Chapter Text
When it comes to the scale of their criminal behaviors, Emma is like Aladdin nicking people's watermelons and Claire is like that dude who stole the Declaration of Independence.
"Seriously?" Claire says when Emma shares this simile with her. "Of all the thieves in pop culture, you had to compare me to one played by Nicolas Cage?"
"I guess we could be Bonnie and Clyde," Emma says thoughtfully, and Claire mutters something about Catwoman, to which Emma coughs under her breath that Claire is more like Doc Ock, and Claire kicks her in the shin, goes back to looking out the cab window for the address on the paper she's clutching. It's started to drizzle, and the water streaks against the windows, making it hard to see the street signs in the darkness.
Their timetable is tight. The end-of-conference banquet Dad and Cas left for twenty minutes ago will only go until nine-thirty, at the latest, though they've probably got some leeway since Cas was one of the key presenters at the conference and people will doubtless want to talk to him. It would be nice if they could trust that Cas and Dad would just take the elevator up to their own hotel room and have sex like normal parents do when on a weekend trip, but the chances of that are like, nil, considering Dean's the most overprotective parent ever to have existed since, like, ever, and will insist on coming to make sure Claire and Emma are "doing okay" in their hotel room--i.e., still in the hotel room, as opposed to out playing sexually-charged games of chicken in the hotel's indoor pool with those Argentinean tourists who were checking them out in the lobby this afternoon.
Which, okay, not that Emma would have been there anyway. Friday night is Cult night, and that's probably the only reasons Dad didn't insist on them coming to the dinner with him and Cas. Emma's obsession with Cult is a well-known (if not entirely well-respected) quirk of their household, rather like Cas's penchant for music by Chicago or Claire's tendency to chew on orange peels when she's stressed. Everyone in the family, including J.B., understands that trying to get between Emma and a new episode of Cult has about the same survival rate as the characters who show up in the first five minutes of a Criminal Minds episode.
Apparently Claire thinks she's an exception to the rule, though, because the minute their door had slicked shut behind Dad and Cas, who had swung by for wardrobe approval before heading down to the banquet (and good thing they had, because Cas's tie had been backward, and Emma was pretty sure Dad had been going to let him go up on stage with it like that, if the way he'd been grinning was any indication), she'd said, "Come on" and smacked Emma's foot.
Emma had squawked and looked up from where she was sprawled on the bed to watch Billy and his family. She had a jumbo marshmallow from the bag she'd brought in her suitcase halfway to her mouth, but she'd pulled it down so she could make a face at Claire that said, huh? and also, shut up, Claire, it's about to start.
Claire rolled her eyes and grabbed Emma's ankles, dragging her off the bed.
"What're you doing?" Emma screeched, clawing at the duvet to keep herself from being dragged off. "My show!"
Never let anyone tell you Claire doesn't play dirty, because she totally jabbed Emma in the armpit to make her let go of the duvet--which she did, with a shriek. "We've got stuff to do. C'mon, this'll be on Hulu by, like, three a.m."
"I don't wanna watch it at 3 a.m., I wanna watch it now--" Emma made a feint for the bed, hitting Claire in the face with her bag of marshmallows. Maybe if she hadn't eaten so many of them already it would have been a more effective weapon, but three-quarters empty it really wasn't, and also Claire played dirty again by targeting the belly button ring no one was supposed to know Emma had.
By the end of the scuffle, Emma had found herself shoved into her boots and coat and shivering on the curb outside the hotel as they waited for a taxi.
"What are we even doing?" she ground out, shoving her hands in her armpits.
Claire did one of those really cool sharp whistle things people always do in the New York movies to flag down cabs. It was kind of really cool, and Emma put a gloved hand over her mouth like she was coughing to cover her mouth as she tried to curl her tongue, too. Her attempt was cut off by a taxi pulling slushily in front of them.
"Cas's birthday is coming up," Claire had said as she motioned Emma into the cab. "We're getting his present."
- o -
The cab stops in front of some kind of coffee shop-slash-antique store. It's on the corner of a dark street that seems to consist mostly of restaurants--a seafood place, a Chinese one with a neon "Budweiser sign" glowing behind window bars, and an Italian place with paper lanterns strung across its awning--and empty office spaces, including one advertising a $75 divorce attorney.
"You always bring me to the nicest places," Emma says as Claire pays the driver.
"It was the only divorce lawyer I could afford," Claire says, dry, and Emma cracks up as they climb out of the car, her laughter making white clouds in the cold air.
Behind their creepy wrought iron bars, the windows of the coffee shop are papered over. Emma takes her fingers out of her coat pockets, tenses as Claire leads the way to the door. "You know what this place is?"
Claire quirks her a half smile over her shoulder. "Well, it's not an antique shop," is all she says. Which makes more sense than it doesn't, since despite being a millennia-old being, Castiel is actually more up on modern technology than Dad, who still insists on his record player and car from 1967 and phone that flips open instead of a touch-screen like normal human beings. He gets intrigued in Radio Shacks and Best Buys, while Dad's the one who insists they pull over when they see yard sales to see if they have anything cool. It's weird.
But anyway. What is this place, if it's not an antique store-cum-coffee shop?
Heh. Cum.
Claire pushes through the papered-over door. Emma hurries to follow her inside, grabbing the edge of the door as it tries to shut after Claire, heavier than she expected. It slams behind them with a jingle of bells.
Inside, the place does look like a coffee shop, though a dead one--there's only one customer, a man sitting at a rickety table near a door plastered with a BATHROOM sign. The cashier/barista/whatever is actually lying on the countertop, kicking her feet in the air as she reads a yellow-paged paperback.
They both look up, eyes narrowed, and Emma's got to be imagining it that they relax slightly when they see her, right? Has to be imagining the way the man's nostrils twitch the slightest bit?
Claire strides past them both like they're not there and shoves open the door that says bathroom. Inside, there's a short hallway of grungy cracked tile like the bathroom in the cafeteria at school, and then a second door, which she also pushes through. Emma follows her, crowding a little closer on her heels than she'd feel comfortable admitting to afterward, and steps into a really, really big room--like, warehouse-sized, with the way-high ceiling and everything--full of people.
Emma's never been to a school dance before. She scoffs at them, had stayed home sulking in November when David Goldstein asked Claire to Homecoming, and joined Dad in his vocal complaints about the complete stupidity of something like school dances, and accepted the mug of mocha hot chocolate Cas made for each them (which she was pretty sure he had spiked in Dad's case, because Dad had just sort of gotten sloppy and affectionate after that, and Emma had gone up to her room to escape the goopiness because it was one thing to read fic about sexual tension and another thing to sit right next to it, ugh). But she imagines that this is what a school dance would be like, a bunch of glamorous-looking people gathered around talking to each other and ignoring you, except for the ones who stared at you with unimpressed faces that say I cannot believe you had the nerve to show up here, what do you think you're doing, you little gnat.
Because these people? Standing together at what looks like a bar running around the left edge of the room, or gathered around what look like gaming tables to the right, or doing what looks like dancing toward the other end of the room? They exude the sense of being better than her, and knowing it. But there's more than that, there's something...off, here.
She catches a glimpse of too-sharp teeth, and catches a scent of something that has the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, and turns immediately to grab Claire's arm. But Claire's already set off across the room, striding long and easy like she owns the place. Like she's not the only human in a building full of people who are anything but--including Emma.
Biting down hard on her cheek, Emma lopes to catch up with her, not quite managing to resist the urge to press her shoulder against Claire's. She feels exposed; along with the hairs rising on her neck there are thoughts rising in her head: what if Mom's here, what if someone recognizes what I am, what if they're looking because they know?
"What the hell are we going here, Claire," she sing-songs nervously in Claire's ear, eyes on the people watching them.
Claire doesn't bother to glance up at her, just pats Emma's hand. "You really think I would let anything happen to you?" she says as she closes her hand around Emma's. Emma may or may not get a little squirmy warm feeling that is promptly ruined by Claire continuing, "Dean and Cas would kill me."
Emma huffs and pulls her hand back. "Since when are you the big sister? If anyone's keeping anyone out of trouble, it's me doing it for you."
Claire smiles, pats Emma's head, which makes her growl, and the sound is echoed by something near her feet. She looks down, sees a black and brown dog looking up at them with dark liquid eyes.
"Portia?" Claire says, raising a brow.
The dog yips, begins to trot away. Claire follows it, and Emma follows Claire, thinking that if Claire's planning to get Cas a dog for his birthday she should maybe think again because she's pretty sure Dad's kind of scared of them, though she's not sure why.
The dog leads them to a private little circle of sofas in the back of the room, before a small fireplace. There's a man sitting there, lithe and dark-haired. Emma thinks it's Cas for a split second before her nose tells her otherwise: This man smells of cologne and coconut and the musty-wet smell of the dog that hops up onto the couch beside him.
He turns his head as they approach. Emma edges slightly in front of Claire, ignores the look Claire shoots her. "Hi."
"Hi," he says back, brow creasing. His eyes are very dark, practically demon-dark, but there's no trace of sulfur in his scent. "You're here to buy?"
Emma's about to say buy what when she blinks, and suddenly the dog next to the man is gone and it's a woman sitting next to him instead. A really hot woman, with the same liquid eyes as the dog.
"Claire," she says, and sticks out a hand, reaching past Emma. "A pleasure to finally meet in person."
Claire nods. "Portia. Do you have what I ordered?"
Portia's eyes are sliding past Claire to Emma. A little smile slips onto her lips as she looks at her, her nose twitching like she's trying to catch a scent. Emma shifts her feet, resists the urge to look away. In the back of her mind she's panicking, wondering if this shapeshifter is recognizing her, if somehow she knows Emma's mom and has recognized a resemblance. Emma can't really remember what Lydia looks like anymore, she was so young when she last saw her, and she's only seen the picture of Dean's mom once, when she sneaked in to look at it when Dad was away helping Garth on a hunt, so she's not sure what of her features is Winchester and what is...whatever Lydia's last name was. She could be her mom's spitting image and not know it, but those aren't really useful thoughts right now, Emma, get your head in the game.
"You do know there's this thing called women's suffrage, right?" she hears herself blurt out. "What's with the collar?"
The woman's curious look becomes patronizing; she rolls her eyes as she looks away from Emma back to Claire, and Emma kinda hates that, feeling dismissed, but it's a feeling she's gotten used to her whole life, pretending not to be something she is so she doesn't get noticed, and hurt.
"Charming paramour you have there," Portia says to Claire, who doesn't correct her, just says, "The powder?"
"These are our customers?" says Portia's male companion suddenly. "Portia, they're children!"
Portia casts a glance at Emma, more cat-like than canine. "Are they?"
"I didn't come here to chat," Claire says. Her voice is pointed and expectant, the way Cas's gets when Dean hasn't done the dishes like he promised, and Emma smirks despite the situation.
"No, you came for a de-aging spell," Portia says. "Which we're going to give you, and normally I wouldn't ask any questions, but the two of you smell like a very interesting human I used to know."
Claire's eyes narrow, while Emma rolls hers, because seriously, another chick her dad had sex with? "Hate to break it to you, lady, but he's not on the market anymore."
"Apparently not," says Portia, looking at Emma again, and the tilt of her really nice lips is saying that she's definitely about to add something else, but Claire's striding forward impatiently.
"Enough of this," she's saying in exasperation, and reaching for the cloth pouch Emma's only just noticed, that is sitting on the cushion next to the man. "Just give us what we--"
The last thing Emma sees is a flash of really glittery light.
- o -
Dean hadn't been real happy when he found out that Cas had ordered them both the vegetarian meal for the banquet thing, but after seeing the weird and unrecognizable lumps of what was supposedly steak that had gone to the people at their table who had ordered the non-vegetarian meal, he'd been pretty mollified. And now, sucking the taste of the alfredo from Cas's tongue as they for the elevator to reach their floor, he might even be kinda happy about it, because wow, it tastes even better on Cas than it had on his fork.
"Wait," Cas manages to say, and peripherally Dean realizes that the elevator doors have opened behind them. He tries to ignore this and keep kissing Cas, but Cas keeps pushing on his chest and saying, "The girls," so Dean moans and lets his head fall into the crook of Cas's neck as Cas pushes him forward, out of the elevator into the hall.
"I was busy, Cas," he whines as Cas reaches into his blazer for the room key. His breath catches as Cas's hand brushes his nipple through the weirdly textured shirt he and Emma picked out at the mall last weekend for this fancy occasion. He groans, tightens his grip on Cas's hip. "Aren't you the one who's always telling me to stop breathing down their necks?" He perks up, sticks his nose behind Cas's ear. "Hey, speaking of breathing down necks--"
But Cas is stiffening. And a moment later, Dean is stiffening, too, because there's a set of wet marks visible in the dark blue hallway carpet in front of Claire and Emma's room, like the kind a set of slushy boots might have left behind, except the feet are way too big to belong to either of the girls.
They split immediately, Dean going to the far side of the door and Cas staying on the near side. Dean's hand creeps under his blazer to the gun he's never been able to break himself of carrying, and he nods at Cas. Cas slams the door open with the bit of angel mojo he's never quite lost, and Dean darts in, gun trained and steady in front of him.
There's a bark, and Dean's heart freezes in his chest the way it always does, at that sound, and then it's flinging itself into his mouth because holy shit his gun is pointed at two kids.
He's swinging it to point at the carpet with wide eyes, breath knotting in his lungs, and only then, once the safety is clicked back on, does he register the man standing in front of the bed where the two girls and a dog--a fucking dog--are perched.
"The fuck?" tumbles out of his mouth. "James?"
"Dean," says James, and looks apologetic and damn right he better look apologetic because what the fuck is going on?
The dog on the bed leaps off of it, and becomes Portia somewhere in the leap, and Dean's so mad he could spit with it, so mad he's trembling with it, as he surges past her to the two children on the bed because he fucking knows who they are, knows those wide blue eyes of the one and the spider-shaped burn on the wrist of the other.
Claire clings to him as he grabs her and Emma up, one arm going around them while the other shoves his gun back into the back of his jeans. Her little arms go around him, and his insides give a throb of recognition, of Sammy, because even after nearly sixty years he can feel those octopus arms going around him like it was yesterday, and he holds her tighter, lets her burrow her face into his neck as Cas steps inside the room. The collar of his three-piece suit is lopsided and unbuttoned from where Dean was having his way with it before, his hair a mess from Dean's fingers as well, but there's nothing funny about the way he's looking at Portia and James, the threat burning coolly in his eyes as he flicks a glance to Dean where he's got an armful of four-year-olds-that-should-be-sixteen-year-olds.
He doesn't bat an eye, just looks back at Portia and James. "I don't believe we've met."
Portia flashes a smile, takes a step forward. Cas's nose twitches.
Portia stops. "Huh," she says, and her smirk hasn't faltered. Her eyes are knowing now, though, and Dean tightens his grip on the girls. "You don't like dogs, either, do you."
"You are more than a dog," is Cas's reply. "Dean?"
"They're fine," Dean says. "If you call being, like, four years old fine." He feels Emma stiffen but keeps his glare on Portia and James. "You guys have something to do with this?"
"Regrettably," James begins, his brow creased apologetically, but Portia's still smiling, putting a hand on her hip.
"Dean," she says, tilting her head toward Cas, "you haven't introduced us."
"Cas, meet Portia," Dean says. "She's a familiar. James is her witch. We go further back than I'd like." He looks at Portia. "Happy?"
"And who's this?" Portia says, tilting her head at Cas again.
"The motherfucker who's gonna fuck your shit up if you don't fix our kids," Dean snaps, and in retrospect, the "our" sort of gave Portia exactly what she wanted, 'cause now she's grinning like someone just gave her the belly-scratching of the year.
"Oh?" she says, and tilts her head back to look at James as though to say I told you so. "Seems like this should be the part where I say I hadn't pegged you as the type, Dean--except I did." She looks at Cas. "But I can't figure it out--what are you?"
"Dean's husband," Cas says shortly. "What spell did you use on these girls?"
Portia blinks slowly, affecting an offended expression. "We didn't do anything--"
"It was a de-aging spell," James interjects. "They came to buy it from us, God knows why--"
"Since when do you sell spells?" Dean says incredulously.
"Since it pays the bills," Portia retorts. She and Dean stare each other down for a moment until Castiel says, "James. How was it activated?"
"It's a sigil-activated powder." James rubs a hand through his hair. "Usually you draw the sigil in the powder and then ignite it--it has a saltpeter component--and whoever is inside the sigil is regressed to the age specified by the sigil. But your, um--" His eyes flick toward Dean, "daughter grabbed it and, boom. The spell went off."
"Jeez, Emma," Dean mutters, glancing down at her, because it sounds like exactly the sort of fucked-up mess his kid would get herself (and her sister) into. But then he immediately feels guilty, because Emma's tiny face sort of crumples, and she lets go of her handful of Claire's shirt. Shuffling backward on her knees, she crouches on the comforter with her arms curled over her head, and Dean's stomach drops.
Portia's taking a half step forward, growling, before Cas is suddenly in front of her, and she lets out something like a snarl, glares at both of them. "Fuck you. She's not the one who set if off. It was the other one."
"Claire?" says Dean in disbelief as Cas scoops Emma up, ignoring the small sound she makes, and looks at James.
"What is the sigil for the spell?" he demands.
James names the symbol. Dean recognizes it as a modified Enochian character, it means--
Oh. He exchanges a look with Cas, gently uncurling one of Claire's arms from around him. He pushes back her sleeve, revealing the silver bracelet she and Emma both wear, as near of replicas as he had been able to remember of the one he had seen his own mother wearing when he met her in the past.
He taps one of the charms on it, holding it up for James to see. "This one?"
James squints. Sighs. "Yes."
"Should maybe be a little more careful with your spellwork, buddy," Dean says, letting go of Claire's arm and giving her a gentle thank you smile. She eyes him for a moment, then breaks into a smile back, and turns around in his arms to regard the tableau unfolding in front of them. "What do we have to do to reverse it?"
- o -
Apparently James doesn't have a way to reverse it. Of course not. That would've been too easy.
"I can try to find a way to shorten it," James says, still wearing his creased shit I am so sorry, you guys expression. "It's an old spell, I should've researched it better--"
"It's not like we thought the people who were trying to buy it were legit," Portia says. "I figured it was some middle-aged housewife looking to relive her cheerleader years."
"That makes a difference to the level of safety you aspire to in your spellwork?" Cas says mildly. His hand is cupped protectively around the back of Emma's head.
"Like you're such an angel," Portia tosses back. "That kid's scared out of her mind, in case you haven't noticed. What did you two do to her that she doesn't even want to look at you?"
Dean sees red. "Shut the fuck up--"
"Dean," says Cas, and lowers Emma carefully to the ground. She promptly crawls under the bed, silent like some sort of animal, and Dean's heart fucking breaks.
"I will speak to our guests outside," Cas says, and his eyes are soft but hard, too. When he turns them on Portia and James, they both follow him out the door, James shooting an apologetic glance over his shoulder at Dean as he goes and Portia shooting a raw one at the underside of the bed. Dean doesn't see either of them, transferring Claire to his hip and crouching down on one knee to peer at the shape under the bed, ignoring the way his bones creak.
"Emma?" he says, as soft as he can.
The shape doesn't move. He hears her breathing; it's very soft, fast but controlled, reminds him of being on hunts with his dad when he was a kid, flattened against a tree or behind a headstone, struggling not to be heard by monsters creeping through the undergrowth or policemen shining their flashlights across the graveyard.
Claire slides off his hip. She goes onto her knees, sticking her head right up against the bed frame.
"Emma," she says, and it's the first time Dean's heard either of them talk, in this form, and in any other situation he might have laughed because Claire sounds so bossy.
She crawls under the bed without say anything else, a tiny Conversed foot--because apparently whatever that spell was, it shrunk their clothes with them--kicking him in the knee as she scoots herself forward. He hears a giggle, then an angry sound, then a scuffle, and a thump, like someone's hit their head, and a wail. It breaks off pretty quickly, and Claire's high-pitched voice goes, "There, there, it's okay, see? See, Emma?"
And sniffling noises, and Dean's sort of blinking, hand braced against the bed frame, and that's how Cas finds them when he comes back in, shutting the door carefully behind him.
Dean shoves to his feet, doesn't quite manage it because apparently his leg muscles cramp a lot faster than they used to, and settles for thumping back onto his butt instead, on the carpet next to the bed. At Cas's arched eyebrow, he says, "They're both under here now," and points with his chin at the bed. Cas nods in comprehension and comes to sit beside him, sighing.
Dean keeps his voice low, which is pretty dumb, considering they're like twelve inches away from the girls. "What's the verdict?"
"You aren't going to like it."
"Kind of used to worst case scenarios, by now," Dean says, staring at the dark space under the bed and remembering the burn on Emma's wrist. It had been a bright, angry red, like it had just been seared there, instead of the faded white mark it had been for as long as he'd known her. "Hit me."
"There was moonstone in the powder," Cas says. "It is intended to operate on lunar cycles, which means it will most likely last until the new moon two weeks from now."
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "And James doesn't have a way to shorten it?"
"He is going to look," says Cas darkly, and the he knows what will happen to him if he doesn't is strongly implied by the octave Cas's voice reaches.
Dean rubs his nose a little bit more and leans into Cas's shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.
They are so fucked.