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Sam was acting different. Even more so than his usual weird, geeky self. Dean watched him with tight eyes, hunched over the side of the lumpy motel bed. This morning, Sam had asked for Lucky Charms. Not avocado toast, or oatmeal, or whatever health food crap he regularly consumed. Dean looked at him like he had just sprouted another head and laid eggs, and Sam just looked back with those big brown eyes. Dean walked to the corner store to buy milk and the sugary cereal.
When he got back, Sam was already at the table, spoon in hand. He wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, maybe scream too, but the smile on his baby brother’s face made his throat clog. It’d been so long.
“Here you go, kid. Don’t say I never did somethin’ for you.” Dean sat the box down and cleared his throat.
“Thanks Dean!” Sam honest to god bounced in his seat, his voice higher than normal.
Dean pushed out a grunt of acknowledgement.
Now, from where he sat, Sam looked so young. He was making a terrible mess, milk dripping from his chin onto his shirt. He shoveled the cereal in his mouth eagerly and Dean couldn’t help but want to clean it off.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was spinning and he felt dizzy with some sick, lovely feeling that he wanted to bury deep inside.
“Dean? Are you okay?” Sam asked over a mouthful of mush.
“Yeah, Sammy. I’m alright.” Dean sure as hell tried to sound like it.
Sam hummed and picked the bowl up to slurp all the milk. He set the bowl down with a thud and wiped the milk off his lips with the back of his hand, ignoring the trail snaking down his chin. Dean sighed, pushing off the bed with a grim determination and stomped over to the kitchenette. He tore a paper towel from the roll, gripping Sam’s chin with a gentleness that betrayed his hard-set expression.
“Have some manners, Sammy. You’ve got milk all over you.” Dean scrubbed his chin.
“ M’sorry Da- Dean.” Sam babbled.
Dean froze, the wet paper towel slipping from his grasp. Okay, something’s definitely wrong. He thought, his mind chugging and stalling. Sam acted like he was shedding years by the minute, his movements and speech becoming more childlike. Could it be some weird curse or spell?
“Sam,” he swallowed thickly. “How old are you?”
Sam raised six fingers, one on the right and five on the left, looking awfully proud of himself.
“I’m six!” He preened.
Well, shit. Dean sucked in a breath through clenched teeth.
“Good job. You’re a smart boy.” He said weakly.
Sam grinned all bashful, and dropped his head to hide his eyes. Dean ran a hand through his hair. For all those years of being a messed up mother-father-brother for Sam, he felt rusty. He hasn’t had to take care of a kid in years. Of course, he was a kid too, back then.
Though secretly, or not so, he felt a mind- melting joy. Here he was, by the grace of whatever’s out there, and he gets a redo. A second chance to take care of Sam. They can be a family again.
His now six year old brother squirmed impatiently, making him realize he was holding Sam still the whole time.
“Can I get up now? Wanna play.” Sam kicked his feet as if they weren’t attached to mile long legs.
“Not so fast, kiddo. You need to put some real clothes on.” Dean grunted as sternly as he could, while smiling like an idiot.
This felt good.
“Wha’s wrong with my clothes?” Sam blinked.
“Well bud, you’ve got milk all over them.” Dean said more gently. “And you’ve been wearing them since yesterday.” He tacked on.
Sam nodded wisely, and hopped up from the stool he was perched on so quickly he left it wobbling. Dean watched him sift through his duffel bag for clean clothes. He wanted to be concerned, with how easy this was, how unbothered he really felt by it. He knows he should be freaking out, searching for a cure or fix. But truthfully, Dean needs this, whatever it is. So does Sam.
Sam hopped on one foot, trying fruitlessly to get his leg into a pair of jeans. His tongue played peekaboo from the corner of his mouth. Cute, Dean mused.
“Need some help, Sammy?”
He furrowed his brow, ignoring Dean’s voice with the expertise of not paying attention that only toddlers possess.
Now he was worming his way into a shirt, which Dean noticed was an old one of his, a ratty Metallica tee. Foregoing the pants, it seems, as he stood in briefs with the jeans pooled around his ankles.
Dean rolled his eyes, amused and only a little exasperated. A T-shirt and briefs would do fine, he decided. A quick glance out the window revealed it was starting to rain anyway, fat droplets racing like slugs down the glass.
Sam succeeded in wrangling his gangly limbs into the shirt and stood rocking on the balls of his feet.
“Alright kid. It’s raining, so we’re shit out of luck in the realm of playing outside.” Dean watched Sam’s expression carefully.
Sam’s lips formed a damn good pout. “But that’s not fair. I wanna play outside!”
Dean rubbed his face to keep from grinning again. “That’s too bad, Sammy. I can’t risk you getting sick from being out in the rain.”
The floor groaned from a heavy stomp. “That’s not fair!” Sam growled.
Now Dean wasn’t feeling so charitable.
“Sam.” He warned.
“Dean.” Sam blew a wet raspberry.
Dean was already crossing the floor before he could regret his decision, and gripped the back of Sam’s shirt to sit him firmly on the bed. Sam howled like he had been branded with a hot iron, flailing his long arms and legs. He put up a fight all the way down, in typical Sam fashion. Fortunately, Dean had many years of little brother wrangling under his belt, and quickly subdued him.
“Sam. That was very disrespectful.” Dean spoke slowly.
Sam wiggled, studying the peeling wallpaper as if it housed the Mona Lisa.
“Look at me.” Dean snapped.
Sam’s throat clicked and he looked up at his big brother with dewy eyes.
Damn it. Dean felt his resolve melting into hazel puddles. He must be getting soft in the ancient age of his twenties.
“Listen. I expect you to apologize, and look at me while you’re doing it.” He steeled himself.
Sam nodded like a bobblehead.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Dean nearly doubled over.
“It’s alright, Sammy.” He continued, winded, “How about we find a movie to watch instead?”
Sam lit up, firecracker bright and scrambled to the ugly loveseat in front of the TV. He was delightfully uncoordinated and Dean filed that memory away for later. Sam flopped down and grabbed the old fat remote, eyes skittering across the screen hopefully.
“Make some room for me, squirt.” Dean wedged himself between his boy and the tattered loveseat arm.
Really, there was nowhere for Sam to go, so he perched himself happily on his big brother's knee. He wiggled until his back was snug to Dean’s chest, and their legs intertwined. Sam sighed like he’d never been more satisfied, and Dean wrapped his calloused paw around his baby’s waist.
“Look, De! Lion King!”
“Hell yeah. Turn it on, bud.” Dean shifted. “Wait, I'll be back. Gotta get somethin’ real quick.”
Sam scowled when Dean moved him off his lap. The dirty motel couch wasn’t comfortable at all in comparison. He crossed his arms and listened to the clinking of bottles rolling around the empty fridge, and Dean’s bare feet on the wooly carpet.
“Let’s get this party started.” Dean returned, beer in hand.
Sam clicked play and crawled back into his rightful place on his daddy’s lap. Dean pulled a deep drag from the bottle, smacking his lips. He could get used to this. Definitely.
“Can I have some?” Sam raised his brow, nodding towards the beer.
Dean glared, no real heat behind it. As if. “Nope. You’re too young.”
That seemed to please Sam despite his frown, and he turned back to watch the movie, snuggling deeper against the solid chest behind him. Technicolor glow colored his little cheeks so pretty, and his too long hair tickled Dean’s chin. Dean never was one to count blessings. He didn’t have many. At least that’s what he used to think. But he’d never felt so lucky as he did now, sweet boy in his lap, safe and sound. Yeah, it was odd. His twenty-something brother waking up six years old. But they knew odd better than anyone, and who was he to question it? He’d roll with whatever Sammy needed.
A whip crack of thunder shook the room a bit, rain pattering heavier behind the curtains, and Sam curled up quick, toes around Dean’s calf and his knees bunched.
“Scared ya?” Dean murmured into his hair.
“Mhm.”
“Daddy’s got you. ‘Sides, you’re a brave boy.” Dean squeezed his skinny elbow.
Sam beamed, relaxed now, little pearls of teeth shining behind his lips. He was all jelly, loose and warm unfurled in Dean’s hands. Simba was singing and it sounded far away next to the hum of Sam’s breath in his chest.
“That’s it.” Dean pecked his hairline, beer breath fanning over Sam’s face, comforting. “I’ve got you.”