The straight away didn't ping me, but that may be because I read enough Brit authored fic that it feels like second nature by now. Now, that you've pointed it out, yeah, an American would have said "right away."

Ooh, cheers for the Britpicking!

runs to fix

Surprisingly, I can haz ending!

* * *

Dean keeps on glaring at Sam as they drive around town, and offering a running critique on his driving skills. Sam is in and out of Target as fast as he can be, with pants and shoes and a t shirt that look more or less the right size, but when he gets back to the car with his purchases, he is unsurprised to find that Dean has clambered over into the driving seat, and is listening to Black Sabbath with his head back and his eyes closed.

“Clothes,” says Sam, and Dean jumps, opens his eyes, and scowls again.

“What took you so long?” he says, scrambling out of the car and grabbing the bag. He looks inside, mutters several unflattering things about Sam's taste in clothes, and then climbs into the back of the Impala and gets dressed in something more appropriate. But he keeps Dad's jacket on, and just dares Sam to say anything about it when he gets back into the front seat. “Okay, let's go find this son of a bitch,” he says, and Sam winces again. Dean's eyes narrow. “Don't even think about telling me to mind my language, Sammy, or so help me, I'll put superglue in your toothpaste.

Sam waves placating hands at him, and then turns the key in the ignition.

* * *

It's not the same Trickster, and Sam's kind of glad about that. Dean, on the other hand, is livid. Sam really wishes he'd managed to lock his brother in the car, but knowing Dean he'd probably have just scrambled out of a window or something.

“What kind of crap is this?” demands Dean, gesticulating down at his body wrathfully. Sam absolutely refused to let him have a gun, but he's brandishing a sharp pointy stick as long as his arm with a very purposeful expression on his small round face.

The Trickster, presently in the guise of a little old lady, just shrugs and grins. “I'm granting people's wishes, Dean. I'm a Fairy Godmother. Put the stake away, dear, it won't work on me.”

“You're a – you're – I – look, lady, do I look like Cinderella?”

She smiles at him rather dangerously. “Do you want to, sweetie?”

“No!” Dean yells. “And I don't want to be a goddamn kid either, so pull that wand out of your ass and fix it already, Tinkerbell!”

She tilts her head and looks at him in a way that suggests she can see considerably more than most people. “You wanted someone else to look after you,” she says, smiling, and Sam winces. “You know you did. You miss having your father around, having that nice, comfortable belief that someone else has all the answers, and that they know what to do.”

Dean's eyes are like saucers. “You – I – lady, you can keep your shitty pop psychology and stick it where the sun don't shine. I am a grown man, and I like it that way.”

She makes a tutting sound, and Sam has to reach out and grab Dean's shoulders and hold him still before the kid can start whaling on her. Dean's whole body is vibrating with indignation, and he feels shockingly small and fragile under Sam's hands. He glares at the old lady himself. “Please can you undo this?” Sam asks, as evenly as he can manage. “Ma'am?”

She smiles. “Manners. I like that.” Sam smiles his best good boy smile at her, and keeps a tight grip on Dean's leather jacket, feeling his brother still straining to get away. “It's a reward, you know,” she adds, looking down at Dean. “I tested you, just like I tested all the others, and you helped me. So this is your prize.”

Sam gapes. “You tested him? Us?”

She nods, reaches down into the lilac coloured purse and withdraws a big, blobby piece of yellow knitted something-or-other dangling off a needle, and starts to knit. “I tested all of them. Some people were good samaritans, some people were...bad samaritans. And then they got their just desserts.” She peers over her half-moon spectacles at Dean, and her wrinkly little apple cheeks plump up into a smile. “And you love dessert, don't you, dearie?”

“What test?” demands Dean. Her smile broadens, and for a moment the little old lady flickers out of view, and there's a small, (continued...)

( continues...) sad-faced kid perching on the chair and clutching the yellow knitting instead. “What, him?” Dean sounds incredulous.

“Dean?”

Dean looks up at Sam, shrugging. “Just some kid I met, this morning. While I was looking for the shop. He'd lost his dog.” Dean looks sheepish. “I kinda spent a while helping him look. He seemed real unhappy about it, y'know? I mean – c'mon. Who wouldn't help a little kid look for his puppy, for fuck's sakes?”

“Language!” reproves the fairy godmother, who is back to her sweet-old-grandmother form again, and Dean looks up to the heavens and groans.

“Lady, I am a grown man! I swear, I drink beer, I drive my car, I cheat at cards, I like to make sweet sweet love to beautiful ladies. I hunt demons for a living, for the love of God! I do not want to have to go through Junior High all over again! This is not a reward!”

“It really isn't a reward,” agrees Sam, nodding. “I mean, it's nice that you wanted to, ah, help him, but this? Isn't helping him. Or me. Really.”

“But this way Sammy gets to see what a pain in the ass it is, looking after a kid brother,” she says softly, looking right at Dean. “And this way you don't have to be responsible for everything. You can get to play. You can get some proper schooling – you're not stupid, you know, Dean. You just had other things on your mind, at school. But you could start over. Do it all right. The Yellow Eyed Demon is gone, now. You don't need to give everything up for your father's quest this time. Sam's all grown up, he's a trained soldier and he's got his psychic powers too. He doesn't need you to look out for him.” She smiles. “You could have friends, go to camp, do your homework, go to college, get a job. You could be normal, Dean.”

“Normal's Sammy's gig, not mine,” says Dean, shakily, after a surprisingly long pause.

“You could let somebody else take charge.”

Dean draws a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. He's no longer straining against Sam's hands – in fact he's actually leaning back against him now, looking up at the Fairy Godmother with his head tipped a little to one side. “I'm useless like this,” he says. “You've taken everything away. I can't protect myself. I can't protect Sam. I can't protect other people. I know what's out there, and you've made me into one of the victims. Again. This isn't a kindness, lady.”

She looks down at him, and whatever she sees in his face twists her smile into something rueful and a little sad. “No. No, I see that. Very well.” And then there is a wand, a slim strip of polished wood without any glitter or stars or anything else, and she swishes with a practiced ease that's mesmerising, and mutters something softly under her breath. “There you are, then. Give it half an hour or so to take.”

* * *

By the time they make it back to the motel, Dean has had to do some wild wriggling and jiggling to peel himself out of the tiny jeans, and the shoes have popped off his feet. The t-shirt has enough stretch to it that it's not actually torn yet, but it does look like it's been painted on. Happily he was still wearing his own underwear, and it's no longer too big. When they get to the motel, Dean runs through the puddles in his stockinged feet, his naked legs flashing pale and incongruous underneath the leather jacket. He's shivering outside the door when Sam catches up and unlocks it.

“Fucking witches,” mutters Dean, pulling off the jacket and then dragging the t-shirt up over his head with some difficulty.

“Fairies,” corrects Sam quietly.

“Yeah, well, whatever. Screw the lot of 'em,” says Dean, standing there in his underwear and his soggy socks, looking kind of lost. He shakes his head briskly, once, and then reaches down to scoop up the jeans he'd shrunk out of earlier. “I'm just glad it wasn't permanent.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sam, watching his brother pull his jeans back on, and then tug a sweater over his head like it's armour. “Yeah. Me too.” He tries to laugh, but his smile feels oddly wooden.

Dean shoots him a sideways (continued...)

( continues...) glance. “That was a load of bullshit, what she said,” he says, after a moment. “All that crap about Dad, and stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Sam, nodding quickly. “No, I know it was.”

“Good.” Dean squares his shoulders. “Just so we're clear.” He licks his lips, and for a moment Sam thinks maybe he's going to say something else, but he doesn't. Instead he crosses to the little mini bar and swings it open, pulling out a bottle and popping the lid, then tipping back his head to take a series of long, thirsty gulps.

He looks over at Sam through his eyelashes, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I'd offer you a beer, but I'm not sure you're old enough to drink yet, Sammikins.”

“Bite me, Peter Pan,” retorts Sam, and he can feel himself starting to smile.

“But this way Sammy gets to see what a pain in the ass it is, looking after a kid brother,” she says softly, looking right at Dean.

About. fricking. time. Even if Sam doesn't really deserve it, because Dean would not want it any other way and they both know it.

Lovely finish, Fay.

Ohhh, I like the ending as much as the beginning. The middle was wonderful, too.

I'm so glad you're newly preoccupied with SPN, Fay. You bring us such lovely prezzies.

Yay! Mwah!

The Trickster/Fairy Godmother/whatever's insight into Dean's wish is just heartbreaking.

Beautifully done, m'dear.

That was really great, Fay. OH DEAN.

woobie woobie woobie