A/N: *waves* Hi! Okay, so this isn't really following the Supernatural timeline at all, or at least it doesn't allude to the events of the series. Sam and Dean, however, are the ages they were in Season 3, so if you need some kind of timeline, just think to yourself: Season 3.

The Respectful Size

It was a hell of a night.

Dean wakes up with bones that creak like hundred-year-old hinges. He rolls off Bobby's couch, his face scraping against scratchy, old fabric that was never gentle, not even when Dean was ten which wasn't ninety years ago at all, not even twenty, yet, rising to the burnt smell of neglected toast and the sounds of a disgruntled baby brother wanting to know where Dad was going this time.

Sam. Dean's eyes shift to the discarded pile of rumpled blankets on the floor, the limp pillow flattened by the impression of a large head. Early riser, his little brother.

Dean leans down and plants his hands on the floor, stretches like a cat, his shirt falling to his shoulders, baring skin that is still young and toned, skin that's felt the pads of many a wandering female finger. He shivers now at the thought of being touched, feels that familiar heat in his belly that creeps down and reminds him that he should take care of business this morning. If you can consider such a simple pleasure to be business, that is. He should have beer for breakfast, too. Just because he's Dean and he can.

And he's earned it, goddamnit.

Last night was a hell of a night, after all. Dean doesn't even know what the fuck that thing was, even now, he just knows it knocked him out and Sam out and they both woke up to Bobby's smug-ass mask covering his concerned-ass face and fuck it, Dean wants a beer. Just as soon as he jerks off.

He returns to his feet, winces and sighs as his limbs pop. Breathes in.

Bacon. Dean smells bacon. This is enough to distract him from both his penis and his alcoholism, and he pads barefooted to the kitchen in his boxers, ignoring his aches and pains like the pro he is. He expects to see Sam there, his gigantor ass on the counter, reading a paper or a book or something while Bobby cooks, but there's no Sam and that's fine. Sam's a big boy. Dean doesn't feel the absence like the galloping hooves of a hundred panicked horses along his insides. Not anymore. He swears it.

"Where's Sam?"

First words out of his mouth. His voice is rough and his throat kinda hurts and he could use that beer now.

Bobby looks over his shoulder at Dean, just like he used to twenty years ago, when Dean stood in this exact spot asking this same question, reaching for a plate of pig that's been dead even longer than this one he's reaching for now.

Shit's hot. It burns his tongue and he hisses and waves his hand next to his mouth. "Fuck."

To which Bobby grunts, "Well, what the hell did you think was going to happen?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "Something delicious, maybe." And he stumbles across the room and yanks open the rust-covered door of Bobby's ancient fridge.

His mind fails to process what's in front of him. Or what isn't. Empty shelves. Not a bottle in sight. "Dude, what happened—"

"Don't tell me you don't remember."

Dean doesn't remember. He's not sure if he should tell Bobby this, though, so he just stands there, sways on his feet with his mouth opening and closing while he decides if he should admit it and finally, "I don't remem—"

"You and your idgit brother called while I was on my beer run. You know, right after you drained the house dry."

Oh. Yeah. Now that he thinks about it, Dean actually does remember that last bottle. He remembers yoinking it right out of Sam's hand while the kid was distracted by Dad's journal, his geek mind caught in a web of hastily scribbled words as it is so often prone to do.

"Right." Dean rubs at the back of his neck, stretches a shoulder to the ceiling. Yawns. "So, where's Sam?"

"Hell if I know," Bobby replies. "I haven't seen him all morning."

Dread slithers like a snake down his throat. He doesn't know why - Sam's probably just upstairs or downstairs or outside or something, stretching or doing push-ups or whatever the fuck he does to keep his stupid muscles bulging. Little bastard was never supposed to get this big. Dean still remembers when the top of his brother's head barely grazed his chest. Thirteen. Or fourteen. When Sam still looked up to Dean, and at him, too.

He shakes his head. He doesn't know why he's thinking these things or feeling like this. It's a perfectly normal morning at Bobby's house. All is quiet, and calm, and like it should be. Except for the lack of beer, of course.

"So...that thing last night-'

"It was an aswang," Bobby cuts him off, sliding the last strip of bacon from his spatula to the plate.

"A what now?"

"It's a vampire. And a witch. And a shapeshifter."

Huh. No wonder he couldn't get a read on what it was. "So it's just like...a swiss army pocket monster or something."

Bobby nods. He picks up the plate of bacon and moves it to the dining room. Dean follows him. "Real nasty son of a bitch, too. Feeds on kids and unborn babies. Good thing I got there in time, huh?"

"Hey," Dean says indignantly, for he is not a kid or an unborn baby, but a full-grown Dean, thank you very much. Sam, on the other hand..."So how'd you end up getting rid of it?"

This question, much to Dean's surprise and insatiable curiosity, seems to make Bobby distinctly uncomfortable. The man clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, avoids Dean's gaze.

"Aw, c'mon. Couldn't have been that bad."

"Well, they're usually female. I'd go as far as to say always. And there's this one shape they're terrified of."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "A...shape? You mean, like a triangle?"

"No, boy, not a triangle."

"Circle?"

"No. And if you say 'square' next, so help me..."

Dean doesn't say 'square' next. He bites his lip and looks to the ceiling thoughtfully, waits a moment before allowing a mischievous smile to spread slowly over his face. "Polygon." Bobby doesn't look amused, though, even though he should. Dean is incredibly amusing, after all. And he's putting off a nice session in the shower to have this conversation. "Octagon." Nope. "Octopus."

Bobby goes down the ignore-him-and-he'll-stop route. Dean can respect this, but it doesn't mean he won't trail the guy back into the kitchen spouting off one shape after another until Bobby finally, deliberately, pulls a package of sausages out of the fridge and asks, "You want some?"

"We're having bacon," Dean replies absently, and Bobby just looks at him, wiggling the plastic-covered meat around in his hand and Dean really doesn't know why it takes him so long to get these things, sometimes. His mouth forms a near-perfect 'o' as the imagery sinks in. He glances down at his boxers. The question in his head is fleeting, but begs to be answered: what can possibly be scary about something so inherently beautiful? "Really?"

"Really."

"Huh. So, how did you..." Dean trails off. His mind really doesn't want to go there, it doesn't want to go to that place last night in that alley, that saw him and Sam struggling for consciousness while Bobby somehow scared this creature off with...that. "Oh, for the love of God, Bobby, tell me you just threw some gay porn at it."

Bobby smirks. "I just threw some gay porn at it. Now, go find your brother and ask him if he wants some breakfast."

Oh, right. Sam. Dean will find Sam and the morning will proceed as usual, except without beer. He turns on his heel and heads for the stairs first, smiles when he's followed by the sound of Bobby's fondly muttered, "Idgit."

Good ol' Bobby.

Sam's not upstairs. Dean becomes aware of this after opening a few doors and calling his brother's name a few times, so he retreats to the first floor and pulls on his jeans from yesterday. They're in dire need of washing, to be honest – there's dirt and blood stains and some kind of rank odor Dean doesn't even want to think about, but fuck it, his nether regions are cold and he's going to have to go down into the basement. Or maybe even outside.

It's snowing outside. He chooses the basement first.

"Sam?" The walls are hard and bare and Dean's voice bounces between them like an intangible ping-pong ball. There's no response. No grunting or sounds of strained movement. No Sam. Nothing. "Aw, c'mon. I don't want to go outside." He continues down the stairs, even though it seems futile. He's already come to the conclusion that Sam's not down here, but he feels a pull, quite like earlier when he felt panic and dread. Something about today and Dean's head and Sam's absence is just very off. "Sammy?" he asks, more quietly this time. "You down here, man?"

But there's nothing. Dean knows there's nothing. He's already decided there's nothing and he doesn't know why he's still trying when there's nothing and he should just suck it up and go outside now. He'll put a leash on his stupid little brother like he should have done twenty-four years ago when the kid was born and then he won't have this problem ever again—

The smallest of gasps breaks into his thoughts.

Dean's head zooms in the direction it came from – a far corner of the room, filled with cobwebs and shadows. "Sam?"

But the smallest of gasps is too small to come from his six-foot-four brother and Dean knows this, so he's not quite sure why he's calling whatever sure-to-be-tiny thing in that corner by his sibling's name. Then again he doesn't know why he felt panic, or dread, or a pull, either. So.

His bare feet feel like ice against the concrete floor, but he trucks on, moving slowly, his hand going into his jeans pocket, fingering the knife that's always there whenever he needs it. His daddy taught him well. Dean's always prepared for monsters in the basement.

"Come out," he growls. "I'm not fucking around."

A sob. Tiny and high-pitched, like from a child's throat, and Dean bears down on this corner with its shadows and uncleanliness and uninvited occupant. He pulls the knife out of his pocket without thought, his stride quick and deliberate now and this isn't instinct. He knows it's not instinct, but training. Nurture over nature and all those other ridiculous political arguments pertaining to how people become what they are. Dean became a hunter.

A hunter with a gut feeling. A hunter who skids to a halt before making his kill because that thing in the corner isn't a monster.

It's his brother.

Can't be more than four or five, but it's Sam, curled up with his face hidden behind his knees, his hair falling over his eyes, and tears streaming down his cheeks. The knife in Dean's hand falls to the ground with a clatter.

"Holy crap."

"D-Dean?" Sam's crying so hard he's practically hyperventilating, and Dean remembers this shit. And now it's instinct he moves on, crouching to his knees and holding out his arms. Sam hiccups and plants his palms on the floor, crawls over to his now much-bigger brother to accept this comforting embrace.

"You know me?" Dean asks, because he has to be sure. Kid was hiding. And why would he hide if he knew Dean was there to protect him?

"'C-course I do," Sam says. Dean feels tiny arms wrap around his neck.

"What are you hidin' for then?"

"I…I…"

But Sam can't get it out. His sobbing increases tenfold and Dean's shirt is the one who has to survive the flood. Dean, despite being completely bewildered, is still operating on instinct. He rubs Sam's now-tiny back with a steady hand and makes those soothing shushing sounds his mom used to make when Dean, too, had the privilege of being an inconsolable child.

"You what, Sammy?" he asks, when he's pretty sure the crying has subsided somewhat.

"I…I w-woke up," Sam says tearfully. He sniffles and wipes his nose against Dean's shoulder. Dean winces, because what the hell is this morning, anyway? No beer, and now this?

"And?" he prompts when Sam doesn't continue.

Sam pulls away just enough so that he can look up at Dean. Dean remembers this look. Dean remembers not ten minutes ago, reminiscing on when Sam was respectfully small and this was a commonplace action, him looking up at his big brother. How it should be.

Except not like this.

"Sam," he says again, more gently this time. "You woke up and..?"

Sam sucks in a quivering breath, his eyes threatening to storm yet again. And then they do, and he wails, "An' you were bigger than me!"

And all Dean can think, as he rises to his feet with his distraught brother in his arms, is that Sam is right. Dean is bigger than him.

And that's pretty much the only good thing that can possibly come out of this situation.