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It is done! yay! I was starting to think I'd become incapable of writing anything longer than a drabble.
Title: Growing Pains
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starrylizard
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: Gen, PG13 (There’s a tiny bit of swearing), pre-season
Word count: 4286
Summary: When John is magically regressed to a five-year-old, it’s up to his two teenage sons to figure out how to fix things.
Notes: Thanks so much toanniehow and rinkle for their beta work and encouragement. Any remaining mistakes are all mine, so feel free to point them out. Comments of all shapes and sizes, including constructive criticism, make me glee.
The fight felt more like a badly acted scene from Monkey Magic than anything real, as sparks flashed from the chanting man’s fingers and the Winchesters dove for cover. Both Sam and Dean crouched behind a fallen wooden table, using it as a shield. John, cut off on the other side of the room, was too slow as he skidded toward a moth-eaten couch. The sparks caused his body to spasm before he crashed to the floor behind the decrepit piece of furniture, no longer visible to his sons. At the same moment, Sam got off a good shot and the magician collapsed to the floor, his body aging before their eyes. He lay there, howling and screaming as his skin shrivelled and rotted away. His eyes filmed over and fell out, hair growing grey and long before it too fell out and, just moments later, nothing but bones remained, then dust.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam and shrugged. Both stood cautiously, Sam making his way over to the pile of dust that was once a centuries-old man, and was already being blown about by a slight draft. He toed at it with a boot and made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like pure disgust.
“Dad? Hey Dad?” Dean moved carefully toward the couch, an involuntary indrawn breath bringing Sam quickly to his side.
“Dad?” Sam’s voice cracked slightly as he stared in horror at the crumpled pile of clothes that John Winchester had been wearing just a moment before.
Then the pile began to wiggle and move as if something was trying to get out. Two brothers cautiously raised their weapons.
*
Time seemed to speed up and then John found himself sitting on the floor with no firm recollection of how he’d managed to land there. His head was reeling, his whole body ached and everything was dark. He wriggled, feeling folds of cloth moving around him, until he could push his hands and head free. He broke into the dusty daylight of an old house and to his boys aiming their weapons at him.
“Dad? Is that you?” It was Dean who spoke, swallowing heavily as he lowered his weapon, but indicating to his brother not to do the same.
“What the hell, Dean?” John started, then stopped abruptly to clear his throat when his voice came out several octaves higher than it had been when he woke up that morning. He pulled a hand free of the material around him and held it up to his face. His hands were so small. His eyes grew wide, hands now touching the baby-smooth and stubble-free skin of his face. “What the hell, Dean?” he repeated, but he was asking an entirely new question.
*
John sat sideways on the back seat of the Impala, small feet swinging as Dean helped his Dad put on a shirt; it was the smallest they had, but still much too large for this new version of John. The sleeves needed to be rolled up just to let his hands out. Dean figured his dad looked about four or five years old. Luckily his mind didn’t seem to have regressed and, for Dean, those same determined brown eyes looking out from such a little, round face was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d ever seen.
“We’ll figure this out, Dad.” Dean ruffled John’s hair, before realising what he’d done and pulling his hand away.
“Uh huh.” John looked up at his nineteen-year-old son. His little bare feet were beating a steady rhythm against the seat and he shot Dean a grin so mischievous that Dean thought he felt his heart skip a beat.
*
They drove toward the nearest town, Sam cursing under his breath when he was still relegated to the back seat. Dean drove and John rode shotgun; John’s little legs stuck out in front of him in the too big seat with a map spread out across them.
A couple of hours later, with dusk just closing in on the horizon, Dean looked across at his father. The little boy was fast asleep, curled up against the seat cat-like. He looked so relaxed, vulnerable even. In the rear-view mirror, Dean looked at his brother. Sam’s face was squished into the glass; each breath fogged the window in time with his gentle snoring. His recent growth spurt meant his gangly legs spread across the backseat. He’d likely be taller than Dean soon.
Suddenly, Dean felt a new kind of appreciation for his father. Living like this, feeling this weight of responsibility and worry for so many years… While Dean had always had an over-developed sense of responsibility, at that moment, he understood more than ever how that had come to be. Someone needed to share the load. At least Dean had always had his dad to look up to; John had only had himself.
As night finally settled in, Dean brought the car to a standstill at a motel on the outskirts of town and sent up a silent prayer that one of their contacts would know how to end this, and quickly.
*
Dean shifted the bag of takeaway food from “The Chunky Chicken” into his other hand as he approached the motel room door and raised his fist to knock. He stopped mid-motion, though, as he heard the commotion coming from inside and started to search his jacket for the spare room key instead.
“No!”
“Sam, I’m not arguing with you. Just give it to me.”
“No way, you’re way too keyed up already. Just…go to bed or something.”
“I gave you an order, Sam and I am not going to tell you again.”
Really this wasn’t too unusual. Dean didn’t seem to be able to turn his back lately without Sam and their Dad starting world war three. He was an idiot to think that because their dad was currently pint-sized anything else had changed. To hear Dad’s usual authoritative commands coming from the mouth of a five-year-old sure was new though.
“Oh, yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it, Shorty?”
Dean’s eyes widened in horror at Sam’s comeback, but his fingers finally closed around the oversized keychain and he opened the door as quickly as he could. What he found inside was Sam leaning against the counter of the small kitchenette looking smug. Meanwhile John, still clad in nothing but an oversized shirt, was stalking off toward the other side of the room, stomping his feet as he did so in a rather cute display of rage.
Sam really should have known better than to think John would just give in, though. With a sudden change of direction, bare legs pumping like pistons, John was running. He was set on a course, a quarterback going for a touchdown, and nothing was going to stop him. When he reached Sam, he used his momentum to scramble upwards, using the wall, the counter and the lanky teenager’s body, pulling and tugging at clothes. Little feet, knees and hands clutched and hit places that just had to hurt, before he was finally standing triumphant atop the kitchen bench, a lock of Sam’s too-long hair clutched tightly in one fist, a coffee cup in the other.
Sam stood stock-still with shock, clutching at abused ribs with one hand, the other splayed out before him as if attempting to calm a wild animal. “Dean?” he squeaked.
“Ah, Dad. What’s going on? Thought you guys were doing some research.”
John just smiled that mischievous smile that was becoming all too familiar. His small body was practically vibrating with adrenaline.
“Sam was being a little bitch and hoarding the coffee,” he stated in the wild shrill tone that was common to hyperactive little kids the world over.
Dean’s own hands came up in a placating gesture and John, taking stock of what he’d just done, had the decency to look a little sheepish. It was going to be a long night.
*
The next day, Sam had his revenge.
“Go on, Dad. We’ll keep a look out.” Sam boosted the little boy into the goodwill bin, breaking out in a large grin as soon as he was out of sight.
There was a muffled thud and several loud curses that a five-year-old really shouldn’t have in his repertoire, before a small pair of trainers and a Ninja Turtles t-shirt shot out of the bin.
“Doin’ great, Dad,” Dean encouraged. “Try to find some pants.”
Dean had done this once or twice as a kid, Sam lots of times, and both of them knew it wasn’t at all pleasant. Even Dean had to admit that listening to their Dad curse and swear while he rattled around in the metal bin had a certain sense of payback to it.
*
It was three days later that John started to forget.
*
They were in a library somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. John was alternating between running around with frantic kid energy in his search for literature and snoozing (as he called it, Sam called it passing out from exhaustion) curled up in one of the over-stuffed library couches.
The librarians kept pausing in their tasks to coo over his currently sleeping form, calling him ‘precious’ and ‘adorable’ and other terms that Dean and Sam were having trouble reconciling with either version (big or small) of their Dad.
Their story, of course, was that John was their little brother and the best thing about that was that the chicks seemed to really dig the protective big brother thing. Of course, having your dad in the room to stomp his little foot on top of yours when the attention was off him… well that kind of ruined the fun.
When Dean’s eyes were starting to feel so gritty that he’d rather rip them out of their sockets than read another word, he figured it was time for dinner. A look exchanged with Sam proved he wasn’t alone in his feeling and the brothers silently began packing their things.
Dean moved over to the couch and knelt down before glancing quickly around the room to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Dad? Hey, time to go.” He gently shook John’s shoulder until sleepy eyes opened with a soft grumble and a frown.
“Here.” Dean handed over the small trainers they’d picked up in an op-shop earlier that day. “Put your shoes on and we’ll come get you once we’re packed. It’s time for dinner.”
John nodded, yawning widely as he accepted the shoes and sat up to shrug off the blanket of his own, now over-sized, leather jacket. Dean left him sitting there, blinking sleepily at his shoes, while he gathered his own few things together. He tousled Sam’s hair and got an elbow in the ribs for his effort. A short tussle later, glares from the librarians, and the grinning brothers walked, shoulders bumping, back towards their pint-sized dad. Dean froze. John was still sitting exactly where they’d left him, one shoe on, as he stared at it like it was the answer to everything if he could just work it out.
“Dad?” Sam knelt down in front of John. “It’s time to go. You hungry?”
“Sam?” John’s eyes, when he lifted his head, were lost; an expression the adult John would never allow, but on this smaller version the look was all the more heart-breaking.
“Yeah, Dad?” Sam swallowed. “Need some help?” John nodded silently and Sam reached for the other shoe, settling it on John’s foot with ease and deftly tying up the laces. “See you make a loop, then another and you pull it through. Want to see again?”
John nodded, Sam showed him again and John copied; the movement seemed to come back to him as he practiced the action.
“Hey, it’s alright, see? We’ll fix this. Dean and me, we’re gonna fix this, aren’t we Dean?” Sam turned to look at Dean over his shoulder.
Dean nodded, his throat gone dry. He watched as his younger brother swung his even younger father up into his arms and settling him onto his hip without a word of protest. John’s arms clung loosely around Sam’s neck as they made their way out of the library and back to the car.
*
The diner was a small, run of the mill family affair. The waitress, a bleach blonde in her fifties, spotted John – still looking a little shell-shocked as he trailed along with his small hand fisted in Dean’s jacket, his own jacket wrapped around his body like a trench coat – and she smiled kindly at Sam and Dean. She ushered them into a booth along the back wall and handed them menus.
“What can I getcha to start?” she asked. “We have chocolate milk for the little one.”
Sam covered a small choking sound with a cough when John’s head snapped up with a scowl. They both remained quiet though, allowing Dean to answer.
Dean quirked a smile. “Sure, why not? Coffee for me and, you want a coke, Sam?” Sam shrugged his agreement and the waitress left with their order.
Once she was gone, John knelt up on the seat, so that he could lean his elbows on the table. “Got my journal?”
Dean nodded and pulled the battered book from his pocket, laying it on the scratched Formica surface of the table. John pulled it to himself, flipping through the pages at a frantic pace, obviously looking for something specific.
“Here.” He tapped a finger on the open page and pushed it back toward Dean. Sam leaned forward to try to read upside down.
The page contained several precise diagrams, patterns and symbols, surrounded by John’s tight messy scrawl. It looked like something to do with warding off spirits, rather than anything of use in their current predicament.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Not the symbols, the phone number in the margin.”
“Caitlin, (260) 490-7555. Where’s that, Indiana?”
“Yeah, Fort Wayne to be precise, but you don’t want to go there. You really don’t want to meet this woman. She’s dangerous. You hear me?” John leaned further across the table to look Dean and then Sam in the eyes.
“Yeah, alright, Dad. So what’s this about then?” Dean was a little thrown by the stern look on his kid-father’s face.
“She’s into some seriously dark magic. It’s dangerous stuff. Stuff I don’t deal in, but she’s a useful contact on occasion. Thing is, she owes me a favor and we’re running short on contacts who know anything about this and...” John slumped back on his haunches, eyes cast down.
“It’s getting worse isn’t it, Dad?” It was Sam who spoke up, breaking the silence that John had left.
They all fell quiet again as the waitress arrived with their drinks and took their meal orders. She looked a little incredulous when John ordered a hamburger and a large side order of fries out of habit, but Sam just smiled sweetly and told her they’d help him with it. At that, she winked at the lanky teenager and left them alone again.
“So, how can this Caitlin woman help us?” Dean asked, watching with a grin as his father sipped cautiously at his chocolate milk before making a happy sound and taking a few larger gulps.
John set down the drink, his two-handed grip steadying the glass on the counter and looked up to Dean, puzzled. “Huh?”
“The lady with the dark magic you were just telling us about, Dad.”
John frowned again, absently swiping at his milk mustache with the back of his sleeve, before he got a serious look. “Oh, Caitlin. Right, nasty piece of work.”
“So you were saying.” Dean sat back, eyebrows raised.
“I was? Right, sure I was.” John corrected himself, quickly. “Well, makes sense. The warlock was obviously using some sort of dark magic. That trail of bodies he was leaving behind, aged and drained of life, could’ve gone back hundreds of years.”
“Yeah, and we smoked Old Zappy Fingers well and good, so?”
“Well, I think I should’ve been his next victim. I should be bones and wrinkled skin, not…” John gestured to his much younger self, before leaning in to take another gulp of his milk.
“So, you think this was an accident?” Dean asked. “He what, de-aged you instead of taking your mojo? That’s some pretty major mistake.”
“I think Sam hit him with the iron round at just the right moment. Maybe reversed the feed. Instead of taking my life, I took his, but he had a lot of life in reserve, especially considering the number of bodies we’ve been tracking.”
“And it all hit you.” Sam looked slightly awed. “I think we’re lucky we’re not changing diapers right now, Dean.”
John reached over to smack his youngest, but Sam easily slid out of reach. “Well obviously our warlock’s only recently come back onto the radar, so he hasn’t killed in a while. Might be, he usually stocks up somehow. It doesn’t really matter. What matters, is that this is not some run-of-the-mill curse that’ll wear off in time. It’s the result of real dark magic and we’ll have to find the right way to undo it. Caitlin’s the only one I can think of who might know.”
“Can we trust her?” Dean wasn’t happy with the idea of performing any dark magic, let alone on his own family.
“Hell no, but she does owe me one. I think she’ll do it to get out of that debt. Witches don’t like owing people favors.”
“Alright. We’ll make the call after dinner.” Dean nodded slowly, the tension evident in every line of his body for a moment, before he willed himself back into his usual slouch.
“It’ll be alright, Dean. We’ve just got to keep our heads in the game.”
“Yes, Sir.” Dean found it surprising how, even though his father was currently five years old, his assurances were still calming.
*
Caitlin picked up on the third ring. She sounded older than Dean had expected, her voice deep and cigarette rough, and Dean suppressed a shiver as if he could feel the power she wielded in her simple hello.
It didn’t take long to explain the situation and, as John had thought, she was happy to be done with her debt. Apparently coming up with counter-spells of such a strong nature was no simple feat, however, and she would contact them when it was sorted… and not before.
Dean hung up and took a deep breath, nodding as he became conscious of Sam and John’s dual expectant stares.
“She’ll help. It’s on.”
*
Two days later, Caitlin still hadn’t made contact.
“When’s she gonna call?” John stamped his foot and glared up at Dean.
“I dunno, Dad, you’ll just have to be patient for a little longer.”
“But, I don’t wanna be small anymore, Dean!” John was honest-to-god whining.
Dean stepped back a few steps, then straightened. Luckily years of Sammy had given him some preparation for this. He figured distraction was their best option at the moment.
“I know, Dad. It won’t be long, though. How about we do something, so the waiting isn’t so boring?”
“Like what?” John looked skeptical, an expression the older John used on a regular basis when dealing with his sons, and Dean was reminded again that his father was still very much in there.
“How about we go down to the park? We could get icecream and Sam will give you a piggy back.”
Dean heard his brother snort a laugh from the other side of the room, but John turned around to look at him shyly. Dean supposed that, while a part of John knew he was too old to be enticed by icecream, play equipment and piggyback rides, the offer was still awfully tempting. After all, if anyone knew how boring hanging around a motel room all day could be for a kid, it was Dean.
*
“Three, two, one, lift-off!”
John walked between Sam and Dean, one hand clutched by each of them. He giggled happily as he was dutifully lifted up by his arms and swung into the air on every fourth step.
*
The call finally came the next day, at a time when all three Winchesters were settled comfortably in their motel room, munching on Lucky Charms and watching the morning cartoons.
Dean pulled out John’s journal, opened it to a new page and carefully copied all the instructions, repeating them back to Caitlin to make sure they were correct.
“Is that all of it?” he asked.
Sam watched, as Dean turned around and hunched over the cell phone. His voice was quieter, less assured when he spoke next. “Yeah, I understand.” He listened again, this time replying in something closer to a sneer. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, he understands. No more favors.”
Dean finally thumbed the phone off and turned back to his family. John was snuggled against Sam’s side on the bed, still enmeshed fully in the lives of The Jetsons. Sam, however, looked up expectantly. Dean noticed Sam’s arm had wrapped protectively around John’s shoulders as he listened to Dean’s side of the conversation. A part of Dean hoped that his brother and father would continue their close bond when their old man was back to normal.
“So?” Sam asked.
“She came through. We’ve got a spell… a ritual of sorts. We need to gather some supplies and practice the Latin, but…”
“So, we’re good to go?”
“Yeah, we’ll have Dad back to normal soon. She’s gonna email us the symbols and the Latin.” Dean brought a hand up and scrubbed it back and forth across his face and through his short hair.
“What is it, Dean?” Sam asked the question, but John was looking up at him curiously now too.
“Nothing, Sam. It’s just, I’ll fill you in later, okay.” Dean turned to John. “Ready to be big again, Dad?”
John nodded confidently, giving his sons a big toothy grin, before turning his attention back to the cartoons. With John’s attention elsewhere once more, Sam glared at his brother and Dean mouthed the words It’s not pleasant.
“You’ll be big again soon, Dad. You’ll see,” Sam whispered and squeezed John a little closer.
*
The day was spent in finding supplies and double-checking everything. John listened carefully to Dean’s instructions on what he was to do and, as a reward for being so good, he got to pick the candles that were now scattered about the chalked symbols on the hotel floor. They had pushed the twin beds to the corner of the room and Sam stood in the cramped space that was left, comparing the symbols on the floor to the ones on the computer printout in his hands. No mistakes.
In the small bathroom, he could hear Dean preparing John, joking quietly as he painted sigils onto the small boy’s skin. Sam smiled as he heard John suddenly whoop like an Indian warrior (Dean’s “ahh, you got me” followed shortly) and he figured they’d reached the last part of the body-painting – the long line of animal blood down the center of his face.
Sam lit the candles as Dean and John emerged from the bathroom. John was clad in nothing but a sheet, hung toga-style, and he was clinging to Dean’s hand.
“We ready?” Dean asked.
“Yeah.” Sam nodded, holding up John’s journal and the Latin phrases therein. “All set.”
“Okay, Dad, you remember what to do?” John stood stock-still, hand fisting tightly in Dean’s. “You okay, bud?” John nodded tightly, obviously scared out of his wits, but still too much of a Winchester to say it.
“All you’ve got to do is sit in the center of the circle, we’ve got the rest,” Sam added.
John nodded again, but only moved when Dean walked with him, gently easing him down onto the carpet in the center of the pentagram sketched there. John held out his hand to Dean and bit his lip, waiting.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
Dean was quick, the knife coming down quickly to make a small nick against his palm and though John’s bottom lip wobbled and his eyes were glassy, he stayed silent as the blood dripped onto the silver surface and Dean drew the final sigil needed for the spell.
Dean took a shaky breath and squeezed John’s shoulder, before quietly standing. He stepped out of the circle and Sam started to chant.
What followed was not pleasant. If aging is a painful experience, aging on fast forward was anything but gentle. It took all of Sam and Dean’s combined training to keep chanting as they watched their father shift and moan, trying not to cry out and failing, as his body grew at an unnatural pace and the life he’d accidentally obtained flowed out of him in waves of brilliant light.
When it was over, Dean and Sam scrambled to the floor to shake and cradle their now fully grown father. He was lying far too still and Sam sighed in relief as he felt a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers.
“Dad?” Dean’s voice was shaky, his hands searching his father’s body for any sign of injury.
“’m alright. You did good, boys.” John’s eyes cracked open, his voice, though weak, was back to its usual deep timbre and Sam and Dean both slumped with relief. “Appreciate it… if we never have to do that again, though,” he muttered.
“Yes, Sir.” Dean and Sam spoke in unison and, if the laughter that followed was slightly hysterical, no one could blame them for it. The Winchesters were back.
Title: Growing Pains
Author:
starrylizardFandom: Supernatural
Rating: Gen, PG13 (There’s a tiny bit of swearing), pre-season
Word count: 4286
Summary: When John is magically regressed to a five-year-old, it’s up to his two teenage sons to figure out how to fix things.
Notes: Thanks so much to
anniehow and rinkle for their beta work and encouragement. Any remaining mistakes are all mine, so feel free to point them out. Comments of all shapes and sizes, including constructive criticism, make me glee. The fight felt more like a badly acted scene from Monkey Magic than anything real, as sparks flashed from the chanting man’s fingers and the Winchesters dove for cover. Both Sam and Dean crouched behind a fallen wooden table, using it as a shield. John, cut off on the other side of the room, was too slow as he skidded toward a moth-eaten couch. The sparks caused his body to spasm before he crashed to the floor behind the decrepit piece of furniture, no longer visible to his sons. At the same moment, Sam got off a good shot and the magician collapsed to the floor, his body aging before their eyes. He lay there, howling and screaming as his skin shrivelled and rotted away. His eyes filmed over and fell out, hair growing grey and long before it too fell out and, just moments later, nothing but bones remained, then dust.
Sam looked at Dean. Dean looked at Sam and shrugged. Both stood cautiously, Sam making his way over to the pile of dust that was once a centuries-old man, and was already being blown about by a slight draft. He toed at it with a boot and made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like pure disgust.
“Dad? Hey Dad?” Dean moved carefully toward the couch, an involuntary indrawn breath bringing Sam quickly to his side.
“Dad?” Sam’s voice cracked slightly as he stared in horror at the crumpled pile of clothes that John Winchester had been wearing just a moment before.
Then the pile began to wiggle and move as if something was trying to get out. Two brothers cautiously raised their weapons.
*
Time seemed to speed up and then John found himself sitting on the floor with no firm recollection of how he’d managed to land there. His head was reeling, his whole body ached and everything was dark. He wriggled, feeling folds of cloth moving around him, until he could push his hands and head free. He broke into the dusty daylight of an old house and to his boys aiming their weapons at him.
“Dad? Is that you?” It was Dean who spoke, swallowing heavily as he lowered his weapon, but indicating to his brother not to do the same.
“What the hell, Dean?” John started, then stopped abruptly to clear his throat when his voice came out several octaves higher than it had been when he woke up that morning. He pulled a hand free of the material around him and held it up to his face. His hands were so small. His eyes grew wide, hands now touching the baby-smooth and stubble-free skin of his face. “What the hell, Dean?” he repeated, but he was asking an entirely new question.
*
John sat sideways on the back seat of the Impala, small feet swinging as Dean helped his Dad put on a shirt; it was the smallest they had, but still much too large for this new version of John. The sleeves needed to be rolled up just to let his hands out. Dean figured his dad looked about four or five years old. Luckily his mind didn’t seem to have regressed and, for Dean, those same determined brown eyes looking out from such a little, round face was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d ever seen.
“We’ll figure this out, Dad.” Dean ruffled John’s hair, before realising what he’d done and pulling his hand away.
“Uh huh.” John looked up at his nineteen-year-old son. His little bare feet were beating a steady rhythm against the seat and he shot Dean a grin so mischievous that Dean thought he felt his heart skip a beat.
*
They drove toward the nearest town, Sam cursing under his breath when he was still relegated to the back seat. Dean drove and John rode shotgun; John’s little legs stuck out in front of him in the too big seat with a map spread out across them.
A couple of hours later, with dusk just closing in on the horizon, Dean looked across at his father. The little boy was fast asleep, curled up against the seat cat-like. He looked so relaxed, vulnerable even. In the rear-view mirror, Dean looked at his brother. Sam’s face was squished into the glass; each breath fogged the window in time with his gentle snoring. His recent growth spurt meant his gangly legs spread across the backseat. He’d likely be taller than Dean soon.
Suddenly, Dean felt a new kind of appreciation for his father. Living like this, feeling this weight of responsibility and worry for so many years… While Dean had always had an over-developed sense of responsibility, at that moment, he understood more than ever how that had come to be. Someone needed to share the load. At least Dean had always had his dad to look up to; John had only had himself.
As night finally settled in, Dean brought the car to a standstill at a motel on the outskirts of town and sent up a silent prayer that one of their contacts would know how to end this, and quickly.
*
Dean shifted the bag of takeaway food from “The Chunky Chicken” into his other hand as he approached the motel room door and raised his fist to knock. He stopped mid-motion, though, as he heard the commotion coming from inside and started to search his jacket for the spare room key instead.
“No!”
“Sam, I’m not arguing with you. Just give it to me.”
“No way, you’re way too keyed up already. Just…go to bed or something.”
“I gave you an order, Sam and I am not going to tell you again.”
Really this wasn’t too unusual. Dean didn’t seem to be able to turn his back lately without Sam and their Dad starting world war three. He was an idiot to think that because their dad was currently pint-sized anything else had changed. To hear Dad’s usual authoritative commands coming from the mouth of a five-year-old sure was new though.
“Oh, yeah? Whatcha gonna do about it, Shorty?”
Dean’s eyes widened in horror at Sam’s comeback, but his fingers finally closed around the oversized keychain and he opened the door as quickly as he could. What he found inside was Sam leaning against the counter of the small kitchenette looking smug. Meanwhile John, still clad in nothing but an oversized shirt, was stalking off toward the other side of the room, stomping his feet as he did so in a rather cute display of rage.
Sam really should have known better than to think John would just give in, though. With a sudden change of direction, bare legs pumping like pistons, John was running. He was set on a course, a quarterback going for a touchdown, and nothing was going to stop him. When he reached Sam, he used his momentum to scramble upwards, using the wall, the counter and the lanky teenager’s body, pulling and tugging at clothes. Little feet, knees and hands clutched and hit places that just had to hurt, before he was finally standing triumphant atop the kitchen bench, a lock of Sam’s too-long hair clutched tightly in one fist, a coffee cup in the other.
Sam stood stock-still with shock, clutching at abused ribs with one hand, the other splayed out before him as if attempting to calm a wild animal. “Dean?” he squeaked.
“Ah, Dad. What’s going on? Thought you guys were doing some research.”
John just smiled that mischievous smile that was becoming all too familiar. His small body was practically vibrating with adrenaline.
“Sam was being a little bitch and hoarding the coffee,” he stated in the wild shrill tone that was common to hyperactive little kids the world over.
Dean’s own hands came up in a placating gesture and John, taking stock of what he’d just done, had the decency to look a little sheepish. It was going to be a long night.
*
The next day, Sam had his revenge.
“Go on, Dad. We’ll keep a look out.” Sam boosted the little boy into the goodwill bin, breaking out in a large grin as soon as he was out of sight.
There was a muffled thud and several loud curses that a five-year-old really shouldn’t have in his repertoire, before a small pair of trainers and a Ninja Turtles t-shirt shot out of the bin.
“Doin’ great, Dad,” Dean encouraged. “Try to find some pants.”
Dean had done this once or twice as a kid, Sam lots of times, and both of them knew it wasn’t at all pleasant. Even Dean had to admit that listening to their Dad curse and swear while he rattled around in the metal bin had a certain sense of payback to it.
*
It was three days later that John started to forget.
*
They were in a library somewhere outside of Pittsburgh. John was alternating between running around with frantic kid energy in his search for literature and snoozing (as he called it, Sam called it passing out from exhaustion) curled up in one of the over-stuffed library couches.
The librarians kept pausing in their tasks to coo over his currently sleeping form, calling him ‘precious’ and ‘adorable’ and other terms that Dean and Sam were having trouble reconciling with either version (big or small) of their Dad.
Their story, of course, was that John was their little brother and the best thing about that was that the chicks seemed to really dig the protective big brother thing. Of course, having your dad in the room to stomp his little foot on top of yours when the attention was off him… well that kind of ruined the fun.
When Dean’s eyes were starting to feel so gritty that he’d rather rip them out of their sockets than read another word, he figured it was time for dinner. A look exchanged with Sam proved he wasn’t alone in his feeling and the brothers silently began packing their things.
Dean moved over to the couch and knelt down before glancing quickly around the room to be sure they wouldn’t be overheard.
“Dad? Hey, time to go.” He gently shook John’s shoulder until sleepy eyes opened with a soft grumble and a frown.
“Here.” Dean handed over the small trainers they’d picked up in an op-shop earlier that day. “Put your shoes on and we’ll come get you once we’re packed. It’s time for dinner.”
John nodded, yawning widely as he accepted the shoes and sat up to shrug off the blanket of his own, now over-sized, leather jacket. Dean left him sitting there, blinking sleepily at his shoes, while he gathered his own few things together. He tousled Sam’s hair and got an elbow in the ribs for his effort. A short tussle later, glares from the librarians, and the grinning brothers walked, shoulders bumping, back towards their pint-sized dad. Dean froze. John was still sitting exactly where they’d left him, one shoe on, as he stared at it like it was the answer to everything if he could just work it out.
“Dad?” Sam knelt down in front of John. “It’s time to go. You hungry?”
“Sam?” John’s eyes, when he lifted his head, were lost; an expression the adult John would never allow, but on this smaller version the look was all the more heart-breaking.
“Yeah, Dad?” Sam swallowed. “Need some help?” John nodded silently and Sam reached for the other shoe, settling it on John’s foot with ease and deftly tying up the laces. “See you make a loop, then another and you pull it through. Want to see again?”
John nodded, Sam showed him again and John copied; the movement seemed to come back to him as he practiced the action.
“Hey, it’s alright, see? We’ll fix this. Dean and me, we’re gonna fix this, aren’t we Dean?” Sam turned to look at Dean over his shoulder.
Dean nodded, his throat gone dry. He watched as his younger brother swung his even younger father up into his arms and settling him onto his hip without a word of protest. John’s arms clung loosely around Sam’s neck as they made their way out of the library and back to the car.
*
The diner was a small, run of the mill family affair. The waitress, a bleach blonde in her fifties, spotted John – still looking a little shell-shocked as he trailed along with his small hand fisted in Dean’s jacket, his own jacket wrapped around his body like a trench coat – and she smiled kindly at Sam and Dean. She ushered them into a booth along the back wall and handed them menus.
“What can I getcha to start?” she asked. “We have chocolate milk for the little one.”
Sam covered a small choking sound with a cough when John’s head snapped up with a scowl. They both remained quiet though, allowing Dean to answer.
Dean quirked a smile. “Sure, why not? Coffee for me and, you want a coke, Sam?” Sam shrugged his agreement and the waitress left with their order.
Once she was gone, John knelt up on the seat, so that he could lean his elbows on the table. “Got my journal?”
Dean nodded and pulled the battered book from his pocket, laying it on the scratched Formica surface of the table. John pulled it to himself, flipping through the pages at a frantic pace, obviously looking for something specific.
“Here.” He tapped a finger on the open page and pushed it back toward Dean. Sam leaned forward to try to read upside down.
The page contained several precise diagrams, patterns and symbols, surrounded by John’s tight messy scrawl. It looked like something to do with warding off spirits, rather than anything of use in their current predicament.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Not the symbols, the phone number in the margin.”
“Caitlin, (260) 490-7555. Where’s that, Indiana?”
“Yeah, Fort Wayne to be precise, but you don’t want to go there. You really don’t want to meet this woman. She’s dangerous. You hear me?” John leaned further across the table to look Dean and then Sam in the eyes.
“Yeah, alright, Dad. So what’s this about then?” Dean was a little thrown by the stern look on his kid-father’s face.
“She’s into some seriously dark magic. It’s dangerous stuff. Stuff I don’t deal in, but she’s a useful contact on occasion. Thing is, she owes me a favor and we’re running short on contacts who know anything about this and...” John slumped back on his haunches, eyes cast down.
“It’s getting worse isn’t it, Dad?” It was Sam who spoke up, breaking the silence that John had left.
They all fell quiet again as the waitress arrived with their drinks and took their meal orders. She looked a little incredulous when John ordered a hamburger and a large side order of fries out of habit, but Sam just smiled sweetly and told her they’d help him with it. At that, she winked at the lanky teenager and left them alone again.
“So, how can this Caitlin woman help us?” Dean asked, watching with a grin as his father sipped cautiously at his chocolate milk before making a happy sound and taking a few larger gulps.
John set down the drink, his two-handed grip steadying the glass on the counter and looked up to Dean, puzzled. “Huh?”
“The lady with the dark magic you were just telling us about, Dad.”
John frowned again, absently swiping at his milk mustache with the back of his sleeve, before he got a serious look. “Oh, Caitlin. Right, nasty piece of work.”
“So you were saying.” Dean sat back, eyebrows raised.
“I was? Right, sure I was.” John corrected himself, quickly. “Well, makes sense. The warlock was obviously using some sort of dark magic. That trail of bodies he was leaving behind, aged and drained of life, could’ve gone back hundreds of years.”
“Yeah, and we smoked Old Zappy Fingers well and good, so?”
“Well, I think I should’ve been his next victim. I should be bones and wrinkled skin, not…” John gestured to his much younger self, before leaning in to take another gulp of his milk.
“So, you think this was an accident?” Dean asked. “He what, de-aged you instead of taking your mojo? That’s some pretty major mistake.”
“I think Sam hit him with the iron round at just the right moment. Maybe reversed the feed. Instead of taking my life, I took his, but he had a lot of life in reserve, especially considering the number of bodies we’ve been tracking.”
“And it all hit you.” Sam looked slightly awed. “I think we’re lucky we’re not changing diapers right now, Dean.”
John reached over to smack his youngest, but Sam easily slid out of reach. “Well obviously our warlock’s only recently come back onto the radar, so he hasn’t killed in a while. Might be, he usually stocks up somehow. It doesn’t really matter. What matters, is that this is not some run-of-the-mill curse that’ll wear off in time. It’s the result of real dark magic and we’ll have to find the right way to undo it. Caitlin’s the only one I can think of who might know.”
“Can we trust her?” Dean wasn’t happy with the idea of performing any dark magic, let alone on his own family.
“Hell no, but she does owe me one. I think she’ll do it to get out of that debt. Witches don’t like owing people favors.”
“Alright. We’ll make the call after dinner.” Dean nodded slowly, the tension evident in every line of his body for a moment, before he willed himself back into his usual slouch.
“It’ll be alright, Dean. We’ve just got to keep our heads in the game.”
“Yes, Sir.” Dean found it surprising how, even though his father was currently five years old, his assurances were still calming.
*
Caitlin picked up on the third ring. She sounded older than Dean had expected, her voice deep and cigarette rough, and Dean suppressed a shiver as if he could feel the power she wielded in her simple hello.
It didn’t take long to explain the situation and, as John had thought, she was happy to be done with her debt. Apparently coming up with counter-spells of such a strong nature was no simple feat, however, and she would contact them when it was sorted… and not before.
Dean hung up and took a deep breath, nodding as he became conscious of Sam and John’s dual expectant stares.
“She’ll help. It’s on.”
*
Two days later, Caitlin still hadn’t made contact.
“When’s she gonna call?” John stamped his foot and glared up at Dean.
“I dunno, Dad, you’ll just have to be patient for a little longer.”
“But, I don’t wanna be small anymore, Dean!” John was honest-to-god whining.
Dean stepped back a few steps, then straightened. Luckily years of Sammy had given him some preparation for this. He figured distraction was their best option at the moment.
“I know, Dad. It won’t be long, though. How about we do something, so the waiting isn’t so boring?”
“Like what?” John looked skeptical, an expression the older John used on a regular basis when dealing with his sons, and Dean was reminded again that his father was still very much in there.
“How about we go down to the park? We could get icecream and Sam will give you a piggy back.”
Dean heard his brother snort a laugh from the other side of the room, but John turned around to look at him shyly. Dean supposed that, while a part of John knew he was too old to be enticed by icecream, play equipment and piggyback rides, the offer was still awfully tempting. After all, if anyone knew how boring hanging around a motel room all day could be for a kid, it was Dean.
*
“Three, two, one, lift-off!”
John walked between Sam and Dean, one hand clutched by each of them. He giggled happily as he was dutifully lifted up by his arms and swung into the air on every fourth step.
*
The call finally came the next day, at a time when all three Winchesters were settled comfortably in their motel room, munching on Lucky Charms and watching the morning cartoons.
Dean pulled out John’s journal, opened it to a new page and carefully copied all the instructions, repeating them back to Caitlin to make sure they were correct.
“Is that all of it?” he asked.
Sam watched, as Dean turned around and hunched over the cell phone. His voice was quieter, less assured when he spoke next. “Yeah, I understand.” He listened again, this time replying in something closer to a sneer. “Yeah, okay. Yeah, he understands. No more favors.”
Dean finally thumbed the phone off and turned back to his family. John was snuggled against Sam’s side on the bed, still enmeshed fully in the lives of The Jetsons. Sam, however, looked up expectantly. Dean noticed Sam’s arm had wrapped protectively around John’s shoulders as he listened to Dean’s side of the conversation. A part of Dean hoped that his brother and father would continue their close bond when their old man was back to normal.
“So?” Sam asked.
“She came through. We’ve got a spell… a ritual of sorts. We need to gather some supplies and practice the Latin, but…”
“So, we’re good to go?”
“Yeah, we’ll have Dad back to normal soon. She’s gonna email us the symbols and the Latin.” Dean brought a hand up and scrubbed it back and forth across his face and through his short hair.
“What is it, Dean?” Sam asked the question, but John was looking up at him curiously now too.
“Nothing, Sam. It’s just, I’ll fill you in later, okay.” Dean turned to John. “Ready to be big again, Dad?”
John nodded confidently, giving his sons a big toothy grin, before turning his attention back to the cartoons. With John’s attention elsewhere once more, Sam glared at his brother and Dean mouthed the words It’s not pleasant.
“You’ll be big again soon, Dad. You’ll see,” Sam whispered and squeezed John a little closer.
*
The day was spent in finding supplies and double-checking everything. John listened carefully to Dean’s instructions on what he was to do and, as a reward for being so good, he got to pick the candles that were now scattered about the chalked symbols on the hotel floor. They had pushed the twin beds to the corner of the room and Sam stood in the cramped space that was left, comparing the symbols on the floor to the ones on the computer printout in his hands. No mistakes.
In the small bathroom, he could hear Dean preparing John, joking quietly as he painted sigils onto the small boy’s skin. Sam smiled as he heard John suddenly whoop like an Indian warrior (Dean’s “ahh, you got me” followed shortly) and he figured they’d reached the last part of the body-painting – the long line of animal blood down the center of his face.
Sam lit the candles as Dean and John emerged from the bathroom. John was clad in nothing but a sheet, hung toga-style, and he was clinging to Dean’s hand.
“We ready?” Dean asked.
“Yeah.” Sam nodded, holding up John’s journal and the Latin phrases therein. “All set.”
“Okay, Dad, you remember what to do?” John stood stock-still, hand fisting tightly in Dean’s. “You okay, bud?” John nodded tightly, obviously scared out of his wits, but still too much of a Winchester to say it.
“All you’ve got to do is sit in the center of the circle, we’ve got the rest,” Sam added.
John nodded again, but only moved when Dean walked with him, gently easing him down onto the carpet in the center of the pentagram sketched there. John held out his hand to Dean and bit his lip, waiting.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
Dean was quick, the knife coming down quickly to make a small nick against his palm and though John’s bottom lip wobbled and his eyes were glassy, he stayed silent as the blood dripped onto the silver surface and Dean drew the final sigil needed for the spell.
Dean took a shaky breath and squeezed John’s shoulder, before quietly standing. He stepped out of the circle and Sam started to chant.
What followed was not pleasant. If aging is a painful experience, aging on fast forward was anything but gentle. It took all of Sam and Dean’s combined training to keep chanting as they watched their father shift and moan, trying not to cry out and failing, as his body grew at an unnatural pace and the life he’d accidentally obtained flowed out of him in waves of brilliant light.
When it was over, Dean and Sam scrambled to the floor to shake and cradle their now fully grown father. He was lying far too still and Sam sighed in relief as he felt a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his fingers.
“Dad?” Dean’s voice was shaky, his hands searching his father’s body for any sign of injury.
“’m alright. You did good, boys.” John’s eyes cracked open, his voice, though weak, was back to its usual deep timbre and Sam and Dean both slumped with relief. “Appreciate it… if we never have to do that again, though,” he muttered.
“Yes, Sir.” Dean and Sam spoke in unison and, if the laughter that followed was slightly hysterical, no one could blame them for it. The Winchesters were back.
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