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Dean learned a lot about Sam during the few weeks after his concussion: when he needed to regress (after a really bad hunt or when he was really tired), how to encourage him to regress (lots of pet names and lots of praise), what he liked when he was regressed (cuddles and kisses), and what he didn’t like when he was regressed (mean jokes that went on too long and when Dean messed up his hair). The most interesting tidbit that Dean figured out about regressed Sam, though, was that it was a lot easier to get him to eat.
Dean had of course noticed his brother’s little eating thing; it had been going on since they were teenagers. He never pressed about it, though, because Sam seemed mostly okay. So what if he only wanted to eat salad? At least he was eating something, right?
Little did Dean know just how much better Sam could be. Seeing him eat uninhibited was really, really nice. Dean hadn’t realized how much he missed it.
It was early in the morning when Dean’s bed dipped with the weight of Sam. They were in some motel in Iowa; they’d just taken care of an easy salt and burn last night.
Dean rubbed his eyes and stared at Sam. He was still getting used to the whole having-his-baby-brother-back thing, as well the having-his-baby-brother-back thing, and the early hour didn’t help.
Sam, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed, kneeling on the bed and blinking down at Dean. “Hungry,” he announced.
Dean suppressed a groan, throwing his arm over his eyes. That was one thing he didn’t miss about their childhood: having to help Sam with simple tasks like feeding or dressing himself.
He immediately hated himself after thinking that. He felt honored, really, that Sam still trusted him for that kind of stuff. He was regressing more and more easily recently. He did it this time all on his own. It was just so damn early!
He removed his arm from his eyes to see Sam still in the same position. “What time’s it, Sammy?” he mumbled.
“Don’ know. Food time.” Sam pressed his hands down on Dean’s chest. “Up.”
“Okay, fine.” Dean slowly sat himself up and ran a hand through his hair. Now that he was more awake, he could actually appreciate Sam taking the initiative to eat—and he wouldn’t be eating rabbit food either. A soft smile overtook his face as he got up off the bed, Sam following close behind. “Just goin’ to the bathroom, bud.”
Sam said, “‘Kay,” but he kept walking.
Dean turned around to face Sam. “That means you can’t follow me in.”
“Oh.” Sam deflated, stood still. “Oops. Forgot.”
Dean offered him a small smile and pet his head (awkwardly because Sam was taller than him now, carefully so as to not mess up his hair). “‘S’okay, kiddo. I’ll be quick.”
•
Regressed Sam may not have a problem with going out in public, but Dean knew that big Sam would be mortified if he let that happen. But he also didn’t really want to leave him alone in the motel room, so he made him promise not to do or say anything “weird” while they ordered their food from the diner—to go, of course.
And Sam had been such a good boy, standing quietly behind Dean, not even trying to hold his hand or anything. He got rewarded with a cheek kiss when they got back to the car with their food (delicious, fat stacks of pancakes for both of them, no salad in sight), which caused Sam to giggle.
Back at the motel, they sat at the table to eat. Sam stuck his little tongue out the side of his mouth, dimples in full force, as he carefully drizzled his syrup over his pancakes. Adorable. Dean dug out another one of the tiny syrup containers and poured it over his own pancakes.
“Yummy,” Sam said, biting into his food.
Dean couldn’t resist watching. Sam seemed so carefree. No “Do you have any idea how many calories are in that thing, Dean?” or “That’s disgusting, Dean. That’s so unhealthy.”
Maybe it was wrong for Dean to let Sam stuff himself with food he normally wouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. His little brother was a gigantor, and someone of his size needed to eat more than he did. This was good. This could help him. That’s what age regression was all about, right?
Dean had continued his research about it. As he understood it, people who age regressed usually had some sort of trauma, which totally tracked for Sam. It was a coping mechanism. And it seemed like a good one, too. At least, it was better than what Dean did; bottle up his feelings and go bottoms up on bottles of alcohol.
Sam eventually caught on to Dean’s staring, and gave him an inquisitive look. He was the god damn picture of innocence, and Dean just wanted to protect him. Protect him from himself, if he had to.
“It’s nothing, Sammy. Eat your food.”
And he did.