SPN - Gen, Reverse Polarity!
Title: Reverse Polarity!
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5000
Spoilers: None
Summary: A few weeks before he turns thirty, Dean thinks he's getting younger.
Disclaimer: All characters herein are the property of Kripke et al and CW network. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: WARNING: EXTREME CUTE. MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH. Thanks to shitbegangsta for making this story awesome, even though she's never seen canon. Look out for bonus cameos from Ellen and Bobby! :D

Constructive criticism welcome!

--

As it turns out, Sam really should start listening to Dean more often.

Trouble is, most of the shit Dean comes out with is along the lines of "check out the ass on her", or "I could totally eat a 72-oz steak", and sometimes "Dude, free porn!" All in all, Sam thinks he should be forgiven for not having total faith in every dumbass, throwaway comment Dean makes.

Right now Dean's spent the last fifteen minutes staring at himself in the mirror and downright refusing to get out of the bathroom, even though Sam is dying to take a pee. He's about to storm in there and kill Dean, or maybe just pee on him, when the door opens and Dean struts out looking irritatingly proud of himself.

"Dude, I think I'm getting younger!" he says, grinning at Sam.

Sam doesn't pay a whole lot of attention. That turns out to be his first mistake.

--

His second mistake is mentioning the big three-oh.

"Dean?"

Dean cranks up Van Halen and starts humming along, tapping his thumbs on the side of the wheel. Sam scowls at the side of Dean's head, then reaches out and shuts off the tape player, cutting the guitar off mid-wail. The tape pops out, leaving them with the fizzy white noise of 101 Wasteland Radio.

"Dean. Come on, dude, you can't ignore me all day."

But, apparently, he can. Dean knocks Sam's fingers away and pushes the cassette back in, and music fills the car again.

"Dean! Look I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realize you were so touchy about turning thir—"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean yells over the fading noise of the track. "I am not touchy."

Sam snorts. "Right, and you haven't been sulking all morning since I just happened to mention what a coincidence it is that all this 'anti-ageing' crap started two weeks before your birthday."

Dean shakes his head, and Sam can tell he's about to start yelling again, so he jumps in before Dean gets the chance. "Come on, Dean, it's not a big deal. It's just like any other number."

"I already told you, Sam, it's not about my goddamn birthday!"

"Whatever, man," mutters Sam. "I'm here when you're ready to face reality."

--

Almost a week later they stop off at a diner in East Texas. Sam's standing a little behind Dean in the line, staring at the tinge of sunburn on the back of Dean's neck.

"Whatcha having?" Dean asks, half turning to him.

Sam blinks. "Huh?" Dean looks—kind of weird. Different somehow.

"Whad'ya want, Sammy?"

"Uh, just a coffee."

Must be the light or something, or else Sam's more tired than he realizes. Dean turns back to the waitress—big eyes, big tits, totally Dean's type—and orders two coffees and a side of cheesy fries. Sam grins and, as Dean turns, slaps his stomach playfully. He'd been meaning to make some joke about Dean getting fat, which he totally has been, but Dean's belly is flat and hard underneath his palm.

"Uh, Sam?"

"Sorry," says Sam. Then he looks Dean in the eyes—really looks. He sighs. "Oh, shit."

--

"You're a dumbass," Bobby's voice crackles down the line.

Yeah, Sam's a dumbass. In his defense, he spends most of his time dealing with Dean being a dumbass, so it's understandable that Sam's natural reaction is skepticism.

"I know, Bobby. But what are we supposed to do?"

Bobby sighs. "How old's he look?"

Sam glances at his brother. Dean's sprawled out on one of the motel beds, pants kicked off and his t-shirt hiked up while he scratches his belly with lazy fingers. He looks over and gives Sam a cheerful grin, then turns his attention back to whatever crap he's watching on TV. Seriously, only Dean could be happy about this.

"I figure about twenty-one, twenty-two," says Sam. "It's been about a week since he started looking younger, so I guess he's losing about a year a day."

"Jeez." There's a sound a bit like coughing, and then Sam realizes Bobby's laughing at him.

"Uh, Bobby?"

"Just look after that idjit brother of yours, y'hear? I'll give you a call if I find anything."

Sam flicks his eyes over at Dean again, who seems to be inspecting the contents of his bellybutton. "If?"

"Bye, Sam."

"Seeya Bobby."

Dean looks up, his eyes bright and expectant. "Well?"

--

"I think there's a hunt nearby."

Sam looks up from his breakfast with a frown. "A hunt? Dean, we can't hunt now, we have to figure out what's happening to you."

Dean rolls his eyes and passes the paper over to Sam. "People are going missing, Sam. Children. We are going to check this out." Dean's eyes are wide and earnest; they look huge in his face, cheekbones sharp and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes barely even there.

"Yeah," says Sam. He looks back down at his breakfast and realizes he misses Dean's face.

--

If Sam thought Dean was an annoying teenager the first time round, that was nothing compared to this. They've not heard a peep from Bobby, there's a haunting in the next town, and eighteen is not a good age on Dean.

The main problem is that Dean won't stop hitting on people. Sam's dragged Dean along to the town library, ostensibly to help him research the ghost that's been snatching little kids, but really because leaving Dean on his own is causing more problems than they need. It's not like Dean is doing an awful lot of research anyway, unless hitting on high school students counts as research. In Dean's book, it probably does.

"So how about later you'n me grab a slice of pizza?" Dean leans toward the girl, flashing her a winsome smile across the table. She twirls a finger in her hair and smiles back at him.

Sam rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. Dean's shrunk an inch or so since yesterday; Sam doesn't think he's noticed yet, but it's pretty hilarious. He grabs the back of Dean's jacket, which is already looking a little loose on him, and hauls him away from the girl.

"A word, Dean."

"The hell—get off me, Sammy!"

The girl stares up at them, shocked, and Dean grins and holds his hand up to the side of his face, thumb and pinky extended. "I'll call you later, babe," he says, as Sam drags him around the corner of the stacks.

She calls something after them, but Sam doesn't hear what it is. He lets go of Dean's jacket, but crowds him up against the bookshelf so he can't get away.

"What's the deal, Sam? I was totally in there."

"Dean, that girl is almost young enough to be your daughter."

Dean shrugs. "Only technically."

"She's wearing braces."

"C'mon, Sammy, I never made fun of you for needing a brace."

Sam groans and wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders, pointing him to the exit. "Come on, we're leaving."

"You found it?"

"Raventop Burial Ground, been abandoned for a century," says Sam, as he herds Dean towards the door. "Seems like some of the graves were disturbed recently when—Dean? Uh, Dean."

"What," mutters Dean, attention clearly focused elsewhere: namely on the ass of the girl bending down in front of them to tie her shoelace.

"Dean."

"Mm, I'm listenin'."

He's totally not.

"How did Dad not shoot you?"

--

Okay, it doesn't matter how smooth Dean thinks he is, at seventeen he's a total dumbass. All they had to do was salt and burn the damn bones, but thanks to Dean they both almost ended up dead. Sam has really had enough of this shit; Dean tripping over his own feet in shoes that don't quite fit right; getting distracted at critical moments—when a ghost is trying to kill them, for instance—because his hormones are just too much for him; making stupidass remarks all the time—stupid even for Dean—because his teenaged brain keeps trying to take over.

"Hey, Sam?"

Dean's giggling to himself, which has gotta be a bad sign. Sam sighs. "What."

"How d'you make a toddler cry twice?"

"Dean, I swear to God, if you finish that joke I'll crash the goddamn car with us in it."

"Holy shit, Sam, are you crazy? Dad'll kill you if you damage the car!" Dean hisses, lurching forward in his seat and wincing at the pull in his shoulder. "I mean—"

Dean trails off and Sam turns to look at him for a second, sees the weird mix of emotions skip through his brother's eyes, and decides to say nothing.

"We'd better get your shoulder looked at," he says, turning his eyes back to the road.

"It's fine," says Dean, shaking his head.

--

"Sam."

"No."

"Come on, man!"

"I said no."

"You're such a little bitch."

Sam glances at Dean—who barely comes up to his shoulder now—and sighs. "Dean—"

"I've been driving this damn car since I was fourteen."

"I don't care, Dean. I don't want us getting pulled over because you're a shortass. We can't afford to get in any more trouble, and I'd like to see you try and convince a cop that you're nearly thirty when you barely look old enough to be in high school."

Dean scowls up at Sam, and starts rummaging in Sam's jacket pocket. "Just—just give me the keys!"

Sam shakes his head; he slips his hand in his pants pocket, and holds the keys up over his head. Dean stands on tiptoe, stretching his arm up Sam's, but he can't even get close.

"Dammit!" he shouts. He punches Sam hard in the ribs. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," mutters Sam, pulling open the driver's side door and climbing in. "Come on, Dean, we have to find you some clothes. You still look like a charity case."

Dean grumbles and walks around to the passenger side with his shoulders hunched. He looks ridiculous in his leather jacket, but he refuses to take it off and wear the one Sam picked up for him in the thrift store. At least he finally gave in arguing about the jeans; he'd rolled them up about four inches and winched them in with a belt; skinnier than ever at fourteen. Sam had almost had to rip them off to get Dean to give it up. In the end Dean only changed his mind when some girl tried to give him her sandwich, and he realized it wasn't because she was hitting on him, she just thought he was homeless. The door closes quietly; even when he's pissed Dean won't slam his precious car's door. He slumps in the passenger seat, quiet and sullen.

"You wanna pick the music?" Sam asks, watching Dean out the corner of his eye as he puts the key in the ignition.

"Driver picks the music," says Dean, giving a shrug that's almost lost inside his jacket.

Sam frowns and then points at the glovebox. "Well, I feel like some Metallica."

He pretends he doesn't see the smile that Dean tries to hide.

--

Sam's shaving with the bathroom door open when he notices Dean hovering behind him, slouching in jeans and a shirt that are already looking a little loose. It's weird seeing Dean look so short; of course Sam's used to being taller, but he always remembers Dean being so tall when they were kids, at least until Sam hit fourteen and shot up like a daisy overnight. Dean looks younger than he did last night: the curve of his cheek a little rounder, freckles standing out bright against his skin.

"What's up?" asks Sam, setting down his razor as he catches Dean's eye in the mirror.

"Nothin'."

Sam rinses his face and turns to grab the towel. "So you've stopped shaving then."

Dean replies with a scowl. "Yeah well you didn't shave until you left for college."

"Oh come on, I was in high school before you started shaving."

"You were not!"

"Was too."

"Was not!"

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes past Dean, who just about reaches up to his chest. "Dad thought you were never gonna grow any facial hair."

Dean laughs, which is weird too. It's still Dean's laugh, unmistakable, but so much younger. "Yeah, he was so ashamed of us."

"I bet he had a beard at thirteen," says Sam, grinning as he sits on the bed and puts on his sneakers.

"I bet he was born with a beard."

Sam gets to his feet and grabs the car keys. "What d'you say we discuss this further over breakfast?"

"Hell yes."

--

Sam's sitting up at the table cleaning his gun a couple of days later when Dean wriggles out of bed and goes into the bathroom. It's only when he doesn't come out for nearly half an hour that Sam realizes something's wrong; that's when he notices that the door is shut. Dean barely ever bothers to shut the bathroom door, something Sam's complained about more times than he could count.

"Dean?" Sam calls.

For a moment there's silence, then the door opens and Dean plods out, pulling his t-shirt over his head and ignoring Sam. He's filled out over the last couple of days, puppy fat piling on his face and belly, rounding out his cheeks and making him look more like a child than Sam can ever remember him looking.

"Dean, what's up?"

Dean shrugs, just turns his back to Sam and pulls on the pants that were too small for him yesterday. Today they fit just right. "Nothin'."

"Uh huh." Sam puts his gun down on the table. "You sure about that?"

"Shut up, Sam. I'm fine."

Sam says nothing for a moment. He moves his gun and the cleaning rags to one side, then gets up and makes Dean a bowl of Lucky Charms. "Come on," he says, sitting back down at the table and patting the other chair. "Breakfast."

"'m not hungry," says Dean.

"Come on, Dean-o," Sam wheedles, dropping a spoon into the bowl with a dull clink. Sam hasn't called Dean that since he was a kid; it's the name their Dad always used for Dean. "I got them just for you."

"Don't treat me like a baby," snaps Dean, flashing him a dirty look as he takes his seat and grabs the spoon. "I'm still older than you."

Sam swallows down a laugh and nods, trying to look solemn. "So we should get you some more clothes later. I called Bobby and he's gonna need at least another couple of days to try and fix this."

The spoon falls to the table with a clatter. "A couple of days at least?" says Dean, horrified.

"Dean—" Sam sighs and presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids.

"I don't have any pubes!"

Sam lets his hands fall back to the tabletop. Dean's staring at him, half surprised at himself and half challenging Sam to say something.

"Uh."

"Dude! I don't have any pubes. This is bullshit."

"Look," says Sam, aiming for calm and rational. "You'll be back to normal soon, don't worry. In the meantime we'll get you some clothes and you can go impress the chicks with your skills on the jungle gym."

Dean makes a face as he dunks his spoon into the cereal again. "Girls are icky," he says, then his face crumples with horror once more. He snaps his eyes up to Sam's. "That was a knee jerk!"

Sam cracks up. Dean throws the spoon at him, but Sam pays no attention. "Oh god," Sam breathes, putting his head down on the table. "I think I'm gonna pee myself."

"I hate you!" shouts Dean, kicking Sam as hard as he can in the shin, then stomping back into the bathroom.

--

They stop at a gas station the next day, and when Dean goes off to take a leak, Sam snatches the opportunity to call Bobby again.

"Yeah?"

"Bobby, it's Sam."

There's a heavy sigh, and the sound of frying pans clattering into a sink. "I can't help you, Sam. It’s just a hex or something, it'll wear itself out in its own time."

"Before or after I'm changing diapers?"

Bobby chuckles, and Sam feels some of the weight lift off his chest.

"So he'll be okay? He's not just gonna keep on getting younger until he disappears?"

"Naw, I reckon he's just pissed someone off without realizing it and they wanted to teach him a lesson."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Well that makes me feel better."

"Just keep an eye on Dean, okay?"

"Okay, Bobby."

"Yo, Sam, move your ass."

Sam looks up in time to see Dean chuck a bag of chips at him, which he fumbles spectacularly, though he manages to keep hold of his cell.

"Nice one," says Dean, grinning wide.

"Shut up."

--

They keep moving around, even though they're not hunting until Dean's back to normal. It's not like they can stay in one place, not with Dean changing so much every day. After a week people would start to wonder. Sam drives a few towns over, and then a few more at Dean's insistence, and they check into a scummy little place with a pool out back. Again, at Dean's request. He's adamant that the age thing isn't affecting his mind at all, but that doesn't change the fact that Dean spent ten minutes in a line yesterday on eye level with some chick's ass and didn't even bat an eyelid.

Sam hands over a fake credit card and smiles a big, charming smile when the woman on the desk holds out a jar and tells him to take a handful of candy 'for him and the little boy'.

"Did you tell them you're my Dad?" Dean asks when Sam hands over the candy.

"Dean, you're like, eight. It's just easier than saying you're my brother."

Dean scowls at him. "Yeah, well, I'm still older than you."

"Only technically."

"You're a geek."

"Yeah and you're a pain in the ass."

"You look like an ass!"

"Okay, you are too young to be swearing."

"I can swear if I want, you're not really Dad!"

"Shut up, Dean."

"You shut up!"

"I am not having an argument with you, go watch TV or something."

"I don't wanna!"

Sam groans. What would Dad do? Dad would probably tell Dean to shut the goddamn hell up and do as he's told. Somehow, Sam doesn't think Dean will listen to him. "If you stop being a jerk I'll take you out for ice cream."

Dean's face lights up. "Promise?"

--

Dean looks up from his burger and grins. There's ketchup smeared all around his mouth and on his chin, and he's got two fries jammed under his top lip to look like fangs. Sam laughs despite himself and coke bubbles up his nose and burns the back of his throat.

"Sonova—" he mutters, wiping coke off his face with a paper napkin.

"Awesome," says Dean, still grinning and shoveling fries in his mouth.

"You know," says Sam. "I think the most disturbing thing about all this is you still eat the way you did when you were eight."

Dean just shrugs. "Can I still have ice cream?"

Sam sighs.

--

"Oh, God. I think I ate too much."

"No kidding. I didn't even know you could eat that much on a normal day, let alone when you're travel-sized."

Dean groans and punches Sam in the side.

"That was pitiful, man."

"Shut up," mumbles Dean. He leans into Sam's side while Sam fumbles in his pocket for the motel key, then staggers over to his bed when Sam nudges him into the room. He doesn't get into it, just flops across the middle of it and lies there, groaning. Sam sighs and touches Dean's back gently.

"You're not gonna hurl, are you?"

Dean shakes his head.

"Okay, good."

Sam goes into the bathroom to take a leak; Dean's moved by the time he comes out, but only to roll onto his back..

"C'mon, kiddo. Time for bed."

"Don't call me that." Dean shakes off Sam's attempts to wrangle him under the covers, yelling that he's old enough to do it himself. Trying hard not to laugh, Sam abandons him and gets ready for bed too, thinking as he switches out the light that this whole thing really cannot be over too soon.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" There's a pause as Dean puts together his thoughts; Sam rolls over in the dark to face him.

"D'you really think this is gonna wear off?"

"You just ate too much, dude. You'll be fine in the morning."

"No, I mean this freaky-ass age thing." If Sam didn’t know better, he'd think Dean sounded scared. "I don't wanna be stuck being six my whole life."

"Me neither, man, believe me."

Dean sighs and rolls over in bed. "And anyway my dick is tiny. If I have to live like this I'll kill myself."

"Go to sleep, Dean."

--

A loud noise wakes Sam the next night, and he sits bolt upright in bed for a second before he wakes up fully. There's a storm echoing overhead, flashes of lightning through the flimsy curtains and great, growling rumbles of thunder. Sam settles back on his elbows and takes a sip of water from the glass on the bedside cabinet. The radio alarm clock reads 3:17, the glare of the green letters hovering in his eyeline when he turns them in the dark to Dean's bed.

It's empty.

Sam's on his feet a second later. He checks the bathroom, but it's empty. Nothing under the beds, in the closet, behind the curtains. Sam pulls on his jacket over his shirt and boxers and slips on his sneakers as he grabs the motel key—one is missing and so, he realizes with a start, are the car keys.

The door slams back against the wall with a loud bang as Sam throws it open and charges out into the parking lot. He squints around in the strange, neon-pulse darkness, sharp rain biting into his skin. The Impala is exactly where he left it, and he hurries over and peers in through the black window.

"Oh thank God," he whispers, fumbling to get his a grip on the door handle. Dean's curled up on the backseat, one of Sam's buttondowns wrapped snug around him like a blanket. Sam leans into the car, resting one knee on the seat and shaking Dean's shoulder gently. "Hey, buddy."

Dean mumbles nonsense as he blinks sleepily up at Sam, asleep enough still to let himself be bundled up in Sam's arms. Dean yawns and his head drops onto Sam's shoulder as Sam locks up the car and carries him into motel room.

"What were you doing out there?" Sam asks gently as he tucks Dean back into bed.

"Don't like thunder," mumbles Dean, rubbing his cheek against Sam's hand.

Sam smiles, feeling his heart pull in his chest. "Nothing's gonna hurt you, Dean."

He gets into his own bed but the storm is still going on, closer now than before, and Dean's restless. After ten minutes or so, Sam gets fed up of listening to the rustle of Dean's bedsheets. He pushes himself up on one elbow and whispers into the dark. "Dean?"

There's silence for a moment, and then Dean whispers back, "Sam?"

"Can't sleep?"

Dean says nothing, but he jumps a little at another clap of thunder. Sam smiles to himself in the dark and pulls back the bedsheets. "Come on," he says gently. In you get."

"No way, Sammy," says Dean, voice full of its usual bravado now that he's more awake. It sounds a little ridiculous from a seven year old's mouth.

Sam shrugs and lies back down. "Suit yourself, dude." He rolls away so his back is facing Dean, and grins. He counts down from ten in his head.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

More rustling.

Six.

Five.

Another clap of thunder, followed by a tiny gasp from Dean.

Three.

Two.

"Sam?"

Sam says nothing. The mattress dips and he feels Dean climbing in behind him, feet kicking out under the covers. Sam waits for a couple of minutes—well aware that Dean's lying arrow straight beside him, staring at the ceiling—then he turns over again and wraps his arm around his little big brother.

"Go to sleep," he whispers, pulling Dean in close and ignoring Dean's cold feet.

"Freak," mutters Dean, but he has to stifle another yawn, and Sam doesn't miss the way Dean snuggles up against his chest.

--

"Dean? You here?"

There's a clattering sound from the little kitchenette, followed by a colorful string of swear words that sound pretty hilarious coming from a six year old.

"Dean?"

"Motherfucking cuntbastard rugmuncher!" Dean shouts.

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

"Holy shit," says Dean, looking for all the world like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. "Where the hell did you come from?"

"I just got back," Sam replies, frowning. "Why are you standing on a chair?"

"I couldn't—" Dean trails off, and gestures to the cupboards above the counter.

Sam feels his mouth twitch.

"I swear to God, Sam. You say a word, and I'll shoot you."

"Yeah," says Sam, fighting off the smile with superhuman willpower. "I'd like to see you work a shotgun with those stubby little arms."

"Just you wait!" shouts Dean, stamping his foot on the chair's seat. "Just you fucking wait until I'm back to normal!"

--

A few days later Sam gets one hell of a wakeup call.

"Yeah?"

"Ellen? It's Sam Winchester."

"Well hey, Sam, not heard from you boys in a while. What can I do for you?"

Sam pauses, and decides that a direct approach is probably best.

"Can you tell me how to change a diaper?"

There's another long pause. Sam really, really wishes the ground would open up.

"Sure thing, honey."

--

"Is he yours?"

"Oh he's so precious."

"Look at those beautiful eyes!"

Dean must be loving this, thinks Sam. He's spent the last hour or so being passed around from one lap to the other, snuggling into countless women's boobs and curling strands of their hair in his adorably chubby little fingers.

"Right," says Sam. "I should put him down for a nap."

The women all coo and ruffle Dean's hair, but Dean just turns a horrified expression on Sam.

"No nap!" Dean shouts, tangling his fingers in Lindsay's shirt. "No!"

Sam rolls his eyes and pries Dean loose. "Come on, buddy," he says, giving Lindsay and the others an apologetic smile. "Naptime."

"Noooo," Dean shouts, wriggling like an eel in Sam's arms. "No nap! No! Nonono!"

"Sorry," says Sam again, cuddling Dean tight against his chest and rubbing circles on his back. "He always gets cranky in the afternoons, and then 'no' is the only word he can remember."

The women all giggle and pull faces at Dean, and one of them slips her number into Sam's pants pocket.

"Bye, Sam."

"Bye Dean!"

"No!"

--

It's taken Sam almost two hours to get Dean to settle, and he's so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. He lies on the bed, keeping Dean's little body gathered close to his chest, Dean's face turned towards his heart.

"Night, Dean-o," he whispers, smoothing his palm gently over the back of Dean's head, before he slides into unconsciousness.

--

For a moment after Sam wakes up, he feels warm and comfortable, completely content. And then he remembers Dean. The worry is like a solid weight on his chest, weighing him down. Is Dean okay? Is he even still alive? Sam takes a deep, steadying breath, but the weight on his chest doesn't ease.

"Sammy?"

Sam snaps his eyes open, and almost laughs out loud to see Dean—all scowling, bleary-eyed six feet of him—sprawled out on top of him.

"What the hell—"

Dean doesn't get any further, because Sam wraps his arms around Dean, and hugs him tight, squeezing all the air right out of him.

"Dude, get off me," says Dean, shoving himself away from Sam. He starts to slide out from under the sheets, then pauses. "Where the hell is my underwear? And—oh shit." His hand slides under the covers, then he bursts into an enormous grin. "Oh hell yes, I am back."

Sam grins.

"What the hell are you smiling at?"

"I missed you, man."

--

They call Bobby, who tells them to beat it and not call him again until they've got something useful to say, and then they go in search of breakfast and something new to hunt.

"So what was I like as a kid?" asks Dean, upending the ketchup bottle and shaking it over his eggs. "I don't remember the last few days that clearly."

"Well I had to change your diaper, and believe me, that is one thing I did not ever need to experience."

Dean chuckles, just a little at first, then it catches in his throat and the laughter bubbles up. "Oh, man. Payback. The number of times I changed your diaper when we were kids." He sighs and sprinkles some salt over his hash browns. "Seriously though, what was I like?"

Sam thinks for a moment; about Dean's pudgy little fingers curling around his own; Dean's head drooping on his shoulder; the shirt of Sam's that Dean's still got stuffed in his duffle since the thunderstorm. "You were a pain in the ass," he says, taking a bite of toast. "Just like always."

"Yeah I was," says Dean, looking proud of himself.

Sam just smiles.

--