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In rare moments, Dean's and Sam's headspaces become young together. Smiles come easier, worries over hunts or the ache of healing bruises fade to periphery, thumbs worry at the edges of their lips in a desire to self-soothe.
Sammy has already changed into his comfiest sleep shorts and puppy shirt. Dean's wearing his cowboy hat and sheriff badge. They're both sitting on the floor, curling up too-long limbs comfortably.
Even if it's happened a few times now—regressing into this vulnerable state around each other—there's always this shyness to reveal it to the one who's still "grown". But when they're like this together, it's just like they're little boys again, but much, much better. Because they have each other in so many ways now than they've ever had. They have three decades of built-up closeness in their connection. They're more equal, less afraid, more sure; altogether fewer questions, more answers.
So that's why Little Sammy wasn't confused at all when Dean scooched across the motel room carpet to be closer, bent knees pressing against bent knees. Almost innocent bright green eyes and toothy grin beam at him, inviting. Sammy beams back, dimples popping, and leans in for exactly what Dean wants.
A chaste, sweet kiss.
It's not the same kind of kiss they share when they're "grown". This is childish, silly, a little uncoordinated. There's no tongue, there's no wetness, just closed mouths meeting again and again like dandelion puffs knocking in the wind.
Sammy's insides feel bubbly and happy and content. He loves Dean, he loves him, he loves him so much. And it feels so, so different to love him like this. It's sparkles and superheroes and toy cars smashing together with vroom vroom noises and gummy worms and marshmallow mac 'n' cheese and big clouds of cotton candy from that one fair Sam and Dean went to because of a hunt their dad was on and Dean got sick on the Ferris wheel.
Sammy knows that when he's Big Sam, his feelings are all heat and spice and fire for Big Dean; but when they're like this—small and young and carefree, even if just for a little while—it feels like a different kind of special, something that just the two of them get to have.
They kiss and rub noses together for a while longer, their hands feeling too big touching skin that's too rough for how small they feel inside, but still, it echoes of safe, resonates sentiments of you are precious; I love you.
"You're so pretty, Sammy!" Dean chirps suddenly, the shape of his words having so little of the gruffness and deepness of his "grown" self. "Do you want to play army men or watch cowboy movies with me?" He adds, with a gentle tug of Sammy's hair that makes his nose scrunch.
"Only if there's puppies!" Little Sammy replied, referring to both.
Dean laughs. "Of course!" This Dean is nicer than the young Dean of yester-years who shouldered the responsibility John put on him. His indulgences are freer, less steeped in obligation or begrudgings.
It's not perfect. They have more trauma between them than they know what to do with. There's times their Little selves cry or beg for the bad in their minds to stop. Other times their Big selves get way too drunk and way too angry, and it ends in words they regret saying…again. But this, this is nice. They take it one day at a time.
Dean puts on the movie, and it's an automatic thing to cuddle close together under his big soft blue blanket, heads leaning against each other, breaths coming easy and hearts syncing. And if Sammy whispers "I love you." into Dean's ear, he always gets a forehead kiss back.
Because even when they're regressed like this, the love they feel for each other doesn't change, just how they choose to express it.