![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: lil-i-pyooh-shuhn
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Fandom: SPN
By:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kellifer_fic
Category: Gen
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Dean was pawing through rubble, his breathing ragged. He didn’t care about taking skin off his palms or possibly losing a nail. None of it mattered because somewhere under the detritus was Sam, stupid asshole that he was.
Dean chanted variations on the same theme as he dug, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that at any moment he was going to be hit between the shoulder blades by the witch that was still alive.
Sam would kick his butt for that.
Nothing mattered though. Not until he had an armful of warm and alive, bleeding but bitching Sam to haul free. Then he’d go and shoot the bitch full of cayenne pepper or whatever the hell the red stuff they loaded the shotguns with was that the old man, Jeebs, not Jeeves, do I look like a goddamn butler to you, handed them.
Stupid ass, Dean gasped. Jumping in the way being all heroic and… stupid.
Dean could never come up with the good insults when he was well and truly panicked.
What had really got him desperate was the garbled Latin he’d heard the woman incant right before the sickly green bolt had arced from her fingers like a bad Hollywood special effect. Dean understood a word or three and he was pretty sure being hit with something that had the words fragment and undo couldn’t be good for a guy’s health. He clamped viciously down on the little voice in his head that was telling him that he was going to find nothing but a pile of flattened out clothes, still warm from their prior occupant.
Dean’s fingers hit something that was more yielding than the rock but less yielding than the clumps of dirt and he grabbed for it, hauling backwards with all his weight. Sam’s jacket came free of the pile. Dean shook it out for a hysterical second, as if maybe Sam would actually fall out of it and was surprised as hell when he did.
“Well, hell,” Dean said, looking down at his brother for the first time in about six years.
000
Sam was unconscious and tiny and Dean was standing in the middle of a crater and wondering just what the hell he was going to do. He cupped his brother gingerly, for all the world feeling like he was holding a tiny bird, rapid heartbeat and everything.
He’d held Sam up to his ear like a shell on the beach just to check.
000
Sam was pretty pissed about being put in an empty cassette case for safekeeping when he woke up.
Dean tried valiantly not to laugh at the outraged helium-high voice that Sam was trying to berate him with but he was only human.
000
Sam paced the motel room table, rubbing his head. Every time he passed behind Dean’s water glass he got momentarily bigger like a hall of mirrors.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dean snapped when he thought he could hold the laughter in long enough to be mad at his dumbass little brother.
“I was thinking that you were going to die,” Sam exclaimed, throwing up his tiny arms in dismay. The movement must have given him more surface area or something because the breeze from the fan that had been the only thing circulating the air in the stifling room picked Sam up and tossed him over the edge of the table.
Dean had a moment when his heart was slowing back from heart attack speed to mentally thank his father for his quick reflexes as he set Sam carefully back on the table and then leaned over to switch the fan off.
“You’re such a blockhead,” Dean complained.
000
Dean paced the room, sat on one of the beds, did another lap and then sat again. All the while skirting the mound of hoodies and t-shirts set next to the radiator. Sam was sprawled on top of the makeshift bed working his was through a single tiny corner of hamburger that was currently as big as his head.
People mostly associated Dean with an insatiable appetite but Sam had his moments and this was one of them. It helped that currently he would be able to practically sleep on an Oreo cookie with room to spare.
Dean rubbed a hand over his head, cast about the room, hands clenching and then sighed.
“We're calling Bobby.”
000
Okay, so maybe the need for hysterical laughter hadn't quite passed.
Not when he was holding one of Sam's minuscule shoes pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
"Just... give it back," Sam opined, looking at his socked foot so tragically that it was really hard to resist. Dean managed it though, knowing that years of training to resist the puppy-eyes had benefits.
Dean lifted an arm over his head, shoe held aloft. "Come and get it, short stack."
"Dean!" Sam snapped, sounding enraged but Dean had been waiting for this for years.
"Payback's a bitch."
000
"Freddie Barnes has a lead on your witch. As soon as she's done the spell should break," Bobby said. Dean hated leaving cleanup to another hunter but the Winchester boys were not really in a position to go off hunting. For one thing, Dean wasn't really used to the very real fear that his brother could be squished like a bug.
"Thanks Bobby, I appreciate it," Dean said.
"Just do me one favor," Bobby said, sounding gruff and serious.
"Anything. You know that," Dean immediately responded but a moment later he realised that Bobby's voice sounded funny because he was really trying not to laugh.
"Just... take a picture for me. Of Sam. Maybe next to something so I can get some perspective," Bobby managed before he couldn't talk anymore and Dean hung up on him.
000
So Dean knew that he should probably mock Sam for years about falling asleep in his breast pocket, but, well...
He was totally not getting choked up about it.
They just never had to mention it.
Ever.
000
"Dude, you keep doing that and I'm going to stick suction cups on your hands and feet," Dean warned.
Sam prised himself away from the Impala's windshield with a guilty little grin.
000
Dean lost Sam exactly six times.
He figured at least five of those times were because Sam hid, probably to pay him back for the first time.
It wasn't exactly like he'd turned the garbage disposal on or anything and he totally denies knocking Sam into the sink in the first place.
000
Sam returned to normal size with no warning.
"Geroffme," Dean squeaked, head mashed into the mattress by one of Sam's elbows.
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG (Language)
Fandom: SPN
By:
kellifer_ficCategory: Gen
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Written for entertainment purposes only. No money, no sue.
Dean was pawing through rubble, his breathing ragged. He didn’t care about taking skin off his palms or possibly losing a nail. None of it mattered because somewhere under the detritus was Sam, stupid asshole that he was.
Dean chanted variations on the same theme as he dug, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that at any moment he was going to be hit between the shoulder blades by the witch that was still alive.
Sam would kick his butt for that.
Nothing mattered though. Not until he had an armful of warm and alive, bleeding but bitching Sam to haul free. Then he’d go and shoot the bitch full of cayenne pepper or whatever the hell the red stuff they loaded the shotguns with was that the old man, Jeebs, not Jeeves, do I look like a goddamn butler to you, handed them.
Stupid ass, Dean gasped. Jumping in the way being all heroic and… stupid.
Dean could never come up with the good insults when he was well and truly panicked.
What had really got him desperate was the garbled Latin he’d heard the woman incant right before the sickly green bolt had arced from her fingers like a bad Hollywood special effect. Dean understood a word or three and he was pretty sure being hit with something that had the words fragment and undo couldn’t be good for a guy’s health. He clamped viciously down on the little voice in his head that was telling him that he was going to find nothing but a pile of flattened out clothes, still warm from their prior occupant.
Dean’s fingers hit something that was more yielding than the rock but less yielding than the clumps of dirt and he grabbed for it, hauling backwards with all his weight. Sam’s jacket came free of the pile. Dean shook it out for a hysterical second, as if maybe Sam would actually fall out of it and was surprised as hell when he did.
“Well, hell,” Dean said, looking down at his brother for the first time in about six years.
Sam was unconscious and tiny and Dean was standing in the middle of a crater and wondering just what the hell he was going to do. He cupped his brother gingerly, for all the world feeling like he was holding a tiny bird, rapid heartbeat and everything.
He’d held Sam up to his ear like a shell on the beach just to check.
Sam was pretty pissed about being put in an empty cassette case for safekeeping when he woke up.
Dean tried valiantly not to laugh at the outraged helium-high voice that Sam was trying to berate him with but he was only human.
Sam paced the motel room table, rubbing his head. Every time he passed behind Dean’s water glass he got momentarily bigger like a hall of mirrors.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Dean snapped when he thought he could hold the laughter in long enough to be mad at his dumbass little brother.
“I was thinking that you were going to die,” Sam exclaimed, throwing up his tiny arms in dismay. The movement must have given him more surface area or something because the breeze from the fan that had been the only thing circulating the air in the stifling room picked Sam up and tossed him over the edge of the table.
Dean had a moment when his heart was slowing back from heart attack speed to mentally thank his father for his quick reflexes as he set Sam carefully back on the table and then leaned over to switch the fan off.
“You’re such a blockhead,” Dean complained.
Dean paced the room, sat on one of the beds, did another lap and then sat again. All the while skirting the mound of hoodies and t-shirts set next to the radiator. Sam was sprawled on top of the makeshift bed working his was through a single tiny corner of hamburger that was currently as big as his head.
People mostly associated Dean with an insatiable appetite but Sam had his moments and this was one of them. It helped that currently he would be able to practically sleep on an Oreo cookie with room to spare.
Dean rubbed a hand over his head, cast about the room, hands clenching and then sighed.
“We're calling Bobby.”
Okay, so maybe the need for hysterical laughter hadn't quite passed.
Not when he was holding one of Sam's minuscule shoes pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
"Just... give it back," Sam opined, looking at his socked foot so tragically that it was really hard to resist. Dean managed it though, knowing that years of training to resist the puppy-eyes had benefits.
Dean lifted an arm over his head, shoe held aloft. "Come and get it, short stack."
"Dean!" Sam snapped, sounding enraged but Dean had been waiting for this for years.
"Payback's a bitch."
"Freddie Barnes has a lead on your witch. As soon as she's done the spell should break," Bobby said. Dean hated leaving cleanup to another hunter but the Winchester boys were not really in a position to go off hunting. For one thing, Dean wasn't really used to the very real fear that his brother could be squished like a bug.
"Thanks Bobby, I appreciate it," Dean said.
"Just do me one favor," Bobby said, sounding gruff and serious.
"Anything. You know that," Dean immediately responded but a moment later he realised that Bobby's voice sounded funny because he was really trying not to laugh.
"Just... take a picture for me. Of Sam. Maybe next to something so I can get some perspective," Bobby managed before he couldn't talk anymore and Dean hung up on him.
So Dean knew that he should probably mock Sam for years about falling asleep in his breast pocket, but, well...
He was totally not getting choked up about it.
They just never had to mention it.
Ever.
"Dude, you keep doing that and I'm going to stick suction cups on your hands and feet," Dean warned.
Sam prised himself away from the Impala's windshield with a guilty little grin.
Dean lost Sam exactly six times.
He figured at least five of those times were because Sam hid, probably to pay him back for the first time.
It wasn't exactly like he'd turned the garbage disposal on or anything and he totally denies knocking Sam into the sink in the first place.
Sam returned to normal size with no warning.
"Geroffme," Dean squeaked, head mashed into the mattress by one of Sam's elbows.
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Just one thing though. mound of jumpers and t-shirts. You're British aren't you? They're sweaters here.