'portant,” Dean told him emphatically while he fiddled and picked and petted with Sam's matted down strands. “You mus' wash it, just like your toes and, and...” Dean frowned, he had discovered something that had derailed his reasoning.

He poked a finger at Sam's cheek -a cheek Sam was biting from the insides not to laugh about how adorable Dean was- and he stared at the stubble like he only now realized that his brother had facial hair.

“I also should shave,” Sam suggested, his face cramping from bridled amusement, “Don't'cha think?”

Dean's focus on his stubble was unbroken, as he nodded and said more to himself, “Yeah, like Dad.” As his eyes met Sam's one could see all the serious thinking that went on behind them. He was so serious and thoughtful and open about it, that Sam just wanted to hug him and hold him and never let go.

Instead Sam took a deep breath and carried on with their conversation, “You're right, I need a bath, I'm starting to stink.”

Dean smelled him and decided, “It's not so bad,” and added strict, “But you haf'ta wash your hair, Sammy,” like he would not budge on that, no matter what.

So sweet, Sam pulled him close and kissed his temple and didn't plan on letting go. He had no idea how their father had gotten anything done with Dean being so adorable.

It was distracting.

“Mus' wash your hair,” Dean mumbled into chest, reminding him, that he hadn't promised yet to be good.

“Okay, I'll wash it in the sink.” Or...

To convince little Dean that this was a good idea was almost as impossible as convincing his grown up brother. Sam had to promise to be quick. And to wash his hair.

Not so hard to keep the first promise, he didn't plan on doing more than a cat's lick. Even though it was beautiful outside again. The kind of colors that seemed too distinct to exist outside of impressionistic paintings: stark white, blaring yellow sunlight, muted ice blue shades.

The first touch of snow to his naked feet didn't feel cold, more texture than temperature, crunchy real and he suddenly felt very much alive. Like he had been drugged and the cold air buzzed the gray feeling off his bare body.

The snow was frozen hard and he had to dig his fingers in to get enough to rub himself clean.

The sound of Dean giggling betrayed his presence. “You're crazy, Sammy!”

“Go inside, you let the cold in,” he admonished his 'big' brother. Who dutifully clutched the towel, he held ready for Sam, to his chest and vanished into the cabin.

When he washed under his arms the coldness hit him hard and he dreaded what it would feel like to put snow anywhere near...he didn't do that. He would use the washcloth. But he did make a point of cleaning his toes and getting his hair wet for Dean's satisfaction. About then the coldness had become painful and slowly numbed him – but it was also such a rush, that he was still laughing when he was back inside. Where Dean handed him the towel -warmed a little too close against the fire, it had caught the smell of smoke; he himself probably smelled worse now than before. Like a cat that had gotten wet. He rubbed his rosy skin raw, a new kind of heat, different from the fever and much more easier to bear. He hadn't realized until now how dazed he had been.

“You're crazy,” Dean repeated, filled with awe. And then, “Can I try that too?”

Adult Dean wouldn't get his naked ass anywhere near cold water, let alone snow. Not on a drunk dare, not for hygienic reasons, not even when he was ordered to.

“Can I?” Dean sounded so hopeful.

“If I feel better tomorrow,” he promised, “We will have a snowball fight.”

“Against who?”

That made Sam pause a second. He had forgotten... “Against...We will figure something out. Maybe we will make snow angels,” he tried to change the subject-

“Like Mom did?”

-successfully. “Yeah, sure.” How would he know, he only knew that Dean made them with him until he was too grown-up to do such a thing. By the age of eight Dean had become too grown-up for a lot of things.

“I bet you can make a giant snow angel,” Dean looked him up and down, calculating his size. Then he remembered, that Sammy was not wearing any warm clothes and that mus'n't be, so he scolded him gently.

Against who?

Sam had forgotten that they hadn't fought each other when he had been little. Dad had taught Dean how to fight and how to shoot at young age, but he didn't put up Dean to the task to teach Sam, until Sam was about seven.

It took years of sparring -and Sam occasionally fighting dirty, for Dean to first use his strength against him. The closest they came to fighting was when Dean had tickled him and even then he had been gentle and careful. Not cruel like other big brothers were.

Watching this gentle little boy now, who carefully handled hot water for tea, Sam would've liked to blame their father for hardening Dean. But he knew it had been mostly him.

He hadn't been a gentle kid, he hadn't been patient. He had wanted to grow up fast, be his own person and he had pushed Dean hard. Demanded answers, called him a liar, challenged his strength, cast aside his sacrifices.

Dean had to learn to brush him off, or he would've been an easy target for all of Sam's frustration. He had to learn to take him down a notch or at times, to keep him at distance, to keep him safe.

Dean hadn't had any friends or normal relationships where he could've balanced out what he had with Sam: A relationship too important to mess up. Thinking about this now Sam realized, Dean had had the same, if not a worse, relationship with their father:

Inescapable and indestructible on one hand and fragile and precious on the other.

That had to be suffocating. No wonder Dean tried to play so many things for laughs.

They never had that snow ball fight against imaginary attackers like Sam had planned. They didn't make snow angels either.

Like Dean's actual childhood, this revival ended too soon and abrupt:

One minute Dean was giving him an almost dry kiss on the tip of his nose -completely ignoring how gross Sam's nose was right now- because this kiss was Sammy's favorite thing in the whole wide world and Sam had been a very good drinking all his canned milk and eating his 'vegetables'(=nachos).

Next minute Dean was on all fours on the floor, in soundless pain, glowing electric blue and ultra violet and growing in fast motion.

One could see, that he wasn't screaming because he simply couldn't.

When it was finally over, he gasped and stayed still, tense and shaky.

Sam was there by his side. He put one tentative hand on Dean's shoulder. His brother looked at him, confused, and Sam had a hard time to tell if Dean had grown up fully.

“Dean?”

Dean's eyes dropped, he shivered -well he was half naked. And then Dean rolled his shoulder to shake Sam's hand off, and Sam didn't have a hard time to tell anymore.

The question was only, “Dean? Do you remember what happened?”

“Yeah,” Dean sulked, “That feathered bitch got a drop on me.”

The Peri, so Dean remembered that, “But do you remember-”

“I remember just fine, Sam. In fact, I do remember that you didn't use the rub since-...” Dean tried to chew him out, but then he probably remembered that Sam hadn't used it, because little Dean said it hurt his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean sounded a lot less pissed, but not really happy, “Just feels like getting electrocuted,” he explained, “But the real thing would leave a duller ache, so I should be fine,” he said and got up to dress himself.

Sam watched him and tried to come to terms with the loss of little Dean who had been so innocently happy when Sam told him that he had grown up to be a hunter, like Dad and that they were all hunting together, like a family of superheroes. Little Dean who didn't know that Dad was dead.

If he himself needed more than a moment to come to terms with all that, Dean would need much longer.

“We have to do laundry soon,” he said in lieu of any more questions how Dean felt, “I'm out of clean underwear.” Maybe Dean would-

“You can borrow mine,”

-Dean didn't.

He tuned into their version of a normal everyday conversation, “Laundry can wait until the next laundry mat. We're leaving first thing anyhow. You're only getting sicker lying around in this ball-freezing-cold-” he cussed, “-smoke-cured shithole.”

Wow, vivid. Inside his mind, Sam was allowed to point out how un-normal it was that Dean managed to go on about his day like nothing happened. That he didn't seem to feel the slightest need to acknowledge his experience somehow.

On the outside he shut up, because he knew they both weren't in a place to talk about this. Mostly because they sure were in very different places: while Sam could only guess by Dean's mood that his last twenty-four hours hadn't been great, he knew that for him this day with little Dean had been one of the best days of his life.

Two very different places indeed.

Sharing bed with adult Dean was...less comfortable, but no less comforting.

Even though Dean had barely spoken in the last hours, he had done his carnie trick of telling Sam's temperature by hand alone five times. Sam had tested him against the thermometer twice and as always lost his bets that this time Dean got it wrong. They had focused on Sam's fever and their idle bickering and Dean had been gentle with him.

Though it was hard. Sam wanted to talk about what happened. He wanted to thank Dean for taking care of him. He wanted to say how much it meant to him that someone had told him bedtime stories. That he had had a childhood. That even though he hadn't had a mom it had been good.

Every sentence a hornet's nest on it's own:

So Sam didn't care that he hadn't had a mom?

So he had a childhood, great for him – but Dean's...well:

Dean's childhood was missing his mom so badly that he couldn't talk about her to this very day. Dean's childhood was knowing what Sam and him missed out about. Dean's childhood was failing to protect Sam over and over again. Dean's childhood was always ending. It ended with their mom's death, it ended with their dad's trust in him, it ended with Sam running away to have a dog when he was eleven, it ended when Bobby became persona non grata after the fight him and dad had about taking Sam hunting at the age of twelve...

“Sammy?” Dean mumbled against his shoulder -always the big spoon, no matter how acrobatic he had to be to angle their limbs right.

“Yeah?”

“Shut ya eyes and sleep a'ready,” Dean yawned warm against him so it left a damp spot on Sam's T-shirt.

“I was sleeping.”

“Liar,” Dean called him on it and Sam felt how Dean's lips pressed a small kiss on the damp spot and then Dean buried his nose there, sighing a little bit -he had to be half asleep himself to be so affectionate. “Just sleep already,” Dean whined again, “Can't sleep if you're not...” he trailed off and really wouldn't fall asleep, but carded his fingers through Sam's greasy hair.

Sam wished really hard Dean could always be open about what he wanted. And while he was at it, he also wished that pigs could fly.

With Sam's fever waning and their living arrangements changing to the more civilized, Dean became distant. Something like embarrassed.

Now that Sam had learned a side of his brother he hadn't known, he wondered. If maybe over the years he had made assumptions about Dean, which Dean had encouraged simply to protect himself.

And today was the day he was done with it. “Hey, Dean?”

“Mh?” his brother looked up from the notes he take for their next hunt.

“What do you have about my fevers?”

A split second there was guilt and then, “What'cha talking about?”

“You know what I mean,” Sam stated, drove it home that he wasn't as blindsided and selfish as Dean expected him to be, “You take them very serious, every time.”

“I still don't get what you're talking about, it's fever – you take that serious,” Dean nodded at him, like he was the idiot and Sam knew from experience what would be next:

Next Sam would've explained, how fever was a natural reaction, not necessarily dangerous and so on...he would've given a lecture.

A lecture Dean would've brushed aside with crass ignorance.

First the jibe at Sam's common sense and then Dean's lack of intellectual cooperation, that always managed to piss Sam off. So much that Dean succeeded to make him drop any subject, because why argue with someone who was a lost cause? Who probably didn't even know the answer to the question, because that would've involved two brain cells working together.

But this time Sam had looked for it and he had seen:

Dean didn't just know that what he was doing was irrational, he even knew why, because that split second before he had deflected the question, he had looked guilty. Like he remembered.

Something had happened, and Sam would've liked to ask what. He wanted to know, that was his first instinct, to push, because deep down he believed that out in the open things were easier to bear. But that was him.

Was it really easier for Dean since he had told him about the shtriga? Had opened up about why he followed Dad's orders obsessively. Had given Sam the answer to the question what had been wrong that time they had stayed at Pastor Jims when Dean wouldn't talk unless spoken to.

No. Nothing had been easier since Fitchburg for Dean. Dean had only told him, so that Sam understood, so it was easier for Sam.

Dean huffed annoyed about Sam's silent thinking, as for him it probably looked like Sam was moping due to their failed communication.

“Dean, look, I'm not pissed,” he started and earned a sceptically raised eye-brow commenting that statement, “But if you don't wanna talk about something, you could just say so.”

“Yaw,” Dean groused, dripping with sarcasm, “because that always shuts you up.”

“Maybe it's time I grow up a little and learn to listen when you tell me to shut up.”

Dean looked at him like he had told him he wanted to grow antlers and invite little animals to ride on them.

“You don't have to tell me why it freaks you out when I get a fever. But I'm not feigning ignorance anymore. Because if I keep doing that, I couldn't tell you, how grateful I am that you take care of me. Even when you're being completely irrational, actually: I'm especially grateful that your irrational fears brings out the best in you. That's kinda rare,” it was a beautiful trait in Dean – most people showed their worst when they felt helpless, but Sam shut up now, before he said that kinda thing aloud. Since Dean didn't even know how to react to what Sam said out loud.

Unsure and distantly guarded, he shrugged and said, “Okay,” trying to make the awkward moment pass.

But Sam had to add something, “I did mean it, when I said, that you're the best big brother in the whole wide world.”

Dean ducked his head away, instinctively hiding the smile, but then he came up again, smiling the grittier adult version of the mega-watt smile Sam had gotten from him three days ago. Not hiding it, but looking Sam in the eye for the first time since he turned back.

There was so much affection in Dean's twinkling eyes, that it had Sam duck his head.

“You know,” Dean said, “You haven't been doing so bad as a big brother either.”

That was probably the biggest compliment Dean knew to deal out. But that he had said it, weighed just as much as what he had said. It meant that Dean trusted him with the knowledge that he had liked to have someone who took care of him.

Of course next time Dean passed him, he used Sam's absentmindedness to catch him in a headlock and give him an openhanded noogie, tousling his hair beyond saving.

“You know I feel much more connected with my inner child now,” Dean made sure Sam was not too encouraged to bring up the topic anytime soon.

“More your inner asshole,” Sam shook his hair out and just in time managed to put his hands up before Dean could snap a photo of him with his phone.

“Oh come on, Sammy, you look cute like that. Better than the one with the spoon.”

Dean had showed this picture to girls, in bars, in good faith to get Sam laid like that. Or himself, Dean wasn't that picky.

Dean tried to take another picture.

“You know that I could take that phone from you, if I wanted.”

“Please, you couldn't even put clothes on me when I was six until I took pity on you and clothed myself,” Dean distorted the events.

Oh, it's so on, he thought before he got up to wrestle that stupid phone from his stupid older brother.

They were caught by the maid like that: In a tangle of limbs on the floor, the phone scattered out of reach and Dean refusing to cry uncle.

The maid was somewhere around fifty.

Of all the times to forget to hang the do not disturb sign.

“It's what looks like,” Dean coughed up from under him, “He is trying to rape me!”

In Dean's defense he probably hadn't been able to see how startled that woman had been before he had said that.

Now she was clearly horrified.

For some reason the look on her face reminded Sam of that police officer who had fallen prey to one of Jess' practical jokes. The memory made him break out in laughter – how she had almost had gotten them arrested, but-

Dean's leg slipped his hold and he tried to flip them over. Sam was quicker. As if he didn't know that as soon as he laughed, Dean would try something.

It took three seconds to get Dean under control again and when Sam looked up, he saw, that the maid had started to back away from the scene.

Dammit- “Wait, it's not- he is my older brother and an idiot” Sam told her, “And he took an embarrassing photo of me, that's why-”

“I believe you,” she said, but frowned now at Dean who was chuckling into the carpet.

“Could you be so kind to pick up his phone and maybe-?” he wondered if she knew how, “Can you delete the picture?”

She walked past them, gingerly so, as if she expected them to move any second, and did pick up the phone.

She seemed to know how to view the photo.

She smiled.

She bit her lip. Snapped the phone shut, put the towels on the bed and the phone on top of them. And she left.

Without deleting it!

“She didn't delete it, right?” Dean asked smug.

“Eat mites!”

“You were much nicer to me,” Dean huffed into the dirt, “When I was smaller than you.”

“You are smaller than me,” he managed to point out before Dean put his preternaturally flexible hips to use and flipped them, shouting his victory.

Sam let him have it. They may didn't have snow angels anymore, but they had this and this was probably the closest to innocence they would ever get again.