Dean had decided Sam and Bobby were enjoying this whole thing a bit too much. Once they’d figured out it was only temporary, (although not temporary enough - three months, goddamn it) the novelty of Dean being a cute-as-fuck four-year-old had taken over and then it was the non-stop teasing and the hair ruffling, and Jesus, if Sammy tried to pick him up and put him on his shoulders one more time Dean was seriously gonna go feral child on his ass.
And now he was pretty sure he was getting sick. Dean pretty much never got sick, not sick enough to call off a hunt, anyway. But he used to get sick a lot as a kid, (much to dad’s frustration) and Winchester luck being what it was, it made sense that he was right back where he didn’t want to be.
“You all right there, Dean?” Bobby said. He was looking at Dean appraisingly from across their table at the diner. They’d just finished picking up some car parts during which Bobby had actually told him to “watch your language” around people, and now the son of a bitch was trying to win him back over with food.
Well, it wasn’t going to work. Dean looked back at him. Bobby said, “That cheeseburger ain’t gonna eat itself, you know.”
“Next you’ll be telling me your money doesn’t grow on trees, old man,” Dean said.
“Eat up,” Bobby ordered him.
“Bossy, bossy,” Dean muttered and picked up his ridiculously small kiddie meal burger and tried to finish it, but he just couldn’t. He was tired all of the sudden, and it tasted burnt.
He threw up in the gravel parking lot and it tasted burnt coming back up too.
Bobby said, “Aw, kid,” and pat-patted him on the back, and Dean was too busy heaving his guts up to shrug him off. Then Bobby tried picking him up and that was really too much, so Dean pulled on what was left of Bobby’s hair.
“Jesus, Dean!” Bobby said, holding Dean out at arm’s length and carrying him to the car like he was a bomb.
Inside the car, Bobby got him a bag to heave into if he had to and put his too-big trucker’s cap on top of Dean’s head. “Keep the sun out of your eyes,” he explained.
“Awesome,” Dean croaked.
Sam was up on a ladder cleaning out the gutters when they got back to Singer’s Salvage, but he came down when he saw them rolling down the driveway. “What’s up?” he wanted to know, as Bobby risked being kicked in the knee-caps by helping Dean out of the car.
“Lemme alone,” Dean heard himself say, ashamed by the almost whining quality of his voice.
He climbed painstakingly out of the car by himself and immediately burst into a round of coughing. Even he had to admit it was a pretty pathetic moment. He sounded like a mix between a ninety year old man and one of Bobby’s dog’s squeaky toys.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
It's Always You, prompt #1, gen (ft. de-aged!Dean)
Date: 2010-06-05 09:56 pm (UTC)Dean had decided Sam and Bobby were enjoying this whole thing a bit too much. Once they’d figured out it was only temporary, (although not temporary enough - three months, goddamn it) the novelty of Dean being a cute-as-fuck four-year-old had taken over and then it was the non-stop teasing and the hair ruffling, and Jesus, if Sammy tried to pick him up and put him on his shoulders one more time Dean was seriously gonna go feral child on his ass.
And now he was pretty sure he was getting sick. Dean pretty much never got sick, not sick enough to call off a hunt, anyway. But he used to get sick a lot as a kid, (much to dad’s frustration) and Winchester luck being what it was, it made sense that he was right back where he didn’t want to be.
“You all right there, Dean?” Bobby said. He was looking at Dean appraisingly from across their table at the diner. They’d just finished picking up some car parts during which Bobby had actually told him to “watch your language” around people, and now the son of a bitch was trying to win him back over with food.
Well, it wasn’t going to work. Dean looked back at him. Bobby said, “That cheeseburger ain’t gonna eat itself, you know.”
“Next you’ll be telling me your money doesn’t grow on trees, old man,” Dean said.
“Eat up,” Bobby ordered him.
“Bossy, bossy,” Dean muttered and picked up his ridiculously small kiddie meal burger and tried to finish it, but he just couldn’t. He was tired all of the sudden, and it tasted burnt.
He threw up in the gravel parking lot and it tasted burnt coming back up too.
Bobby said, “Aw, kid,” and pat-patted him on the back, and Dean was too busy heaving his guts up to shrug him off. Then Bobby tried picking him up and that was really too much, so Dean pulled on what was left of Bobby’s hair.
“Jesus, Dean!” Bobby said, holding Dean out at arm’s length and carrying him to the car like he was a bomb.
Inside the car, Bobby got him a bag to heave into if he had to and put his too-big trucker’s cap on top of Dean’s head. “Keep the sun out of your eyes,” he explained.
“Awesome,” Dean croaked.
Sam was up on a ladder cleaning out the gutters when they got back to Singer’s Salvage, but he came down when he saw them rolling down the driveway. “What’s up?” he wanted to know, as Bobby risked being kicked in the knee-caps by helping Dean out of the car.
“Lemme alone,” Dean heard himself say, ashamed by the almost whining quality of his voice.
He climbed painstakingly out of the car by himself and immediately burst into a round of coughing. Even he had to admit it was a pretty pathetic moment. He sounded like a mix between a ninety year old man and one of Bobby’s dog’s squeaky toys.
“He’s sick,” Bobby said dryly.