A/N: I found this in my files, and while it's skipped over a bit of what I imagined would have followed the first four chapters of this fic, I thought it could be a continuation. I'm not really inspired right now as far as Supernatural goes, so hopefully this will satisfy those who want to see this continue for a while.

"...a bal-bal?" Dean asks, furrowing his eyebrows as he stares at the yellowing page. His hand is wrapped around a cold beer bottle, which he strokes absently with his index. finger. "Ass-wangs and bal-bals. What the hell is the world turning into?"

"An aswang is a bal-bal, you idget." Bobby's got that long-suffering, but undeniably fond tone going on, and Dean looks up at him with what he believes to be an endearing grin. Bobby ignores him. "Your reading comprehension needs work, boy. Bal-bals are eaters of the dead."

Huh. Ass-wangs are incredibly confusing targets and Dean feels like he isn't going to understand them, not even when he kills them. Nothing should be so many things at once.

"But I thought you said that ass-wangs eat little kids and unborn babies? And that's why it turned Sam into..." Dean's voice tapers off. He glances upwards, to the ceiling, leery of what's above him - his recently-turned four-year-old brother, freshly tucked-in and sulking for all he's worth. He leans towards Bobby, whispers, "You know. A rugrat."

"Yeah, they eat both."

"And they're witches and shapeshifters."

Bobby nods. "And lycanthropes."

Dean's mind is officially blown. "My mind is officially blown."

Bobby rolls his eyes, smacks the back of Dean's head on the way to the fridge to get another beer.

"Ow, Bobby."

Bobby smirks, shuffles back over and takes a seat. "Last I heard, my name was Uncle Bobby."

Goddamn little brothers and the humiliation they cause. Dean doesn't know what's going to kill him first, Bobby holding "Uncle Bobby" over his head, or the fact that no more than an hour ago, he had to read a Richard Scarry pop-up book for the third time today. That fucking worm and its apple car. Dean would totally chop both ends of that little shit off and dare it to try to regenerate.

"Only when Sammy's awake," he grumbles, lifting the bottle back to his mouth. He's simultaneously glaring at Bobby and drinking deep, relishing that smooth feel down his throat and that comfy burn in his belly, when he hears the last thing he really wants to hear right now.

"I am awake."

Dean chokes on his beer. Beer should never be choked on. Especially one he was enjoying so, so much.

He turns around towards the source of that indignant little voice - the owner of which he just went to great trouble to put to bed - and sees Sam, all rumpled hair and pissy expression and too-big footie pajamas, standing in the threshold of the room, stubborn as the day he learned the concept of disagreement.

Dean doesn't know if its phantom, this pain he's suddenly feeling in his ass.

"Well, then you should get your little ass-"

"Dean," Bobby interjects, because he seems to be all about preserving Sam's innocence for some reason. It's not like the kid's never heard the word ass before, but Dean humors the old bastard, if only to ward off another one of Bobby's smacks or heated lectures or what-have-you.

"...butt back to bed, then."

"Assbutt," Sam chirps, and giggles.

"Hey," Dean says, even though he, too, wants to giggle. He's been made aware by the looks he gets around town that he's supposed to do certain things with a person of such small stature in his possession. Objecting to swear words is one of them, even if they are hilarious.

"It's redundant," Sam informs him. "Since they're two words that mean the same thing. Like 'stupid dumb-head.'"

Ah. Right. Dean remembers 'stupid dumb-head' quite well. He first heard it three hours ago while attempting to wrangle his kid brother into the bath with little success.

"Sammy-"

"It's bedtime," Sam cuts him off.

Dean raises his eyebrows and stares at Sam, who is now fidgeting innocently on his feet, leaning against the doorway, and waiting. Waiting for...Dean has no idea. "Right. You want me to put you back there?"

Sam shakes his head. "It's your bedtime, Dean. Nine o'clock. Daddy said."

Aw, fuck. Not this shit again. Dean is not eight. He's proven it time and time again. Driving his car, drinking beer, lugging his exhausted brother around in his arms (that are very much man-sized now, thank you very much.) "No, Sam, it is not my-"

"Sammy."

"Fine. Whatever. It's not my bedtime. It's yours. I'm big. You're little. Get used to it." Dean is, of course, aware that he sounds very much like an overgrown child right now, but honestly, he was just enjoying his beer, and if he'd known before Sam got transformed into three feet three inches of sheer trouble that taking care of a kid is far more exhausting than stabbing and shooting and otherwise killing the shit out of supernatural creatures, he would have gotten off his concussed ass that night and stuffed salt down that ass-wang's throat before it could so much as blink an eye in Sam's direction.

But he didn't. And it did far more than blink an eye. Blinking an eye doesn't cause this awful scene taking place in front of Dean right now: three feet three inches of sheer trouble wiping at his sniffling nose and blinking his own eyes, which are now filled with the most vile kind of liquid Dean's ever witnessed in his entire life: tears. Pure, unadulterated, heartbreaking tears.

"Uncle B-Bobby." And then Sam's toddling forward on legs that are clumsy and overtired and too short not to be adorable, holding out his arms for Bobby who isn't looking at Dean at all, whose mouth is all tight and forbidding, and Dean has the distinct impression that this look isn't meant for Sam.

It's not. Oh, fuck, it's not. Dean can tell because Bobby's reaching down and then Sam's on his lap, all pathetic and blubbering, incoherent save for the "D-D-Dean" that manages its way out of his mouth in accusatory tones.

"Dude, you're spoiling him," Dean says. "It's Sam. Bobby, you gotta remember-"

But Dean knows better. Dean knows that Sam at this size has far more power than Sam at his normal size - this Sam has the power to ground Bobby into a pile of useless teddy bear dust. Teddy bear dust that somehow still seems to hold an odd sort of authority over Dean.

"Get your ass to bed, Dean."

"Bob-"

"Take your brother with you."

And that's how it comes to the point where Dean once again has his baby brother in his arms, touting him up the stairs and into the spare room, and placing him on the bed, still-teary eyed and hiccuping.

Dean considers the runt for a moment, with his snot face and his mussed hair and the bunched up feet of his train-print pajamas, before sighing and turning around, openly and deliberately peeling his clothes off until he's down to a T-shirt and boxers because this is what Sam wanted and what Sam got and Dean's going to bed now.

"D-Dean?" Sam asks, holding out his arms. Dean kicks his clothes to the corner of the room, obliges for a moment and lifts the kid up only to dump him unceremoniously on the other side of the bed so he can get in.

Dean wedges himself under the covers, turns to his side with his back to his brother whose breathing is still ragged from the crying, whose tiny feet are digging into Dean's legs in a silent, but aggressive bid for attention.

"Cut it out," Dean growls, and he knows. He knows he shouldn't be such a dick to a kid who is so small and so out of his element and so...Sam, but he can't help it. It's been two days, and Dean still hasn't been able to enjoy a beer down to an empty bottle or a shower long enough to satisfy his needs.

And the feet don't stop.

So Dean finally turns around and grabs one of the tiny legs under the blankets, glares at what he can make of Sam by the dim Thomas the Tank Engine nightlight he bought at Walmart yesterday afternoon with Sam riding in the cart and gleefully throwing Lucky Charms and cookies in as they passed through the aisles.

Those were good times.

These are not. "Dude, I'm here. Go to sleep and stop bugging me for once in your life."

He lets go. Turns back around. Can't handle the sniffles still filling that space behind him.

Grits his teeth. "Sammy-"

"You're not s'posed to leave me alone," Sam blurts out. "Daddy said. You're not allowed to leave me alone. You left me alone and I was all alone."

Dean blinks in the darkness, twists around once again to stare at the shiny mess that must be Sam's eyes. "I was downstairs."

"I was all alone."

"You're being redundant."

"Am not," Sam insists. "You're being stupid and dis-bedient and leaving me alone when you're not s'posed to. I can't sleep. Something will get me if I sleep."

Fuck. Fuck fuck. Did he hear the conversation? Dean's fucking stupid mouth. He must rectify this immediately. "Nothin's going to get you, Sammy. What do I tell you? As long as I'm here-"

"It'll get you. If I go to sleep, it'll get you. Daddy says we're s'posed to stay together, Dean. Or something will get us."

Dad did say that. Dean's not sure if Dad should have said that, if those were scare tactics, or the God's honest truth, probably both, but Dad's not here right now and he wasn't there then and he doesn't have to deal with a scared little Sam, not like Dean does. Not like Dean always has.

Always. Because Dean's always with Sam and Sam's always with Dean. They're always together, just like they're supposed to be.

And...Dean can sacrifice a beer for a night. Or two. Or however long. Because it's true. It could totally be true. Something could get Sam, or something could get Dean, but if something's going to get them, they should probably be together when it does. Dean doesn't want to know what it would feel like, the guilt and emptiness that leaves that feeling like his organs were pulled out, like his body was scrubbed raw from the inside because something snatched his little brother from under the bedcovers like a hawk with a field mouse.

And he can't take the crying. And he can't bring himself to tell Sam to man up. So he just wedges his arm under the warm little body and pulls it in with an indecipherable grunt.

"Fine," he says. And that's all he says.

He closes his eyes and listens as Sam's breathing slows and smooths, feels the head on his chest, the fist gripping some of his shirt. He falls asleep, comfortable in the knowledge that he is where he's supposed to be.