A/N: So, after the overwhelmingly positive response I got to "About A Boy (Again)" (Thanks for that, by the way, guys, you're awesome!), not to mention the fun I had writing it, I've decided to continue on with the story. This is...we'll call it an extended edition of the original story, with maybe a tiny little twist-the antidote this time around takes around a month to stew, instead of the original three days. No danger to little Sammy's memories or anything, just more time for me to play in the Big Dean/Little Sammy sandbox.

This won't be one sequential narrative, but just a bunch of one-shots that I'll post as they occur to me. I've got a few lined up for posting already, but I'm open to ideas, so if you have suggestions for chapters, drop me a PM. (Keep it canon and no slash, please.) This chapter has a little bit of action-a thought as to what might happen when the hunting world accidentally collides with Dean and Mini-Sam.

"Dean, when we get home, can we have lunch?"

Dean snorted. "What do you think we just bought all this food for, man?"

"Cause de frigerater was empty," Sam said seriously.

"Yes," Dean agreed, rolling his eyes. "But also for eating. Gimme your hand, buddy," he added, shifting the groceries to one hand and reaching down as they approached the edge of the sidewalk. Sam obligingly reached up and put his little hand in Dean's as they crossed the parking lot. "What do you want to eat?"

Sam's answer was cut off with a yelp as a man jumped out from behind the Impala. He snatched Sam up out of Dean's grip with a surprising amount of strength and raced away down an alley off the side of the parking lot.

"Hey!" Dean yelled, groceries already on the ground and gun in his hand as he sped off after them.

The man tripped over a pile of boxes and went to the ground, rolling and coming up with Sam still in his arms, a knife somehow at the boy's throat.

Dean skidded to a halt, holding up his hands. "Whoa. Easy now. No need for things to get messy. Whatever you want, you can have it, just don't hurt the kid. You want the car? Cash? I got like two hundred bucks here," he said, reaching for his wallet and taking a step forward.

"That's far enough, hunter," the man warned.

Dean stopped, gun swinging back up into position, praying it was something a regular bullet would take out. Everything else was in the car, and no way in hell was he leaving this guy with Sam, who had been kicking and screaming until the knife came up. He was whimpering and shaking now, a scrape on his cheek from the fall to the ground, his large, frightened eyes pooling with tears. "Look, I don't know what you are or what you want, but just put the kid down, okay?"

The man snorted disdainfully. "You've been hunting me for this long, and you're going to play dumb now?" His fingers clenched angrily around the knife at Sam's neck, pressing a little harder, and Sam let out a soft whine.

"Hey, Sammy, it's okay," Dean said, his voice softening as he looked down at his terrified brother. "It's gonna be okay, I promise." He looked back up at the man. "I'm not hunting you man, I swear. Just let me have the kid and we can go our separate ways, alright?"

The man snarled and his eyes flashed silver. Crap. Regular bullets weren't going to take down a shifter. "What else would you be doing here, if not hunting me? Ah, ah," he cautioned as Dean inched closer, pressing the knife harder into Sam's neck and drawing a thin trickle of blood.

"Dean?" Sam whispered fearfully.

"Don't be scared, Sammy, it's gonna be okay," Dean promised. "Just keep looking at me, alright? It's gonna be okay." Sam swallowed hard and nodded, crying silently. Dean turned cold eyes up to the shifter. "I wasn't hunting you before, but if you touch him again, there is nowhere on this earth you can hide from me. Put. Him. Down."

"Not so fast," the shifter hissed, backing up a couple of steps. He shifted his grip on the knife and moved his hand up to grab the lower half of Sam's face. "Their little bones aren't very strong when they're this young, are they? You put that gun down or these little bones will be getting a lot littler."

Dean's gun clattered to the pavement. "Look, you got beef with me, fine, but the kid's got no part of it. Just let him go, and we can talk it over or punch each other out, or whatever it is you want." Sam was trembling and breathing a lot faster, nearing a panic attack, but his watery eyes were locked firmly on his brother.

"I let him go, what's stopping you killing me?" the shifter demanded.

"You let him go and you can just walk away," Dean promised. "I just want him, I ain't coming after you."

The shifter considered for a long moment, then smirked. "Alright." Before Dean could blink, the shifter had hefted Sam into the air, and with super-human strength, tossed him across the alley. He hit a dumpster with a resounding clang and crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Dean barely had time to feel the Mark surge to life before he was on top of the fleeing shifter, unaware he'd even moved. Rage and blood colored his vision and all he saw was red. The shifter screamed and fought beneath him, and the Mark burned hot and exultant as he pounded the creature into the ground. He used his fists and his feet until blood and shifter goo oozed across the pavement, triumphant rage pulsing at the anticipation of the kill.

"Dee?"

One weak, shaky little whisper, and the rage disappeared like a switch had been flipped. Dean spun on his knees to see Sam stirring feebly on the ground. The shifter forgotten, he rushed to his brother's side, rage and bloodlust replaced with concern and a fierce protectiveness. "Sammy?" he asked, kneeling at his side. He reached out a hand toward his brother and paused at the blood he saw on it. As Sam blinked hazily, Dean quickly stripped off his outer shirt, spattered in shifter-blood, and hastily (but thoroughly) wiped the blood from his arms, hands and face, balled up the shirt and tossed it into the dumpster before Sam could see it.

"Sammy?" he asked again, not hesitating this time as he reached for his brother. Sam blinked his way back to full consciousness at the touch. Aside from the thin line of blood on his neck and the scrape from the fall, Dean didn't see any more blood, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "You okay?"

Sam's face crumpled and he shook his head. "Dee," he whimpered, reaching an arm up to his brother.

Dean scooped him up without hesitation and cradled him to his chest. Sam cried out and tried to nuzzle into Dean's chest all in the same motion. Carefully, Dean pulled him back. "What's wrong, Sammy? What hurts?" he asked softly.

"My arm hurts," Sam moaned. Dean looked down at the little arm pressed between the two of them and swallowed down a surge of anger that didn't come from the Mark this time. Sam must have hit his arm the wrong way against the dumpster—an odd angle in the middle of the forearm showed an obvious break.

"Okay," Dean soothed, pulling him back carefully against his chest, trying not to jostle the arm. "We'll go and get that fixed up right now. You're gonna be okay, Sammy." He got to his feet and began making his way back to the Impala, Sam tucked up small and shaky against him. "I promise. I'm right here, and it's gonna be okay."

At the hospital, things weren't going quite as planned. Dean was in the waiting room, and the only thing stopping him from punching out the cop in front of him right now was the knowledge that if Dean got arrested, Sam was currently unable to take care of himself.

"You think I did that to my brother?!" Dean demanded, not bothering to try not yelling.

"Sir, calm down," the officer began. "I'm just—"

"I told you, we were mugged," Dean snapped. "Is that why you won't let me back there? He's three, for crying out loud. He's terrified and hurt and back there with a bunch of strangers, and you won't let me see him because you think I'm the one who hurt him?!"

"Sir, please…"

Elsewhere in the hospital, the pediatrician on duty was having no easier a time of things. The little boy sitting on the table in front of her had what looked like a broken arm, was a possible abuse case, and wasn't letting anyone touch him. She expected tears when children were hurt, but this little guy…Sam, the chart said, was screaming, crying and kicking anyone who came within reach of his short legs. One of the nurses had almost gotten close enough to touch him, and had been bitten hard enough to need stitches for his trouble.

"Sam, please," the doctor began, raising her voice to be heard over his cries.

"No!" Sam yelled. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! I! Want! Dean!"

"Sam, we just want to fix your arm—"

"No!" he screamed. "Where's Dean? I want Dean!"

She rolled her eyes. There were three adults here, how were they being out-matched by a three year-old? Fine. If getting someone in here would calm him down enough for her to treat him, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea. If 'Dean' did turn out to be an abuser, well, they weren't leaving him alone with the kid, and Security could handle it later. Right now, she needed to fix this before he hurt himself any further.

"Okay, Sam, we'll go and get Dean."

The effect was immediate. "Really?" he choked on the sudden stop of tears.

"Mm-hmm. I just need you to answer some questions first, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said uncertainly, inching closer to the wall when one of the nurses moved.

"Sam, you don't need to be scared to tell me the truth, okay? Did Dean do this to you?" Sam looked puzzled. "Did Dean hurt your arm?" she elaborated.

"No," Sam said, the confusion in his eyes so deep, she couldn't help but believe him. "Dean takes care of me, he doesn' hurt me," he added, still looking baffled that she had asked the question.

She nodded at one of the nurses to go and find Dean. "Who did hurt you, Sam?"

"De bad man," Sam whispered, clutching his arm closer to himself. "He…he grabbed me an' ran away, an' Dean ran after him. He wanted Dean to do somefing, and Dean said dat he should put me down an' dat Dean would let him have what he wanted, but den he hurted me and frowed me an' nen I waked up an' Dean was hitting de bad man, an' nen he picked me up and said we had to come here so you could fix my arm but de people took me away an' I want. My. Bruvver!" he ended in a scream and started crying again.

Dean set off at a run behind the nurse who came to get him, shouldering his way rudely past the cop. He could hear the yelling from halfway down the hall and picked up the pace. He skidded into a room where a thoroughly exasperated doctor and nurse were keeping back from Sam, who was huddled against the wall on top of the exam table and shrieking his little lungs out.

"Sammy," he said, and Sam's cries stopped abruptly. His head jerked up, red, watery eyes locking onto Dean's face.

"Dean!" Sam cried, stretching out his good arm in a plea for contact, and Dean swooped in, dropping to sit on the table and gathering Sam carefully into his lap.

"Sh, sh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean soothed, stroking his hair as Sam burrowed into his chest. "It's okay, I gotcha." He spared a moment to shoot the doctor a glare. "Any reason you haven't done a thing about his freaking broken arm yet?"

"You're the first person he's let close enough to touch him," the doctor sighed. "He's already bitten one of the nurses bad enough to need stitches."

Dean smirked at that, and turned his face back into Sam's hair to hide his grin. "Atta boy, Sammy," he whispered.

"If you can calm him down," she continued. "I'd really like to get him taken care of before he hurts himself any more."

Dean gave her a quick nod, then returned his attention to Sam. "Hey, buddy, hey, it's alright. It's okay, man. I'm here now. I'm here. You down there somewhere?" he asked, nudging gently at Sam's chin with one hand. Sam turned a tear-stained little face up to look at him, and Dean smiled reassuringly. "There you are."

"Where'd you go, Dee?" Sam asked quietly. "I don't like it back here by myself."

"I know, buddy," Dean said, carding a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. They wouldn't let me come back here, but I got it all straightened out, and I'm here now. Not going anywhere."

"Good," Sam said, clenching the fist of his good hand in Dean's shirt.

Dean rubbed his back and planted a light kiss on top of his head. "How about we let the doctor take a look at your arm, huh?" Sam whimpered and gripped his shirt tighter. "Don't worry, I'm staying right here. But let's let her fix it so it'll stop hurting, huh?"

Sam considered, then nodded reluctantly against Dean's chest.

"I need to move him somewhere for an x-ray?" Dean asked.

"We can do it here," the doctor said, amazed at how quickly the little boy had quieted. "We just need him to lay down."

"Alright, Sammy, down you go," Dean said, shifting Sam down to lay on the table. Sam kept his hand tightly wrapped in Dean's shirt. "Sorry, buddy, this is gonna hurt a little bit." Very carefully, he lifted Sam's injured arm and moved it to lay flat on the table. Sam moaned in pain, tears starting to pool in his eyes again. "There we go, all done," Dean promised. He moved his hands back, one resting on Sam's head and placing the other on his chest, rubbing in slow circles. "I'm so sorry, kiddo," he whispered. Guilt washed over him as Sam fought to control his tears—he should've caught up to them before the shifter got the knife out—hell, he should've been keeping a better lookout in the first place! Seeing 'grown-up Sam' in pain tore him up enough as it was, but watching the little guy hurt like this was an open wound. "You're gonna be okay, Sammy, I promise. Just a little longer," he added, watching the doctor maneuver something he assumed was an x-ray machine across the room. "I'm so proud of you, Sammy," he said, meeting the scared little eyes. "You were really brave today."

Sam's nose wrinkled up and he looked away. "But…I was scared."

Dean smiled warmly and nudged Sam's face back to look at him. "It's okay to be scared. Can't be brave if you're not scared in the first place," he told him.

Sam considered this. "But…but you don' get scared. An' nobody's braver 'an you."

Something warm started glowing in Dean's chest at his little brother's praise. "I get scared, Sammy," he told him. "All the time. But if you keep going, even though you're scared, that's what makes you brave. Just like you did today."

Sam thought this over, then a small smile appeared on his tear-stained face. "Fanks, Dean," he said softly.

"Alright, we're ready," the doctor said, hating to interrupt the tender moment. "If you could just lean back, Sir."

Dean moved his hands back, leaving one on Sam's good arm as they positioned the machine above his other one.

"What's dat?" Sam asked nervously.

"It's called an x-ray," the doctor said.

"Is dat going to make my arm better?"

"It's going to take a picture of the bones in your arm," she said. "So we can see where to put them back together."

Sam's eyebrows crinkled thoughtfully, then his eyes widened in fear. "But my bones are inside my arm! Are you going to take dem out to take a pitcher? Dean, I don' want her to take my bones out!"

"Easy, buddy, easy," Dean soothed, just managing to hide a smile. "They're not taking your bones out. That right there," he pointed at the machine. "Is a special kind of camera. It can see straight through your arm." He poked at the muscle of the uninjured arm. "And take a picture of the bones inside."

"Promise?" he whispered.

"Would I let anybody take out your bones?"

Sam shook his head.

"That's right," Dean said. "So, you just lie still while she takes the picture, okay?"

Sam nodded, warily watching the machine as it was moved closer to his arm.

"Good boy," Dean said, squeezing his arm reassuringly. "Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I broke my arm?"

"Uh uh," Sam said, turning away from the machine to look at him. For the next several minutes, Dean spoke in hushed tones about a tussle with a werewolf—edited for scary parts—while Sam listened with rapt attention, completely ignoring the activity around him.

"Alright," the doctor interrupted at last. "It's definitely broken, but it's a clean break and will set back together nicely." She looked at Sam. "Would you like to see the picture?"

Sam looked nervous, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he nodded. The doctor clipped the x-ray to a light box on the wall and flipped a switch. "See this right here?" she pointed to the bone. "This is the bone inside your arm. And this," she pointed to the break. "Is where it's broken. These two pieces should be stuck back together."

Sam stared intently at the x-ray. "I fot bones was white. How comes mine are gray? An' how can dat camera see inside me? Can it see uvver fings 'sides my bones? Can it see inside my tummy what I had for breakfis?"

Dean chuckled. "Tell you what, when we get home, I'll find you a book about x-rays, and we'll read all about them. What do you think?"

"Dat sounds good," Sam agreed.

Dean looked back up at the doctor. "So, clean break, huh? That's easy to fix, right? How long will that take?"

"We're prepping in the O.R. now, and Sharon here has something to put him out so we can get started right away."

Sam's fist clenched in Dean's shirt again. "Dean, what's goin' on? I don' wanna go away again."

"Sh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean said, running a hand through his hair. "Nurse Sharon is going to give you a shot that will make you go to sleep, and then they'll fix your arm."

"No! Dean, I don' wanna!" Sam protested, pawing at Dean's shirt with his good hand.

"It's alright. I'm not going anywhere, and I'll be right here when you wake up," he promised.

"But…but I don' wanna shot," Sam whimpered.

"Sammy, I'm not gonna lie to you—the shot is going to hurt just a little bit. But putting the bones back together is going to hurt a lot. The shot will make it so you can't feel it." Sam whined softly, his eyes flicking away from Dean and to the needle in the nurse's hand. "You've been so awesome today, Sammy," Dean told him, cupping the side of his little face. "You think you can be brave for me one more time?"

Sam looked back up at him, determination and fear warring in his eyes. "I can try," he whispered.

"That's my boy," Dean said proudly, stroking a thumb across Sam's cheek. "Just keep looking at me, alright? Don't even look at the needle and it won't be that bad." He talked faster as Sam flinched at the needle poking at his arm. "Look at my face and tell me if I need to shave. What do you think? I think I need to shave."

"You're all scrufty like when Daddy comes back from working wif Uncle Bobby," Sam told him. "Cept you smell better."

Dean laughed in surprise at that, earning him a small giggle from Sam. "Well, I guess that's something." He smiled again as Sam blinked and he could see the wave of lethargy from the shot wash over him. "Just go to sleep, kiddo, and I'll be right here and you'll be all fixed up when you wake up."

"Okay," Sam said, blinking a few more times.

Dean kept stroking his hair as his eyelids fluttered shut.

"Dean?" Sam asked sleepily.

"Yeah, buddy?"

He blinked his eyes halfway open again. "You tol' de bad man if he put me down, he could have de 'pala. Would you really give him dat?"

"I would have, yeah," Dean said, somewhat puzzled by the line of questioning.

"Even dough it's your most favorite fing?"

Dean smiled warmly. "If it was a choice between you and the car, the Impala's always going to come in second, Sammy. Every single time."

Sam smiled sleepily and closed his eyes. He rolled his head into Dean's hand and sighed. "You're my most favorite too, Dee," he mumbled, and then he was out.

The doctor had been right—the break hadn't taken long to fix, and Sam was cleared to go home that evening. Dean had loaded up on pediatric pain medication and paid close attention to the instructions on how to take care of the cast—even though he was planning on having Cas heal the break as soon as he got back from wherever it was he'd gone with Hannah. Sam had woken briefly after the surgery—though 'woken' was probably a generous term for blinking uncomprehendingly at his cast, half-smiling at Dean and then falling asleep again—and was snuggled against Dean's side in the car as Dean drove carefully home. Grown-up Sam on medication was entertainingly loopy, but little Sam on meds was just sleepy, and Dean cradled him closely to his chest as he carried him inside and tucked him into bed.

"Sorry, little guy," he whispered, rubbing a hand over Sam's head and smiling as Sam shifted in his sleep and stuck the thumb sticking out of the cast into his mouth. "Big you would tell me this wasn't my fault, but big you isn't here right now…though I'm guessing little you doesn't blame me either." He quirked up one corner of his mouth at that. "I do, though. This one was all on me." He ruffled Sam's hair, leaned in to kiss his forehead, then stood with a groan. Bed was looking very inviting, but he was pretty sure there was still shifter gunk underneath his fingernails. "Don't fall out of bed while I'm in the shower," he warned, patting his sleeping brother on the back.

Sam slept through the night without any nightmares and woke up a lot later than usual—the drugs, no doubt, and if nothing else, Dean was glad his brother could have one night free of bad memories. He didn't complain too much about his arm hurting, and was much less reluctant than his older self to take the pain meds. He was in awe of the Impala Dean drew on his cast, and begged him for more until every inch of the plaster was covered in doodles and drawings.

"Hi, Cassy-ell!" he exclaimed excitedly when Cas returned three days later. He'd been playing on the floor of the library when Cas entered the bunker. "Lookit, lookit!" he crowed, jumping up and holding out his arm proudly. "Look what Dean drawed for me."

"That is a very nice car, Sam," Cas said, inspecting the cast. "But why do you have a cast? What happened to your arm?"

"It broked," Sam said simply. "It hurts sometimes, but Dean gives me medicines and it doesn't. An' he drawed dese pitchers all over it, an' I like dem. Look at dis one. Issa Winchester gun—it has de same name as me! An' dis one is a Ninja Turtle, but I can't see it very good, cause it's on de back. Where did you go?"

Cas blinked. "Oh. I, ah, went to help my friend with something. Is Dean here?"

"He's in de kitchen. Come on!" Sam said, grabbing his hand. "We can go help him make lunch! Dean!" he called, dragging Cas behind him. "Cassy-ell is home!"

Dean came out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. "Cas! Hey, welcome back, man."

"Thank you," Cas replied. "What happened while I was away?" he asked, looking down at Sam.

"Dean," Sam interrupted, tugging on his sleeve. "Is de food ready?"

"Yeah, buddy, why don't you go wash your hands? Don't get your cast wet!" he reminded him as Sam rushed off to the bathroom. He sighed. "It's a long story, man. I'll tell you the whole thing later. Is there anything you can do about his arm? I know you're on a limited amount of grace, but…"

"Of course," Cas nodded. "A broken bone is a simple injury—even more so given the current size of his arm. Healing it would not require any amount of grace to be concerned about."

"Thanks, Cas," Dean smiled. "Little guy's taking it well, but I hate having him hurt like this."

"Of course," Cas agreed. "Additionally, returning to his proper size might prove problematic with a cast that size on his arm. It would no doubt be painful."

"Oh, yeah, I hadn't even thought of that yet," Dean realized. The antidote was taking its sweet time setting, but the three weeks that were left were still less than the six required to heal the bone.

"What didn' you fink of, Dean?" asked Sam, shooting back into the room.

"Hmm? Oh, never mind. But, hey, guess what?"

"What?"

"Remember Castiel's special angel powers?"

"Yeah."

"You want to see him use them to fix your arm?"

Sam gasped. "Really?" He turned to Castiel. "It's kinda fixed already," he gestured with the cast. "But you can fix it all de way so it won' hurt no more?"

"I can," Cas replied.

Sam frowned suspiciously. "Do you hafta give me a shot like at de hospital?"

Cas smiled. "No injections are required. I merely need to do this."

He reached out and touched two fingers to Sam's forehead. Sam shivered and giggled and shook his casted arm vigorously. "Dat feels funny!" he exclaimed. His eyes went wide and he shook his arm again. "But it doesn' hurt anymore! Dean!" He spun around, holding the arm up to Dean. "It's better, look!"

"That's great, Sammy," Dean beamed, smiling down at Sam's delighted face.

"Fanks, Cassy-ell," Sam enthused, spinning back and hugging Cas around the knees. He looked up, blinking earnest little eyes up at the angel. "You're a really good garden angel," he declared.

"You're welcome, Sam," Cas replied, reaching down to pat Sam on the head only a little awkwardly.

Removing the cast was a little harder than Dean had anticipated, particularly on a newly healed, consequently fidgety little brother, but they managed to get it off without damaging Sam. He insisted on keeping the pieces, appalled that throwing away Dean's art work was even an option. He placed them proudly on a shelf in his room, before changing his mind and moving them to the desk in Dean's room where they could be seen from the bed, since that was where he slept anyway.