darling i, i'll be yours till i die

Dean: [puts on sunglasses]

>rotten hand thrusts out of the dirt

The hunt they were on hadn’t been a rough one, no recent near-death experiences, nothing that Dean could put blame on, like adrenalin or fear or even anger.

He and Sam were both just nursing a beer, hanging out in their motel room, when Sam says something so nerdy–so Sam–that Dean just has to heckle him. It’s his big brother duty, after all.

Heckling turns into wrestling, but their both so exhausted from a long day of hunting that neither of them really put up much of a fight, so it’s really just rolling around on the floor. Sam’s grinning and laughing like a loon, and Dean doesn’t even think about it, just leans forward and kisses him.

Sam is still smiling when Dean pulls away, which Dean thinks is weird, right? He doubts most grown men would still be smiling after getting kissed square on the mouth by their brother. But Sam doesn’t seem too bothered by it, so Dean does it again. Then again. Then once more (just to be sure).

Sam’s laughing again, his face flushed and his lips a little red.

“Dude, what?” Dean finally asks.

“Nothing,” Sam replies. “What were all those for?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

“Yeah. I mean, I dunno. I just felt like it.”

“You just felt like kissing me? Just out of the blue.”

“Well…yeah.”

Sam chuckled. “Okay.

The thing is that the curse didn’t even make any goddamn sense.

“I don’t understand,” Cas said, over the phone, in that bone-dry way he had, and Sam ground the heel of his hand hard into his forehead and said that yeah, he knew, neither did he, but get here, and then it was only about six hours until Cas made it across the country from whatever fruitless plan he’d been following, and then he’s there, staring across the war table at Sam, who’s sat miserable in one of the rolling chairs with Dean curled up in his lap. Only–it’s not Dean, which is the whole problem. Cas furrows his brow. “That is not a dragon.”

“I know that, Cas,” Sam says. It’s a little hard to hold onto his patience. Dean’s been setting things on fire since last night and Sam’s both wet and a little charred and also very, very tired. Keeping the library from getting completely destroyed has been a full-time job.

Cas stares, a little longer, long enough that Dean seems to take notice and narrows his green eyes on him, imperiously, and then lets out a tiny gout of flame. Sam’s hand shoots for the fire extinguisher, but luckily nothing catches. Cas squints. “Why is he tiny?”

Sam drops his head back against the chair back. Dean is tiny–the size of a little lapdog, maybe a Pekingese, and he’s… well, a dragon. Not the dragons they’ve hunted, but a dragon like from a cartoon–dark green scales and little black wings that clearly couldn’t lift him off the ground, four short legs, spiky teeth and forked tongue and horns he insisted on rubbing against Sam’s ankles. Fire. He doesn’t seem to have any of his personality, really–Sam tried communicating, the usual sort of ‘two blinks for yes’ thing, but he’d gotten nowhere. The most he’s got is that Dean still doesn’t seem to like books much, is extremely fond of red meat (charred to perfection with his own little flames), and that he won’t let Sam out of his fucking sight. He scampered around Sam’s feet while Sam was trying to find books on how to change him back, and as soon as Sam sat down swarmed up his legs, claws spiking agonizingly through Sam’s jeans, and curled up into Sam’s lap to nest, butting Sam in the stomach until he slouched enough to make a good spot for him to lay. He’s super-warm, almost hot to the touch, and Sam has found to his embarrassment that he responds well to scritches behind the ridge of his miniature horns. There’s–another problem, though.

Cas leans over the table, and Dean lifts his head again and lets out a little roar. He curls up tighter in Sam’s lap, right over his crotch, and Cas stares, then looks up to meet Sam’s eyes. “What is he… doing?”

Sam can feel heat rising up his neck, flushing all the way up to his cheekbones. Cas knows–he’s got to know, what he and Dean do. They’ve never, ever talked about it. “Well, um. Since the curse is presenting him like a classic dragon, I think. Um.” Dean turns another little circle, plants his feet on Sam’s thigh and bumps his snout against Sam’s fly, hot breath from his little nostrils seeping through the fabric. Sam’s been half-hard all afternoon, and that does not help. It’s just that Dean’s so… warm, is all, heavy and attentive and obsessed even when he’s a foot-and-a-half long. Dean plumps himself down again, blowing out another little breath, the smug fucker. Cas is still staring. “I think he’s… protecting his treasure. Like they do in the stories. Um. Hoarding.”

Cas cocks his head. “Huh,” he says. “Some things may be hardwired into the soul, I suppose.”