Stay Puft Marshmallow Dean

by Nomelon

Setting: anytime in the Supernaturalverse
Disclaimer: all belongs to Joss. No money is being made, yadda yadda.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None. Woo hoo! I managed a gen!
Characters: Sam and Dean
Summary: Crack!fic. Total and utter crack!fic. It's a "Dean turns into a *insert inanimate object here*" fic. Coz, y'know, there aren't enough of them already.
A/N: This is a result of a throwaway comment from jenadamson which lodged in my brain, showing me that I obviously shouldn't be allowed out to play with the other children any more.

~~~

'Dean, all I'm saying is, you shouldn't have scared her like that.'

'Scared her?' Dean replies, exasperated as all hell. 'Aw, man, how the hell was I to know she was a white witch? And what the hell is a white witch anyway? They're all meddling in stuff they shouldn't. It's all stupid. It's just so... stupid.'

'You couldn't have known,' Sam says placatingly. 'But like she said, it'll only last a couple of hours. All we have to do is keep you away from fire, water, children and small animals and you'll be fine.'

'Sam, don't say things like that! It's not funny!'

Sam bites on the inside of his cheeks. He's trying. He really, really is, but come on. There are limits.

Dean's grumpiness is palpable. 'Dude, I'm just... Stick those toothpicks in me.'

Sam's laughter vanishes instantly. 'I'm not sticking toothpicks in you.'

'But I could use them like legs. Then I could get around. It's so boring being a... y'know.' Sam knows that if Dean had shoulders right now, they'd be tensed up to his ears, Dean powerless in the face of adversity and hating it. 'So long as this is only temporary, I'm okay. I can deal. But I'm bored.'

'Oh,' Sam says softly. 'I get it.' And for the first time, he thinks maybe he does. Sure it's funny from the outside: his overly butch, belligerent, big brother has been turned into a marshmallow, but on the inside it must be awful. Sitting there, less than an inch high, squishy and pink and pudgy and pink and mostly inanimate and pink and ever so slightly lopsided. Awful and embarrassing and kind of scary. Especially for someone like Dean. Sam knows that he'd been terrified when he saw what had happened to Dean. More than terrified. He'd been two steps away from going global thermonuclear meltdown on the witch's ass. If he hadn't had Missouri's explicit say so that Cassandra, the white witch in question, could be trusted to turn Dean back, things would have gone down very differently. As it stood, Sam had called on every ounce of willpower he possessed to accept the timid witch's stammered apologies and her word that he'd have Dean back to normal before sundown. 'But I'm still not sticking them in you. We have no idea what it'll do to you.'

'Come on. It's not like I have any internal organs to worry about.'

'You don't have any muscles either. How're you going to move your new legs?'

'I'll... The power of thought?'

'What if after you turn back you still have gaping holes in you?'

'I'll...'

Sam raises his eyebrows, waiting for whatever pearl of wisdom Dean is about to toss out.

'I'll...'

'You'll...' Sam makes a little circular gesture with his hand, then wonders why he's bothering as he's not sure Dean can even see him.

'Call her,' Dean says.

'Who?'

'Cassandra. The witch. She gave you her number, right?'

'Sure but that was only in case of--'

'Well it surely wasn't 'cause she was hitting on you. Call her and ask her if we can give me legs.'

'Dean, I'm not going to--'

'Sam, I'm a goddamn marshmallow. Would you please give me a little fucking dignity?'

Sam flips open his phone and dials the number.

'Well?' Dean asks eagerly when the short conversation ends.

Sam sighs and rubs at his forehead. This whole thing is really just too much. 'She thought it was pretty weird, to say the least.'

'I don't care what she thought. What did she say?'

Sam sucks in a breath and holds it. 'She says we can stick things in you. This, uh, shape is only temporary and you'll be returned whole and unharmed to your natural form when you switch back.'

'Sweet!' Dean crows. 'Go fashion me some walking legs, bitch. And some arms, too.'

'Arms?'

'And get me some jellybeans or something for eyes.' The marshmallow crinkles ever so slightly, like it's trying to squint. 'It's like trying to look at the world through jello.'

Sam wonders if perhaps he's going completely insane. This can't be happening. The real Dean is probably crouched outside the window of their motel room, laughing his ass off, peeking in every so often while his little brother communes with a small piece of confectionary. Sam wouldn't put it past him.

'I don't really want to leave you here alone.'

'What's going to happen to me? Just make sure the window's shut and lock the door behind you. We already have toothpicks, you just have to go to the vending machine. It's right down the hall.'

'Dean, if something happens it's not like you can protect yourself.'

'What's going to happen?'

Sam opens his mouth, but no words come. Who's going to steal a marshmallow? So he goes, like the dutiful little brother that he is, to the vending machine, buys a couple of different bags of candy, and hotfoots it back to their room, because the thought of Dean sitting there, alone, innocuous, and completely and utterly helpless churns in his gut. Which is stupid, because Dean's right: what the hell's going to happen to him in the space of two minutes? Sam's been in sight of their door the whole time. No one's gone in or out. Dean will be fine, he tells himself, unlocking the door. Dean will be just fine.

He closes the door behind him, tosses the candy on the bed, and goes back to the bedside table.

Dean is not fine. Dean is gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Dean is without a doubt not there.

'Dean!' Sam roars, searching the room. 'Dean!'

'Yeah, yeah,' is the grumbled reply. 'Keep your shorts on.'

Sam drops to his hands and knees and peers under the bed. There, in amongst the dust bunnies, covered in fluff, is his brother. The marshmallow.

'Dean, what the hell?'

The marshmallow rolls back and forth in tiny little increments. 'Don't just stand there, dumbass. Pick me up!'

Sam picks him up carefully and sets him back on the bedside table. 'What were you doing?' he asks, cautiously brushing fluff off his brother's... head?

'I was trying to roll around,' Dean says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Sam knows -- sure as demons are evil and Ash's hair is the most godawful 'do he's ever laid eyes on -- that if Dean could he'd be batting Sam's hands away right about now. 'Guess I rolled a little too far.'

'No shit.'

'Did you get me jellybeans?'

Sam sighs and drops the fluff on the floor. 'Yeah. And chocolate drops and a couple of other things.'

Dean rolls over onto what could possibly be his back and lies there looking as expectant as a marshmallow can. 'Well? Get to it.'

Sam fetches the toothpicks and lays out his selection of confectionary operating equipment. He holds a toothpick in one hand like a scalpel and... just sits there.

'What's the hold up?' Dean asks. 'I'm not getting any less Boxing Helena over here.'

'Dean,' Sam hisses. 'Don't say that.'

'What?' Dean snaps. 'I'm a freakin' marshmallow. I have no arms or legs. General rules of etiquette don't apply to people like me.'

'General rules of etiquette have never applied to people like you.'

'Would you please just stop pitching a fit 'cause you found me on the floor and get to the jabbing me with little sticks part already?'

'Maybe if you'd been a little more patient you wouldn't have ended up on the floor and scared me half to death.'

'I'm sorry,' Dean says, garnishing his words with extra helpings of insincere. 'I'm fresh out of patient. I must have left it in my other pants. Do you accept hysterical hissy fits, because that's what you're about to get if you don't get with the leg-making, pronto!'

They try toothpicks first, Sam working carefully, trying not to jab Dean any more than he has to, but they don't work. There's no range of motion, and while Dean can waggle them, he can only manage an awkward step or two before he falls flat.

So they try licorice whips, which Sam reasons are bendier, and should work much better. He stresses over his task, imaging having a nurse on hand to mop his brow, but instead all he has is his marshmallow brother balling him out for having sweaty hands and threatening him with painful death if he dares to make Dean sticky.

By the time Sam is finished, Dean has licorice whip arms and legs, jellybean feet for weight and balance, and chocolate drops for eyes.

Dean sits up and looks at his hands, drums his little feet on the table, and sets about trying to get to his feet. Sam offers a finger, which Dean grabs onto and hauls himself upright. He stands with his feet planted, his arms bent like he has his hands on his hips, looks up at Sam and the marshmallow crinkles like he's smiling.

It's the strangest, and possibly the cutest thing Sam has ever, ever seen and he has to fight like hell to keep the awwwwww! from showing on his face because he knows Dean will be across the table in a shot, trying to kick at his hand in retaliation, and frankly Sam doesn't know if the little jellybean feet could take it. So instead he just sits there, biting down hard on the grin that threatens to overtake his entire face as Dean takes a few practice steps, pitching around the tabletop until it appears that he has his sea legs.

Sam picks up a handful of excess jellybeans and is about to throw them in his mouth when he pauses. Glances at his awkwardly locomotive brother. Sets the jellybeans back down with a complicated expression on his face.

'You happy now?' Sam asks.

'A1, Sammyboy. You know this isn't bad. It's like learning to drive or ride a horse or something. You have to concentrate like hell not to fall on your butt. It's all a little surreal to tell you the truth.'

'You don't say,' Sam says, hiding his smile behind his hand.

'Hey, Sam? Thanks for...' Dean waves his little licorice whip arm like he's trying to figure out what to say without coming off girly. 'Y'know.'

'Yeah,' Sam says, staring down at him. 'I know.'

'Dude, don't look at me like that.'

Sam frowns. 'Like what?'

'Like I'm the last slice of cherry pie on the plate.'

'Dean! I'm not thinking about--'

'Eating me? You better not be.'

'I think your brain shrank with the rest of you, you know that? You're the most unappetising marshmallow I've ever laid eyes on. You've been rolling around on the floor and you probably taste like boogers.'

'What are you? Twelve?'

Sam's about to retaliate when suddenly his brother appears, sitting on his butt on the cheap little bedside table which splinters under his weight and deposits him unceremoniously on the floor with a loud crash. Dean immediately leaps to his feet like he's expecting an attack. He catches sight of Sam, and his eyes widen in realisation. He looks down at his own body and howls in delight. Sam watches in amazement as Dean actually kisses both his hands and runs his hands down his thighs, groaning obscenely with the pleasure of being back in his own body. He bends his knees, wiggles his fingers, stamps his feet, and then, horrifyingly, looks down the front of his jeans. He apparently likes what he sees as he offers up a quick prayer of thanks before turning a megawatt smile on Sam.

'You're back then?' Sam asks conversationally.

'In the flesh. The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man is dead; long live the Dean. Can we please go salt and burn that bitch just for the hell of it?'

'Who? Cassandra? No way, Missouri would hunt us down and make us pay.'

'Yeah, but--'

'And maybe this time, Cassandra would make your little transformation permanent.'

Dean scowls. Then he grouches for a bit, muttering about witches and stupid chicks and how he could take Missouri if it came right down to it in a fair fight, but eventually seems to talk himself round, and dismisses it as a bygone, no harm no foul.

'C'mon,' Dean says, grabbing his jacket.

'Where are we going?' Sam asks, blindsided by the abrupt change of pace.

'For a walk.'

'A walk.'

'Yeah.' Dean shakes his body out. 'I can still feel those toothpicks in my ass.'

'Where are we going?'

'To the store.'

Sam stands up. The store. Dean talking about his ass. Ordering him around. All completely normal, everyday things. This is good. This is progress. 'The store?'

'Is there an echo in here? Yeah. I want to pick up a few things,' Dean says, unlocking the door. He stands framed in the doorway, looks back at his brother and grins, lighthearted and open, and totally over it already because he's Dean Winchester, damn it.

'What things?' Sam asks.

'You know, it's funny.' Dean's grin hitches up a few notches. 'I've got the craziest craving for s'mores.'

The end.

Sorry. Just... sorry.

Oh, and if you don't know of the movie Boxing Helena, the link explains all. I have never seen this movie, although I tried to many times. Strangely, I could never find anyone who wanted to rent it with me.