Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Point Pleasant, West Virginia

His name was Mike MacDavis.

His friends called him McD. The nickname had developed from a combination of his name and his daily trips to McDonalds. It was an easygoing name for an easygoing guy. He always had a smile for the cashier and there was never a complaint to be heard when he came in for his Big Mac and milkshake.

He had everything he'd ever wanted in life. A stable job that paid the bills, a loving wife that supported him through everything - even that brief phase ten years back when he'd attempted to become a painter. The artistic venture hadn't gone anywhere, but they had some lovely watercolor landscapes that brightened up their home now, adding a splash of color in a modern setup.

They had three wonderful children together, the oldest ten and the youngest toddling along at just two years of age. He trailed after his mother with a thumb in his mouth no matter how much it was discouraged by his parents and siblings.

They had a home together, deep in the countryside. Away from the hustle and bustle of the city and the suburbs, the only disturbance in the peaceful landscape was the cries of the blue jays and grackles hopping around the yard and trying to find seed. A playset out in their backyard was full of toys, even a tonka truck that the two year old, Max, used to push sand out of his way gleefully, kicking up a whole mess whenever he was out there. Not far away, in the shadowed treeline, a tire swing hung from the thick, tall oak. When kids came out to play, it was one of the most popular places to be.

Flashes from the last day sped through his mind. The path of the SUV wavered on the road as his thoughts tried to turn inwards to remind him of who he was.

Waking up.

Laughing while he gave his six-year-old daughter a piggyback ride.

Breakfast, always an adventure with the children. Max had decided his eggs and tater tots made good projectiles and refused to eat, but had been more than happy to try and fill up his father's coffee cup with floating debris. He spent the entire time happily squealing "Dada!" whenever he was caught.

Packing everyone into the family SUV. Heading out to the circus.

For some reason, he could have sworn he heard wings beating as he closed the driver’s side door.

Not much made it into his memory after that.

Little sparks lit up from time to time.

Clowns.

A ring of fire.

Carrie giggling next to him when he bought her a bag of cotton candy half her size. Her sticky face shining in the multicolored light.

They all packed back into the family SUV. No one seemed to notice the way his eyes had glazed over. They missed the red spark that appeared when he stared out at the road.

McD took a deep breath, his hands tightening on the wheel. The flutter of wings grew stronger in the back of his mind.

Or was it coming from outside the car?

It didn’t matter.

The red glint grew in strength, beginning to overtake the dark brown color of his eyes. His thoughts were washed away in the red tide, pushed out of his own head with each beat of the wings. There was nothing left. No thought, no memory, no family…

Marissa, for days afterwards, would swear that her husband’s eyes actually glowed red as he gave the wheel a yank.

Sending the SUV with all three of their children strapped inside careening into the other lane.

Directly into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer.

Dean considered his cards carefully, sizing up his opponents out of the corner of his eye.

The game was down to three, the others having backed out long ago when the stakes rose too high. Dean's winnings sat to the side, already a good haul for the night's work.

But he could do better.

"Raise," Dean said confidently, pushing his chips to the center.

The man across from him fidgeted at that, staring out at the five cards aligned on the table. Out there sat two aces... he knew that if Dean had the other two, it was all over for him. Even if Dean only had one ace, the guy risked going up against a full house.

Dean stared solidly back, his years of hunting serving him well and hiding his own tells. Out of everyone watching the game, the only person that could call his bluff was currently concealed in his chest pocket.

Sam, barely four inches tall, was adept at reading facial expressions. His small size meant that every little twitch and uncertain flicker that passed over Dean's face, or any other human's face, was easy for the small hunter to read.

Normally, Sam never came out to a bar like this. A rowdy bar scene wasn’t a safe place for him to relax and hang out with Dean. Plus, there was no way for him to enjoy a drink with his older brother, since he couldn’t risk coming out of the pocket. But this trip wasn't just for relaxing and building up their stack of emergency cash.

This was for training.

If Sam's curse wasn't temporary, they needed to harness it and use it to their advantage. They'd already begun by training Sam's fighting skills and having him practice daily by trying to escape from Dean. Being able to escape from a hunter would help develop skills to escape from other humans without the same reflexes. One day, Dean knew that Sam would be able to evade him effortlessly.

He just needed the opportunity to hone those skills.

Other facets of training focused on what Sam could do if he was caught. Dean had already taught him how to pick a lock (Sam always kept at least one paper clip tucked away in that satchel of his), and then he'd taught Sam how to track where a car was going, even if he couldn't see out the window. Now, if Sam escaped his captors, he'd be able to lead Dean there over the phone without ever having to see an address, so long as he was awake for the trip.

Tonight they were working on communication.

Sam's plan of using Morse Code to talk back and forth while he was in a pocket around other people was inspired. Not only was it inventive and off-the-wall like most of their methods, if used correctly, it was perfectly crafted to their situation. Sam could pound out a message no matter where he was hidden so long as he was on Dean, and if Dean needed to answer all he had to do was absently drum his fingers against his pocket. People would assume it was simply a nervous habit while Sam interpreted every word.

Putting it into practice wasn't as easy as they assumed.

First off, they had to start by actually learning Morse. While Sam had plenty of downtime in the car to study, Dean had to spend that time driving (though Sam did take advantage sometimes and quiz him on the longer stretches). Dean had the basics down pat, but if Sam moved too fast, he could lose a lot of the translation.

Secondly, though Morse Code was fantastic for communication, it was long-winded and slow. Each letter had a combination of sounds to go with it so even just spelling out Dean took a good amount of effort. Now that they were both becoming comfortable with the code, they had started to develop their own shorthand for it. Luckily, if either brother had to come up with something on the fly, they were usually in tune enough with each other to figure it out, and they'd get better at that with time and practice.

Currently, Sam hid in Dean's pocket to try and get a read on the other players and communicate everything he could garner. He might be the only one that could get a read on Dean, but he was also able to decipher the expressions of just about everyone else they'd run into so far. At least if Sam figured out Dean was bluffing, Dean could use the excuse that he was sitting right next to his heart; of course the guy could hear when his heart sped up from nerves.

With Dean's opponent considering his options, the pocket flap shifted slightly as the smaller Winchester peered out at the looming surroundings of the bar. The motion was so small that if Dean couldn't feel the movement in his pocket, he'd never even notice himself.

Throughout the night, he'd occasionally feel Sam stiffen up and freeze as instincts born of years of hiding from humans took over. If anyone even glanced towards the pocket, Sam could instantly tell. Dean kept a careful eye out anytime he felt Sam freeze, scanning the bar patrons clustered around to make sure his brother's secret was safe.

Dean's opponent gave a sigh. "Fold," he decided, backing out of the game to watch the end with the rest.

Down to two.

The last player in the game with Dean was a curvy woman with warm chocolate brown eyes that remained trained on him. Her lips quirked up in a smile, making his heart race for a whole different reason than the game. Luscious lips parted with the promise of more as she leaned forward. "I raise," she said in a deep throaty voice that was only for Dean despite the crowd their game had gathered.

If Dean hadn't been sweating before, he'd have started right there. She was the only person he couldn't get a read on, and from the way she was staring at him like a fish on the hook, she knew it.

But she didn't have his secret weapon.

He debated internally, resisting the temptation to glance at his cards. Calling her bet would take most of his winnings for the night. He'd be right back where he'd started, minus the cash he'd tossed on drinks.

As though Sam knew Dean was in trouble, there came movement from his pocket. A steady tapping. Dean covered up his focus on the soft movement by tossing the rest of his whiskey down, his mind struggling to decipher the message with the slight buzz he had going from the alcohol.

The tapping tapered off right as the word clicked.

Bluff.

Dean shoved his chips forward, giving her a smug smirk. "Call," he declared. Now it came down to the one whose bluff was best.

She flipped up her cards with a delicate motion, manicured nails manipulating them deftly.

The ten of spades and the two of hearts winked up at them, giving her a pair of tens. A weak, flimsy hand to bet so much on. Her entire game had centered on psyching Dean out.

He flipped up his own. A ten of hearts and the jack of spades was revealed.

"Two pair," he smirked, reaching forward to collect his winnings. His higher value cards nabbed him the win.

A flash of disappointment passed over her face before it was covered up. She sat back, sipping from a daiquiri like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Her eyes were dark as she watched Dean extricate himself from the game after that, sizing him up.

As Dean walked away, he mentally declared the night a rousing success. Not only did he now have a new stash of untraceable cash to draw on, the communication he and Sam had worked out was growing stronger. Soon, he knew he'd be able to interpret Sam's words on the fly.

After he exchanged his chips for cash and stashed the money away on his person, Dean stopped by the bar and paid his tab. Affairs settled, he headed for the door. Sam could use a drink of his own after that victory, and they wouldn't be able to do that here. The only place around that was safe to take Sam out inside the building would be the bathroom stalls, and that wasn't exactly the best place for a drink.

Someone brushed against Dean's side. "Leaving so soon?" came a throaty, seductive voice in his ear.

Dean twisted around. The woman from the poker game was standing just a breath away from his shoulder.

Her lips turned up as she leaned in closer once more. Her red blouse did nothing to conceal her cleavage, a silver pendant perched on the smooth skin above. It winked in the dingy lighting, serving to draw the unsuspecting eye down on it, as though she'd need any help attracting attention.

Her voice was breathy as she leaned in, a warm breeze grazing Dean’s cheek that tried to draw him along with her thinking. "Those were some pretty smooth moves back there. I bet a guy like you has a lot more moves than just card games."

Dean let a smile creep onto his face at the thought. "A few."

"Why don't we find a room for the night? You can show me what you’ve got..." Her breathy voice trailed off and she blinked slowly, showing off the smoky eyeshadow she wore.

A petite hand with elegantly painted fingernails brushed against his own hand, trailing up his arm. Inside Dean’s pocket, Sam stiffened and shoved an elbow in his chest, the faint jab reminding him that he wasn’t at the bar alone. The woman’s proximity meant she could possibly pick up on the smaller hunter’s presence, putting Sam at risk.

Dean took her small hand in his large one, insistently removing it from his arm. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said. Practiced charm echoed in his voice. "I've already got plans tonight."

Something in her eyes tightened at that, a strange anger flashing in them. Before Dean could think about what it meant, she was pulling away. "Your loss, hotshot," she snapped out.

She brushed by him as she stalked away. Even without Sam drumming a warning against his chest, Dean recognized the light feel of a pickpocket in his side pocket. Thankfully, nowhere near Sam. Dean's hand shot out, sealing firmly around her slim wrist before she could scurry off into the crowd.

Green eyes lacking any warmth narrowed at her. "Nice try." Dean tightened his grip until her hand was forced open out of sight from any other bar patrons. The second the fingers flexed open his other hand was there, prying his winnings out of her grip.

She didn't cry out once, only snatched her hand back from him once he let it go, rubbing a sore wrist while she glowered. "Next time you should take my offer."

With that, the would-be pickpocket wheeled around, blending into the crowd with the sharp click of high heels. No one even reacted to her attempted theft.

Now that the money was safely back in hand, Dean paid her no more thought. He absently fingered his winnings to make sure it was all there before stuffing it back into a pocket.

The parking lot was dim and cool, the world edging towards autumn. The case with Bowman was long past, taking with it the warm summer nights and hot summer days. A light flickered overhead as Dean walked out, flashing once before it snapped off. The rest of the parking lot was similar, many of the streetlights either flickering or out completely.

A few bruisers stood near a collection of motorcycles parked at the bar. With a sudden suspicion that they were the woman's backup and the reason she had offered him a warning before departing, Dean let his casual walk slip naturally into a hunter's stalk.

After over ten years hunting, it was as easy as breathing. His bearing became more confident and assured, his every pace measured and silent. His hands hung by his side, prepared to go for a weapon the moment a threat to him or Sam materialized out of the dark. A dangerous air surrounded him, one that the bruisers couldn't help but pick up on immediately. It marked Dean as a man that was not to be messed with lightly, and with good reason.

Over a dozen weapons were squirreled away on his body at any given moment. A gun in his pants, several knives scattered all over, including one in his boot and another up his sleeve, strapped to his arm. With a simple flick of his wrist he could have it in hand, ready to defend or attack, whichever was needed.

And as always, Sam was armed with his own knife. He knew the weak spots to aim for if their lives were in danger. Under the nail. The skin between a person's fingers. The arteries in the wrist or the neck. He would waste no time going for any opportunities he saw if they were attacked. It was near impossible for them to know he was even there, his main advantage.

With Sam hidden away on him, Dean had taken no chances on this night at the bar.

Sam was motionless against his chest. The small hunter was the only person in the world that could see past Dean's confident exterior to know he was nervous. The increased heart rate gave it away, like a giant billboard shouting out Dean's every thought as Sam leaned against his chest.

The bruisers watched him stalk by with keen eyes. One man cracked his knuckles menacingly, but no one made a move. Dean reached the Impala without incident, swinging into the driver's seat and starting her up.

Sam was left in the pocket as they pulled out of the parking lot. He'd caught on to the strained edge Dean's emotions had taken, and knew to stay out of sight. If the massive hunter was nervous, he was nervous.

Dean only began to relax as the bar dwindled behind them into the distant night. He'd smelled a setup the moment the woman had trailed after him. Likely, they'd been searching for an easy target to win the game, getting some fast cash out of a quick mugging in the parking lot. Clearly, they shied away from a dangerous target like Dean.

A half hour out from the bar, Dean spotted a dirt road covered in overgrown weeds. It was well hidden and vanished into the shadows. The Impala took the turn with a crunch of gravel under her tires, following through all the way to a field that stood under a starry sky. Dean parked her next to an old oak tree for the night before shutting her down. Heaving a sigh, he slumped back in his seat and the rest of the tension slipped away.

Slipping two fingers into his pocket, Dean propped it open enough for Sam to climb out. He left his fingers in the pocket, giving his small brother something to grip. Sam took the assistance, scrambling out of the pocket and hauling himself onto the back of Dean's hand. It was an easy, effortless motion, one that demonstrated the trust between the brothers after over a year back together. Even the light tickle feeling of the small boots shifting on Dean's hand did nothing, the hunter ruthlessly suppressing the desire to flinch. He knew that a simple twitch could knock Sam off balance, and though Dean thought he'd be able to catch his brother, it was best to not take the chance.

The easy trust between them had been built from the bottom up over the last year. Thirteen years of separation, divided by not only distance but also by scale had not been enough to push them apart. Even the brief setbacks caused by the Mangas family hadn’t done irreparable damage to Sam’s trust of his older and literally bigger brother.

Free of the warm and cramped confines of Dean's chest pocket, Sam stretched his arms out in the air with a lazy yawn. As always, Dean was unavoidably fascinated by the movement of those delicate arms and tiny fingers, normal, ordinary movements displayed perfectly in miniature.

Sam ignored the look on Dean's face, not caring about the fascination as he finished his stretch and lazily ran his fingers through messy hair. Even being held only a foot away from Dean didn’t change how comfortable he was.

Sam let his hands fall back down to his sides, done stretching. “Successful night?” he asked with a grin. He hadn’t seen the winnings at the end, being too concerned with staying out of sight at the time, but he’d watched the pile of chips on the table grow while he was assessing Dean’s opponents.

Dean gave him a smug smirk. “More than I’d hoped.” He pulled the cash out of his pocket, showing off their winnings. “And this time, half the money is yours, shorty. You’ve more than earned it.”

Sam crossed his arms thoughtfully. “It’s not like I actually need it for anything,” he pointed out. Both of them ignored the fact that after 13 years spent living a life that centered around scavenging, Sam barely knew what to do with money. He’d adjusted to simply being able to search out what he could. If he couldn’t find anything, that was it. He’d live without.

Dean nudged one of the small elbows, jarring them from being crossed. “But now you can’t tell me to just order for myself. Nowyou can eat whatever you want and not feel guilty about it. You’ve got your own cash stashed away.” He tucked the money out of sight.

Sam frowned. He almost looked like he wanted to argue, but ended up deciding against it. Technically, Dean was right. Sam’s calls throughout the night were spot on and got them through more than one game he’d normally fold out of. Sam could spot a bluff with the best of them.

The rest of the night they spent either outside the Impala, sitting under the oak tree and sharing a beer, or in the Impala. Dean curled up in the backseat as usual, and Sam got the entire front seat to himself. Sometimes he’d have Dean get out his bed and set it up by the back window, under the stars, but tonight he wanted to curl up in the warmth of a flannel shirt. There was no room for Dean to stretch out, so using a pocket on the hunter was off the table. He was too scrunched.

The clean flannel shirt Dean grabbed from his duffel was perfect for Sam. He settled in, enjoying the warmth even during the chill night. Soon the world would slip to winter and a night like this wouldn’t be possible, but for now the Impala provided a home and a place to rest for her boys.

Chapter Text

In the early hours of the morning, Dean found himself drawn away from a semi-relaxed sleep.

A steady tapping filled the background, blocking out the soft bird cries that echoed from outside. Dean's eyes blinked open, unfocused and confused about where he was for a minute.

His surroundings became clearer as he woke. A leather seat. His head propped against the handle of a door. Dean's gaze trailed over to the army man Sam had managed to get stuck in the ashtray so many years ago. A smile touched his lips. Sam barely stood twice the height of that toy now, but he'd lay bets that the small hunter could still get the toy stuck there again.

The tapping that Dean realized was coming from the front seat tapered off as the hunter let out a groan. He did his best to stretch out in the cramped backseat he had all to himself, mashing a hand against his face to clear the last traces of sleep from his eyes.

The tapping resumed as Dean hauled himself up. That's right, he remembered. Before passing out the night before, he'd set up the laptop at Sam's request. That way, if Sam was the first one up, he didn't have to either wait for Dean to wake up, or wake up the hunter himself. He could just hop on and start checking things out online.

The laptop now had a card installed in it that could catch a satellite signal, giving the Winchesters access to the internet wherever they traveled. Even here, parked a half mile off the road near a field. It was set up the same as Dean's multiple cell phones were, making it impossible to trace back to the hunter. He'd learned a thing or two from Bobby and John, picking up PO boxes in the towns they passed through more than once. They gave Dean a wide range of possible addresses to draw from when he needed a mailing address. It never hurt to keep his options open.

Finally awake, Dean curiously draped an arm over the front seat, peering down to see what Sam was up to so early in the morning.

To his credit, the small hunter didn't flinch when Dean suddenly appeared above him. He was finally pushing away the skittish reactions to his human friends, caused by his previous abduction. It had taken months, but with careful work and patience, he was recovering.

Sam craned his neck back, meeting the groggy green eyes a few feet over his head. "Morning, sunshine!" he chirped brightly, grinning up at Dean.

Dean groaned at that, rubbing his forehead and slumping back down into the backseat. It just figured Sam would be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the ass-crack of dawn. He was probably getting back at Dean for that one time he'd gotten up first and even managed to have his coffee while Sam was sprawled out in sleep.

Like it was Dean's fault.

In truth, Bowman had been sleeping in the nightstand with Sam that night. The wood sprite was an unknown, abducted from his forest home under the assumption that he was a part of the undead menace terrorizing the forest. With him so close to Sam while the small hunter was defenseless, Dean had been unable to sleep too deeply. More than once he'd been up throughout the night, checking to make sure Sam was safe and Bowman was asleep.

Of course, nothing had happened. Bowman was an innocent victim of the scourge that had attacked the forest. One sprite of an entire village of pacifists that Dean had helped defend. Unlike the sprites of Aeternum that Sam and Dean had dealt with previously, these wood sprites had no natural defenses, illustrated by how easily Dean could simply stick Bowman in a pocket and leave the forest with him.

With Bowman's help, the brothers were able to stop the creature trying to steal the life energy of the sprites, given to them by the Lady of Life, the Spirit that had created them. If the brothers had never journeyed to the Wellwood in search of a new case, the entire village that sat in the heart of the forest could have been wiped off the map with no way of preventing any of it.

Now, though they had to leave the forest behind, Sam and Dean had gained new allies. After discovering Bowman had a human friend of his own (and things would have been very interesting if this Jacob had found Dean abducting his friend from the forest), they'd left the sprite one of Dean's business cards. If any other supernatural problems cropped up in the future, they could come back in a flash.

The connection to the Earth Spirit blessed the sprites with their own form of magic, and magic had a habit of attracting the greedy or the evil. It was good to have a fallback plan for worst-case scenarios.

Dean and Sam had no problem being that fallback plan.

It was a pity they'd had to leave so soon. Sam would have loved the chance to explore an entire village his size. But a hunter's work was never over.

Sam's voice drifted up from the front seat, interrupting Dean's morning woolgathering. "Oh, I would have gone out and grabbed you some coffee, but you just had to hang onto the keys overnight. I just couldn't get the car to start without them."

Dean smirked, his eyes lighting up with mischief. He bounced back up to a sit, scooping the keys out of his pocket. "Guess I should just hand them over then."

"Dean, what are you..." Sam peered up, spotting the keys dangling over his head and the mischievous spark in Dean’s eyes above.

"Don't! "

With a snicker, Dean let them drop. It was only from an inch over Sam's head, so he easily caught them in his arms. Off balance with the cumbersome keys in his grasp, he pitched backwards with a strangled growl, only to be swept up into a hand with the keys. Dean raised the hand with his little brother sitting in it up to eye level, giving Sam a familiar smirk and getting a bitchface in return.

"What?" Dean asked innocently. "I thought you were volunteering!"

He snickered for a few more seconds, watching Sam try and untangle himself from the keyring. "So, what has you up at the crack of dawn, shorty?" He grinned, ignoring the constant glare shot up at him by piercing hazel eyes.

Sam whapped away a finger that intruded on his personal space to brush at the top of his head. "What do you think?" he grumbled as he adjusted the flyaways in his hair. "I'm looking up a case for us."

Dean instinctively brushed his own hair, reminded by Sam's actions that he'd just woken up and had bedhead. He leaned over the back of the front seat. Sam's small hands grasped a finger, trying to stay balanced on the precarious perch as it moved around him.

"You could at least put me down, jackass," Sam grumbled as Dean's other arm stretched out overhead.

Dean dug a newspaper clipping out from under the shirt Sam had slept on. "Almost forgot," Dean quipped, ignoring the complaints. He unfolded it, then let Sam down onto the seat so he could survey the article. "Found us a case last night in between games."

Sam stepped onto the crisp newspaper, pacing back and forth as he scanned it over, easily reading letters that were as tall as his fingers. The torn paper crumpled under the tread of his boots. "A suicide?" he read out loud.

"A strange one," Dean spoke up as he dug through his duffel. "This 'Mike' the article is talking about had the perfect life and everyone always said he was perfectly happy. There's no real reason for him to do himself in. He not only tried to smash his SUV into a tractor trailer blazing down the highway at 80 mph, his entire family was in the car with him. The only reason the family survived was his wife, Marissa MacDavis, wrestled the steering wheel away from him and sent them off the road. There were a few broken bones between the kids, but nothing life threatening. Mike was placed in a locked psychiatric ward for evaluation. Later on that night, he hung himself."

Sam crossed his arms with a frown. "Depression doesn't always 'make sense,' Dean. It might just be a suicide. These things do happen."

"Did I mention his wife said his eyes were red when he went nuts in the car?” Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Doesn't hurt to check things out," came the muffled reply from the back. The car shook slightly as Dean moved around out of sight. After a moment, he popped back up, a toothbrush and water bottle in one hand and a clean set of clothes in the other. "Back in a flash."

Sam watched him get out of the car, slamming the door behind him. A brief breeze of the chill morning air slipped in, ruffling Sam's hair and making him glad he had his jacket.

In the sudden silence of the car, punctuated by the receding footsteps outside, Sam got an idea.

He grinned.

During the course of the next ten minutes, Sam was on a mission. If Dean thought it was so funny to pick him up with his keys, they'd see how he enjoyed the consequences of his actions. It was time for some good old-fashioned revenge.

The hunter's boots were sitting on the floor of the car, by the backseat.

Dean, you really should have put your boots on before getting out of the car today.

The dirty socks the hunter had worn the day before were sitting nearby in a heap. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell as he lifted one up. It wasn't that his smelled pine fresh after a long day of work... Dean's were just too damn big. Just the one sock probably stretched three times Sam's length at a minimum, and was ripe.

Sam forced that from his mind. Revenge was more important and time was running out. Based on Dean's normal ablutions, which after a year of being with the hunter, Sam knew very well, he had about a ten minute minimum window of time to get his mission done. Twenty minutes max before his older brother returned and time ran out.

One at a time, each sock was taken in hand. Sam cautiously scaled each boot using the thick laces that stretched across the front. Each one was the thickness of his palm, and easily held his weight as he made his way up. He did a careful scan of the windows before going any further. It wouldn't suit to have Dean return early and grab his boots while Sam was still inside.

Sam dropped down inside, almost hacking at the smell. It was worse than the socks! Keeping his nose pinched, he used the sock to pad the sides, giving each boot an unexpected insulation. With any luck Dean wouldn't notice the sock, and would think his boots were shrinking.

Perfect.

Another three minutes later, and both boots were ready. It wasn't likely Dean would realize his socks were missing in his usual hurry to get ready, especially since they had no food with them. A diner would be the only thing on the hunter's mind by the time he got back to the car.

With everything set, Sam snuck back to the front seat and was keenly reviewing the article by the time Dean returned.

A shadow fell over the backseat as the door reopened. Sam glanced up, just barely able to see Dean in a clean outfit. The hunter leaned into the car, grabbing his boots.

Sam had to hide a grin as he sat down in the open door to put them on. Aside from a slight frown and a brief shake of his feet, Dean didn’t react to the dirty socks padding the insides. Nor did he notice their absence from the floor of the car.

Finally ready to face the day, Dean bounced out of the back. The car shook in time with the movements from the older hunter, almost offsetting Sam’s balance up front. The duffel was packed up again, all their overnight supplies vanishing into the dark interior. Sam had only been inside once or twice, and never while Dean was holding it. The haphazard arrangement of the items within was dangerous enough while stationary. If it was moving, there was almost a guarantee he’d end up sandwiched between items, and that could cripple or kill him if the force was enough. The fact that the majority of items inside was weaponry was just another reason to avoid the bag.

With their supplies settled, Dean drove off with Sam nestled in the crook of his neck.

Chapter Text

Sam discovered that the best part about being stuck in Dean’s chest pocket when they found a rest stop along the highway was having a front row seat to how his prank was going over.

He didn’t even think Dean had figured out what was bothering him yet. There was a faint hitch in his step as he got out of the car and started towards the fast food restaurant. If Sam had been anyone else and if he hadn’t been expecting it, he might not have noticed either. But it was there, and Dean’s normal smooth pace was broken.

He choked back a laugh, knowing that would ruin the prank. Dean had no idea that his boots had a small addition to them, and he needed to stretch this for as long as he could. That would make the prank even better. It was the first time Sam had thought up something he could use against his brother. Considering the fact that Dean was the size of a building, it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. He had to be inventive.

While at the rest stop, Dean grabbed them some grub and refilled the Impala. All the while, his normal gait had that unusual hitch, like every step was more uncomfortable than the last. Sam waited for the moment he’d bend down and discover the socks that were padded around the inside of the boots, but it never came. He continued on like everything was normal-- flirting with the girl at the counter like it was second nature, browsing through skin mags when he thought Sam wasn’t looking.

By the time they got to the car with the bags of food, Dean was grumbling to himself. He opened up the flap over Sam’s head. “I think I need a new pair of boots,” he growled as he scooped Sam onto his hand.

That was when Sam finally broke down into snorts of laughter. Dean’s eyebrows scrunched together, his eyes flashing between the boots and Sam. There was a slowly dawning suspicion in them as he finally realized that Sam had something to do with it. “You?” he asked.

The hand tilted and Sam dropped right back into the pocket, but he didn’t stop laughing as he heard Dean taking off his boots outside the fabric walls.

“Really, dude?” came through loud and clear with the way he was up against Dean’s chest.

Sam finally managed to stop laughing, but talking took a few more moments of recovery. He wheezed, trying to catch his breath as he pushed himself up to a sitting position inside the folds of light blue fabric. “What, you didn’t think I’d let you get away with that shit you pulled with the keys this morning, did you?” He shoved at the wall behind him to give his words emphasis. “Don’t mess with forces you don’t understand!”

Dean’s own chuckles filled the air, and then something roughly pushed Sam up against the wall, making him grumble. “Oh, maybe next time I’ll just leave my socks next to your bed at night. Since, y’know, you seem to like having them around so much.”

There were a few more pats against the outside of the pocket before Dean let up and Sam slumped back down to the bottom. He sprang up on his feet as soon as he was certain they wouldn’t give out beneath him. “You better not,” he threatened as he pushed the flap of the pocket up over his head. “Or I’ll havta find a better revenge.”

“Ooo, I’m shaking in my boots.” Dean dug through his bag of food, finding the side salad he’d grabbed for Sam inside. “You’re lucky you’ve got me, pint-size.”

Sam rolled his eyes with a heartfelt sigh. “Don’t let it go to your head, jerk.” He pulled himself over the edge of the pocket and let himself drop to the leg below. Dean naturally wasn't going to make things easier on him. From there he hopped over to the other and finally climbed down to the bench seat of the Impala, his goal before him. The edge of the container of salad was at waist height, so he had to hop over it in order to reach the food he was after.

He caught Dean sending him a strange look from above and sent his own right back. Dean returned his attention to his breakfast sandwich and Sam gathered up some lettuce and tomato. They set into their snacks.

No one outside noticed the four inch tall man that was sitting down on the seat next to Dean the entire time.

The trip to Point Pleasant took over two days. Dean found himself trying to think up a prank to pay Sam back for his little boot fiasco. It was hard to believe that the four inch man had managed to pull it off without Dean noticing. That was the kicker.

The kid definitely had balls for his size. Dean couldn’t imagine actually climbing into a set of giant boots like that for the sake of pulling a prank on his brother. What if Dean had returned early and picked the boots up with Sam still inside? He could just see Sam tumbling inside the confines of the boots, grumbling all the while and blaming Dean for all of it no matter that it was his own damn fault.

It wasn’t until they found a local motel in town that he finally came up with a plan to get Sam back. While his younger brother was under the nightstand, setting up his small area and his desk, Dean mucked about in the bathroom, getting ready.

He needed to find the right moment for it.

Currently, both brothers were simply settling into the motel. Before going to interview the family of the victim, Dean more than needed a shower after the night at the bar and sleeping in the Impala, and it wouldn’t hurt for Sam to have some time to himself, either.

After Dean had finished his shower, he’d seen it as the best time to get some payback on his little brother. Everything was calm, nothing was going nuts or breaking down and there were no sprites trying to roast their asses or berate them for every move they made. Sam’s guard was down.

When he hadn’t heard anything come from under the nightstand for a few minutes, Dean decided it was time. His boots were off, tossed against the wall by the television. With them gone, his normal stalk went from ‘hard to notice’ to ‘nigh undetectable,’ even by Sam’s standards. The only part that might give him away was the slight tremble of the floor under the nightstand when he walked around, something that wouldn’t even occur to Dean.

Lucky for him, Sam pushed that to the back of his mind as ‘background noise’ when it was just the two brothers hanging around. It was just part of living with a brother that outsized him by almost twenty times. Nothing that even mattered, as long as hewasn’t underfoot.

Dean took care to keep his shadow from falling across the front of the nightstand as he crawled into his own bed. The thing he lowered down in front of the exit by the books wouldn’t be visible to Sam with the small wood panel overhang that jutted out from the bottom shelf.

Scrunching his eyes shut and hoping, he lowered it all the way to the ground and managed to keep it from making a sound as it touched down on the carpet.

Now all he had to do was wait.

With everything in place, Dean stretched out in bed and opened up the laptop to browse through the town history. He needed to see if there were any other strange occurrences in Point Pleasant.

Less than thirty seconds into his search, a hit came up.

Sam stretched his arms over his head as he finished washing the last of his dirty clothes. Sets of jeans, jackets and t-shirts, all lovingly crafted by the late Mallory Watch, or her protege Krissy, were draped over the row of books that lined the entrance to the shelf of the nightstand. It was his wall against the world, his protection from his temporary home getting spotted by any unwanted ‘guests’ that happened into their room.

People could get in for a number of reasons… a maid might miss the DO NOT DISTURB sign that hung on the door from the moment they arrived to the moment they left. Sam aside, it would be unfortunate, to say the least, if anyone spotted the arsenal that Dean was packing.

Other visitors might not be as benign as a well-meaning cleaning lady. A burglar could break in. A single glance at Sam would be all it took. He’d be swept up all over again as nothing more than an object that could make money. Downgraded to some person’s ‘pet’ instead of Dean’s best friend and partner. It would be up to his wits and determination to find a way to escape, or hope that Dean could track him down all over again.

The wall of books gave him cover, the illusion that he was still safely nestled inside the walls of the home he’d lived in before reuniting with his older brother. Though he was working to adjust to living more like a human now, it just didn’t feel right to sleep out in the open. An enclosed space was safer and made it easy for him to keep an eye on the only entrance. At least he’d always know where potential attacks would come from in the event he needed to protect himself in the room.

With the clothes all washed, Sam chose a set of jeans and a jacket that was already cleaned. He’d already scrubbed himself clean so he wasted no time slipping into the worn pants and shirt. Two socks, almost small enough for Dean to mistake for scraps of fabric or fluff if the full-sized human was to see them, went onto his feet. His jacket was the finishing touch. This one was a soft green, made by Krissy from when they were last at the motel. It was just as comfortable as the clothing crafted by Mallory. She was truly stepping into her role as making clothes for everyone back there these days. Sam was proud of his old friend. Now if only she could gather the courage one day to come out and actually talk to Dean.

Wouldn’t that be something.

Sam shuffled to the edge of the nightstand with his boots in hand to see if his brother was almost ready to leave the room and get to work. Luck happened to be with him that he hadn’t grabbed his satchel yet.

Because the second he went to hop down from the edge of the nightstand, he plunged into icy cold water.

Sam let out a gasp as he surfaced again, trying to blink the water out of his eyes. It wasn’t deep, a good thing since it was over fourteen years since the smaller hunter had made any attempt at swimming. The current in a stream outside was too strong for him to risk without safeguards, and he was leery of the bathtubs in the motel rooms. The sides were too slick and too tall for him to ever escape on his own. He could probably use a sink for it but the thought had never occurred to him.

Sam splashed at the surface, spluttering in shock. “Dean?!” he shouted in annoyance, trying to find the source of his aggravation. His voice already shuddered from the plunge into the cold water.

Who else could it be?

Indeed, he heard someone snorting in amusement from one of the beds overhead. “You sonovabitch, Dean!” Sam snapped up at him, trying to flounder out of the chest-deep container of tupperware that had been shoved by his shelf. He wasn’t used to trying to move through water. The weight on his legs when he tried to walk caught him off-guard, but he tried to muscle through.

A shadow fell over his head as long fingers surrounded him and gathered him up into their grasp. Despite his continuing irritation with his older brother, he didn’t try to struggle free, letting Dean lift him out. He didn’t want to stay in the water any longer than he had to, even if it meant he was accepting help from the source of the problem.

Plus, the hands were warm and after a plunge like that he could use all the heat he could get. He already had problems with keeping his body heat, shit like this was not going to help.

Dean had a hand covering his mouth as he tried to stifle the snorts of laughter that shook his shoulders. “Ah, man! You should have seen your face!” He held his hand flat, letting Sam gather himself up after being momentarily enclosed in a fist.

Sam tried to shake the drops of water from his hair, glaring up at Dean the entire time. “What’s the big idea?” he asked snippily, trying to straighten his mussed up locks of brown hair. He’d only just gotten washed up, too!

Dean pursed his lips, clearly trying to hide a grin the entire time Sam was talking. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said innocently. “Just trying to keep up with my little brother’s idea of fun and games. I mean, that idea with the boots just spoke to me.” He gave Sam a wink. “Better watch what you start, pint-size.”

Sam flicked his arms at Dean, sending the last drops he had on his sleeves splashing against his brother’s face. “You just better be ready to finish what you started,” he grumped. “Or did you forget that?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean said, keeping up the innocent facade.

Sam threw him a bitchface and crossed his arms impatiently. “Gonna put me down so I can get dry clothes on, jackass?” he asked tersely. He was already privately trying to map out a way to get Dean back for the indignity of plunging into a container of ice cold water.

Whatever he came up with, it would have to be good. Dean needed to know that he was not someone to be messed with lightly, small size or not.

Dean ended up letting Sam down with only a few more pokes at his bedraggled state, managing to set a record high for the number of times he’d been bitchfaced in a small period of time. The soaked hunter stepped off his hand and watched suspiciously as the tupperware container was lifted out of his way.

It was hard for Dean to miss the suspicion directed at him as he took away the container. The way Sam eyed him up, it was like he was expecting the water to get dumped on his head. And though it wouldn’t be completely out of character for him, Dean elected not to, simply because they actually did have places to be and people to interview. The case was waiting and what a strange case it was.

While Sam once again cleaned himself up, Dean took the container over to the sink to dump it out. It wouldn’t be a trick he could use on Sam twice. His younger brother was a fast learner. He’d be checking the ground before he jumped from now on. It was amazing he’d fallen for it the first time.

Eventually, they were both ready to go. Dean dug out his suit. With the family in mourning from the loss of the father, it wouldn’t be easy to get an interview with the wife if he was dressed up in his normal street clothes.

This time around, it was a newer suit. He’d made sure to get one with pockets in the side so that there was a more comfortable place for Sam to sit during the interviews. If Sam came up with any questions while Dean talked to the mother, he’d be able to pound them out in Morse on Dean’s side. They weren’t the fastest with the code yet, but it certainly got the job done. Their successful night at the bar had proven that.

Sam let Dean put him in the pocket. The home of the family was only a few blocks from the motel, so there wouldn’t be time for him to hang out in the car.

With Sam and his weapons hidden, Dean set out for the Impala with his keys in hand.

Chapter Text

Only a minute into the drive to the MacDavis’ house, Sam found his peaceful time in the pocket infringed upon by grasping fingers. He tried to squirm free on principal but found himself lifted out regardless of his struggles.

“Dude,” Dean said, cutting off Sam’s protest before he could even gather enough breath to start. “Check it out.”

Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden onslaught of bright light out in the free air. He was definitely adjusted to the dark of the pocket more than the outside world. His vision began to clear up and the bright white light resolved into actual surroundings, including Dean and... His eyes blew open wide when he spotted what Dean was gesturing at, one hand still on the wheel as the Impala drove by at a crawl.

On the left side of the road, in the center between the two lanes, stood a statue. Even in the daylight it was tall, dark and foreboding. Faceted red eyes gleamed at the world around them, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back at the passerby around. One family was standing nearby, a mother taking a photo of her two children next to the cryptid.

“Moth… man?” Sam read out loud, staring at the plaque in front of the statue. The people outside were too distracted by the towering statue to pay any attention to the fact that inside the classic car that was rolling by, a four inch man stood on the driver’s hand. He crossed his arms. “Weren’t there legends about the mothman in West Virginia?”

Dean bobbed his head and sped the Impala up from its crawl. “Not only West Virginia, but the very same town we’re in right now. I saw some articles on it earlier when I was waiting for you to finish up getting ready.” A smirk graced his face as he remembered the prank he’d played on Sam after they’d arrived at the motel. “This town got on the map because of those legends.”

After a moment, he pushed those thoughts away and focused on what he’d learned. “It’s seen as a herald of tragedy. Way back in ‘66, ‘67, there were several sightings of it, seen across all of Point Pleasant. People spoke of hearing beating wings, they mentioned its red eyes. My absolute favorite article I saw about it was the first one that was written. ‘Couples See Man-Sized Bird… Creature… Something.’ ” Dean shook his head ruefully before continuing on. “In fact, the collapse of the Silver Bridge was blamed on the creature after the accident, and it vanished afterwards.”

He turned the wheel of the Impala, angling towards the family home. “People said that it could be hallucinations, a big heron that was mistaken as a man… the red eyes were blamed on the light reflecting back at the witnesses. But the legends grew, even after it vanished.”

Sam pursed his lips as he thought it over. “I’ll have to check out the stories you found,” he decided in the end. Whether it had anything to do with their case or not, he wanted to learn all he could about strange, supernatural happenings and this certainly fit the bill. Like their father’s leather journal was a wealth of useful information, Sam wanted to fill his own journal with all that he learned.

“You got it, gigantor.” Dean shot a grin at Sam for his mix-up with the nicknames.

Sam had to roll his eyes at that. Ever since that strange Spirit dream they’d received at the Wellwood, he’d gotten teased for being the ‘taller’ brother, no matter that he fit in Dean’s hand. If they ever got him back to normal, he’d tower over his brother and his father both, standing at least six foot three or four inches tall. Inches taller than Dean himself, a man that Sam was used to seeing loom over his head.

As Dean lowered him back into the dark pocket, he tried to imagine what that would have been like if he’d been normal going to the Wellwood. Bowman, smaller than his own hand instead of having a wingspan larger than Sam’s body. Being unable to see inside of the small homes grown into the trees with the sprites’ ‘Prayer,’ their way of connecting with the Spirit that created them and borrowing Her magic. A magic that had healed Dean before the hunter had lashed out and attacked the innocents around them, his mind almost stolen away by the poison of the lich that had been hunting the sprites down. If it had taken Dean away from Sam, no one would have been safe in the end.

Of course, if he was normal sized, he might have been able to stave that off even if Dean did snap. He would be big enough that a punch from Dean would only rock him on his feet. He could wrap his hands around Dean’s wrists, hold him down, give the sprites the time they needed to heal him and take that poison away. As it was, he’d managed to draw Dean out of his trance just long enough with his voice and his support, even as the hunter treated him like nothing more than a curiosity, blind to the fact that it was his own brother he had clutched in his hand.

Those memories continued to haunt Dean. Sam could see it in the occasional glimpse he caught of those solemn green eyes staring at him. Dean always wanted to make sure Sam was okay when he thought he wasn’t looking. He always forgot Sam could tell when he was being watched.

Sam settled into the pocket, listening to the sounds of the outside world. The rumble of the engine was comforting as it responded to Dean’s touch outside. He let his head fall against the side of the pocket resting against the human’s side and let the residual body heat keep him warm.

It only took another three minutes before the Impala rolled to a stop. Sam stared up at the top of the pocket, wishing he could see out without putting himself in harm’s way. But he’d have to keep his head down, especially in a house like the one they were going into. Dean or no Dean, this house was full of kids.

Sam understood that his fear might seem silly to a human like his brother. But a kid, if they ran into Dean, would only bounce off the massive hunter. They couldn’t grab him in a hand, and a single wrong move wouldn’t break his arm or crush his body.

Sam understood well enough that most children wouldn’t hurt him. They’d be undeniably fascinated with him because of his size. Hell, half the time Dean was fascinated by him, even after all this time. Sam never complained about it, considering the way he himself was equally fascinated by the fact that he was small enough to fit into a pocket, of all things. Plus, he’d had longer to adjust to his new perspective than Dean had to adjust to the fact that his brother was a Polly freakin’ Pocket, of all things, as Dean put it so eloquently. So he’d give Dean a pass for staring, at least as long as he wasn’t bothering him. Even the tingle on the back of his neck was subdued with Dean, his gift understanding no harm was meant.

There were some children (and adults, of course), that Sam would need to avoid. He was the size of a toy. Younger kids wouldn’t care that he could talk; in fact, that would make him all the more interesting for playing with. Kids under three also had a habit of putting things that were in their hands into their mouths.

Sam had no intention of ever finding out what that was like. Dean teasing in a cup of beer was as close as he ever wanted to go to a mouth so long as he was small enough to fit inside.

Other kids, older kids, would think of him as more of a possession. A pet. Something interesting like a parrot or a snake. Not a person with his own rights.

He severely wished that more kids were like Sari, the little girl that had lived in his old childhood home. That way the stupid fear he had of them could screw itself and go away.

The engine shut down and Dean climbed out of the car. Sam flinched at the booming power of the door slamming shut behind the hunter. No matter how many times he heard that, or the sound of a gunshot, it went right through him, rattling his skeleton and even making him go numb if it was loud enough. A gun going off could temporarily deafen him at his smaller size. Hearing was sensitive in a person the size of a hand. Loud voices were bad enough; a gun going off was overkill.

Dean’s swaying stride rocked the suit pocket from side to side as he ambled casually up the walkway to the house in question. Sam simply threaded his fingers into the sides of the pocket, holding himself in place. After over a year of traveling like this, he was practically an expert at it. He wasn’t thrown off balance at all, not even when Dean came to a halt and the momentum of the jacket was tossed forward a few inches only to fall back down.

A sonorous doorbell rang out overhead and the sound of children running by the door made it to Sam’s ears. “Momma!” he heard in the distance. “Momma! There’s a man at the door!”

Even Sam couldn’t hide a smile at the sound of the innocent voices. The family had been through so much, but they still had energy and exuberance to share. The severity of what had happened must not have sunk in…

Or they haven’t been told their dad’s dead, Sam realized belatedly.

As the door opened to the inside of the house, Sam pounded out a message against Dean’s side, hoping he wasn’t too late. Dean was a fantastic hunter, but certain subtleties went over his head. He might be a master at lore and piecing together patterns, but when it came to people that weren’t women he was hitting on… he was lacking a certain empathy for them.

Not that he didn’t do his best. Dean had a great way with kids, even kids that were smaller than his fingers. Vel and Kara were clear proof of that. But this kind of thing… this was more up Sam’s alley.

He finished up the message as a melodious voice welcomed Dean. “Hello? How can I help you?”

Dean shifted, making the pocket with Sam in it start swinging all over again. Hopefully he’d gotten the message. “You must be Marissa.” A pause came where she must have confirmed the fact with a nod. “My name’s Tom Shaw.” Yet another pause came as he must have been showing her his fake ID, most likely the FBI badge he’d made himself.

Unfortunately, in the pocket, Sam missed out on a lot of context.

“I, ah… I’m here to talk to you about the events concerning your… accident the other day.”

Must have got the message, Sam thought to himself, relieved. The new Morse Code method they’d worked up between each other was working out just the way he’d hoped. He could ‘talk’ to Dean when he thought of something, and if Dean need to, he could ‘talk’ back by drumming his fingers against the pocket. Hard enough for Sam to interpret, but light enough that a tap wouldn't hurt the smaller hunter if it was misplaced.

“Of… course. Come in, please.”

For the next few minutes, Dean was relocated to the kitchen of the house and the mother could be heard in the background, sending the children upstairs to keep out of the way. The tension that had built up in Sam’s shoulders leaked away. He knew there was no reason to be nervous since Dean was so close by and not about to let any kids close to his little brother, but the feeling was always there nonetheless.

While they were left on their own, Dean did a sweep of the room to see if he could find any hexbags. It wasn’t normal for a witch to kill a target in a way that put the entire family in danger, but neither of them wanted to take any chances. There was always the possibility of an evil bitch out there that had it out for the entire MacDavis clan.

The elegant tap of Marissa’s shoes could be heard coming back again. With the kids upstairs and out of sight, Sam pulled himself up in the pocket. Daringly, he decided to push open the top and peer out, curious about everything that was going on outside.

Dean gave Marissa a smile as she handed him a glass of water. “I’m sorry to bother you. I know… it’s a bad time.” He ignored the shifting from his side, already knowing that Sam would be trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on. If the mother’s eyes even ventured near the pocket he’d just drop his hand and cover up the opening.

Marissa’s eyes were red-rimmed as she blinked at Dean. “S-sorry,” she managed to get out as she blew her nose on a tissue, trying to compose herself.

Dean waved off her apologies. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry I have to bother you so soon after your tragedy.” He straightened in his seat as she perched on a matching stool across the counter.

“They never tell you how to break it to your kids,” she mumbled into the sodden tissue. “There’s no book out there to make this easier.”

Dean shifted in his seat as she blew her nose all over again, glad Sam had managed to get that message across to him before he got himself snared in a snake’s nest. Even stuck in a pocket all day, Sam was invaluable on a case. “Kids are tough,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face. “Tougher than a lot of people give them credit for. They might end up surprising you.”

“Maybe…” she said in a soft, thoughtful voice. Blinking her eyes to clear them, she tried to focus on the stranger she’d welcomed into her home. “W-why does the FBI care about what happened to Mike? It was just a suicide attempt… right?”

Dean steepled his fingers and leaned forward in his seat. His intensity conveyed how important his words would be. “What concerns us is what happened before the suicide. From all accounts I’ve read, something like this should not have happened.”

Her grip on the tissue increased. “What are you trying to say, Tom?” she asked tightly. Her knuckles began to turn white from the pressure she had on that bedraggled tissue.

Dean’s demeanor didn’t waver. “We’re not accusing him of anything,” he said, keeping a reassuring tone of voice the entire time, “but the possibility of an outside force controlling his actions isn’t something we can just brush aside.”

He put a hand on hers. Once again he found himself wishing he had Sam’s easy way about him, replacing intensity with empathy. People just wanted to trust the younger brother and if Dean could only channel that ability, he’d be set on cases. The sprites had warmed right up to Sam, despite his blunder in telling them they were hunters. The word had a bad association for them. Apparently a hunter, a normal, run-of-the-mill game hunter, had attacked the village a year before, and he didn't care about the innocents he was threatening.

“If there was something influencing him, we want to trace it back to its source and make sure no other families suffer the way yours did.”

Slender fingers, as cold as ice, recoiled from his warm touch. “Like… drugs?” Her dark eyes took in Dean’s, a prayer in them for the accident to not be McD’s fault as clear as a bell.

Whatever she got out of Dean’s expressionless face she took as confirmation. She nodded. “Okay. What did you need to know?”

Chapter Text

Dean lowered his voice and leaned in so he was closer to Marissa. “I have a few questions I need to ask you. No matter how strange they may seem, the answers are important.”

She tilted her head uncertainly. Her fingers drummed absently on the table as she thought it over. “O-okay. I can do that.” All the emotions that threatened to spill into the air at the drop of a hat lurked at the edge of her voice.

Dean would have to make this quick.

He took a yellow pad of paper out of his jacket so he could pretend to consult it while he talked. Using a prop might seem extraneous but it was important she didn’t realize he’d had the questions long since memorized. She didn’t need to know that the questions came from him and not the bureau.

“On the day of the accident,” Dean started off, “do you remember smelling anything out of place? For instance… sulfur or rotten eggs. Ozone is another big one. It most likely would be a smell that came from near your husband.”

Her eyebrows creased in confusion but for the moment she went along with him. “N-no, not that I can remember.”

“Good… good,” Dean mimed checking something off in his notebook. He caught a fleeting glimpse of bright hazel eyes staring up at him from a pocket. Sam, curious as always. He had to suppress a smile. That’s right. Watch the master in action.

His pride in his skills wasn’t unfounded.

After all, Dean had been hunting since he was sixteen. GED freshly in hand, ready to take on the world with his Impala. It was the first time he’d been able to get his dad to bend and let him hunt after Sam had vanished into thin air, presumed dead. For so long, John hadn’t wanted his son to hunt at all.The few hunting trips before Sam's death had halted immediately when the younger boy vanished because of a witch.

Dean never knew if it was because John simply didn’t trust him on a hunt after letting his brother slip away from him.

Hunting since sixteen didn’t sound like much, but at the young age of twenty-eight, he’d been hunting for twelve years.

Twelve years.

Dean never let himself take into consideration that, in a very real way, his life and his childhood had been ripped away as completely as Sam’s had been. He was a hunter. It was as simple as that. He helped people. He would never go to college or have a ‘real’ job. He would never settle down or raise a family. That part of his life had been sacrificed long before he ever knew there was a choice. Exchanged for saving people and hunting things.

He would always be proud of what he did. He hoped, in a distant, hidden corner of his mind, that Sam was just as proud.

He’d become what he’d become for Sam, in the end. For the chance to help other families avoid the tragedy that had befallen them and ripped the youngest son away long before his time.

“Now,” Dean continued on, letting none of this show on his face, “did you notice any flickering lights or trouble with the electricity at all?”

The small hazel eyes watching him from below vanished as the woman shifted in her seat in confusion. “What does any of this have to do with my Mike?” she asked, hostility coloring her tone.

Dean’s jaw tightened in turn. “Rest assured, it’s important,” he said levely. “Now, answer the question. Ma’am.”

“No, nothing! No lights flickering, problems with the electricity or anything!” As she talked, her voice started to rise. “Just us and the kids. We spent the day at the circus!”

Dean tapped his notebook distractedly with his pen, doing his best to not look overly interested in the answers she gave. “Any cold spots at all? Did your husband complain about the temperature fluctuating?”

The hostility was gone as Marissa’s emotions turned cold and dead. She was resigned to his questions. “Not that I recall. The kids were fine and they always complain if they get cold.”

Dean gave her a smile. “Almost done, promise. Did you notice anything odd about Mike’s eyes? Like did they ever look black?”

She froze up and Dean knew he had her. “No black eyes,” she responded. The hesitation in her voice was almost a billboard that shouted to the world there was more to the story.

“But…?” Dean prodded.

“I… you’ll think I’m crazy.” Marissa’s lips thinned.

“Marissa, if you’ve seen anything, I need to know. It’s important, no matter how impossible it might seem. Please.”

She sighed. “For a second, when he whipped the minivan in front of that tractor trailor… I mean, it was all really fast and hard to make out, but… for a second it looked like his eyes reflected red back at me. I’ve never seen anything like it… kind of like the red eye in a camera, but it was right there, in person.” She gave him a shrug. “That’s it. It only lasted a second and then I was wrenching the wheel out of his hands. That truck… it must have been inches it missed us by.”

Dean found himself biting his lip. Red eyes… He couldn’t help but think of the shapeshifter he’d killed back in St. Louis. There, a ‘flare’ in a camera had given it away as nonhuman. But here… she’d seen it in person, real-time. He’d never seen the shapeshifters eyes flash when he’d been fighting it at all. There was no way to know if it was the same thing in this case.

However, this did give them a lead. Something was at work that had made Mike MacDavis turn on his family and try to send them all hurtling to their deaths. The chances of him being the monster were slim considering the suicidal turn things had taken… but it could be that he’d been controlled by an outside source, like a demon.

Dean shook his head clear of those thoughts. “And you’re sure you didn’t smell any bad eggs?” he asked her one last time, banking on that thought. Demons could escape their host bodies without being damaged in the fight, resulting in people that took dangerous risks like sabotaging a plane… or a minivan.

Marissa shook her head. “I’m sure.”

“I dunno, this one’s weird,” Dean said out loud.

His hands were gripped around the steering wheel as he spoke to Sam. The younger hunter had relocated to his shoulder for the short trip back to the motel to make it easier for them to talk to each other. It was definitely odd to talk to Sam when he was tucked away in a pocket. Past the fact that his voice was already so quiet most of the time, Dean could barely make it out from that far away unless Sam was shouting.

Sam crossed his arms and leaned casually back against Dean’s neck as he thought things over. Despite the fact that he was sitting so close to the neck and hence completely out of sight for the older hunter, the rearview mirror had been adjusted just enough to let Dean make out the reflection of the small guy using him as a car seat. Even as he glanced at Sam he could see him kick up his legs and stretch out.

Dean had to hide a grin at that. Sam growing more comfortable with him even after being taken by the Mangas family was something to cherish.

Even if it meant he was a recliner seat.

“It has to be something controlling him,” Sam said thoughtfully to the air. He didn’t notice the way Dean was watching him between glances at the road, completely adjusted to the familiar green eyes being on him. The sensation of being watched by a human was dulled by the familiarity the brothers had between each other.

“But what? Demons have black eyes,” Dean mused in reply.

“When we were at Bobby’s I read about some demons that have red eyes,” Sam said. “They aren’t common, but the demons that make deals are red-eyed. But those aren’t found away from crossroads. I don’t know why one would want to send a middle class family crashing into traffic. If there’s no deal made, there’s no soul for the demon to take. Just a buncha dead bodies.”

After Sam’s brief explanation, Dean was silent for a long moment, watching the road slip by and the motel come back into view. “Maybe we should check things out. See if there’s any reason that someone would want to put out a hit on Mike’s life. Maybe someone else made the deal for him to die.”

“It’s possible. So, we gonna be doing research tonight?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “My favorite thing ever.”

Sam waited until Dean was fast asleep to slip out of the room.

Research that night hadn’t revealed as much as they’d hoped. Nothing in the lore they’d dug through had eyes like Marissa had described. Red-eyed demons were a lot like black-eyed demons in outward appearance. Either the entire eye or the iris was changed to a solid color when their demon side reared its ugly head.

A glint of light, like red eye in a camera was unheard of. Shapeshifters’ eyes flashed white in surveillance cams as Dean had discovered before reuniting with Sam. His case in St. Louis was one for the memory books. It had put one ‘Dean Winchester’ on the maps as a murderer at the same time as he’d been presumed dead.

Dean had killed the shapeshifter that was wearing his face, the real murderer that was at work in town.

Despite the fact that Sam had always wanted to reunite with Dean sooner, he was glad he hadn’t been around for that case. One doppelganger was enough for a lifetime.

The shapeshifter, unlike the doppelganger, had possessed Dean’s entire memory. It would have discovered the double knock on the door that Dean had thought up for Sam’s safety. Sam would have become easy prey for it, his only hope resting in the silver knife he owned. If a knife so small could even do anything against a giant monster.

One Dean was more than enough.

During their research session that night, Sam had surreptitiously glanced around the room to search out hidden paths in and out. Paths his size, ones that Dean might overlook. He had a plan to get back at Dean for the container full of water he’d plunged into that afternoon.

He just needed the right equipment, and he wasn’t going to find it in their room.

Sam ended up wasting an hour scouring the room for secret entrances. It grew obvious to him as he went that no one lived in the motel walls, and if they did, they didn’t spend their time working on tunnels and pathways like the others at his old home.

The calm, steady breathing of his older brother filled the background as he went, making him glad all over again that he’d never heard Dean snore. The soft gusts made the atmosphere of the room, as immense and sweeping as it was to the four inch hunter, a welcoming environment. A temporary home for him, like all the motel rooms they’d stayed in before.

So long as he was in that room, he had nothing to fear.

Of course, none of that was helping Sam find his way out of the room on his quest for supplies.

He gave up on secret entrances and ran for the vent. The slits in the grating were just wide enough for him to squirrel his way through. At his own scale, he might be bulky and muscular, but at the scale of the room around him, that meant nothing. It provided him with some advantages.

The metal flooring beneath his feet gave off a faint clang when he landed on the other side. Suppressed instincts came rushing back, returning Sam to the mindset he’d had in the days where he’d done similar activities for survival.

Tonight, he wasn’t searching for food, but those lessons would still be vital for his survival. It’d be pretty dumb if he got himself caught all over again just for a prank. If he ever ended up seeing Dean again after that, there would be no end to the shit given. Sam would be living it down for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t everyday that someone risked their life for a prank, after all.

He did a sweep of the closest rooms, finding nothing that would further his aims. After two hours wasted, Sam found his way into the ventilation above. From there he could peer down into the rooms below, and take stock of the motel’s other tenants. Their appearance, after all, would tell him if they had what he needed for this to go off perfectly.

By using the ceiling, his sweep went much faster and much smoother. He soon found what he needed, and slipped into the unknown motel room to fetch it. The guests were out cold, the soft breathing of the woman a stiff contrast to the loud growl of the man’s snores. Sam wasn’t concerned. The noise provided a good cover for him to get in and out, and let him know if they were going to wake up.

As luck would have it, he managed to get what he needed and hauled it into the vent down on the floor without a problem. The first few feet as he set out from that room and back towards Dean’s he was careful to stay silent; once he had enough distance, he relaxed his guard and started to move faster.

Arriving back in the room with Dean, Sam was intent on his mission. He took his ill-gotten gains, wrapping the cord of his fishing line around it and hauled it up the side of the bed to where Dean was sleeping.

Once everything was ready, he got to work on his prank.

Chapter Text

Dean woke up bright and early the next morning, briefly surprised to find that he was up before Sam. He sent a quick glance under the nightstand, making sure his younger brother was alright. It was odd to not see him doing his morning exercise, using the perimeter of the room as a good sized track to race around, or at least doing stretches on the nightstand, making fun of Dean for not being up first.

Setting up the coffee pot to run while he was out, Dean managed to sleepily pull on some clothes and his boots. He could run out and grab a local paper while Sam slept in with his little brother none the wiser.

As the door of the room clicked shut behind him, Sam’s shoulders shook in amusement, then he burst out laughing, tumbling out of bed onto the floor of the nightstand.

Dean hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before he’d gone out! It was too perfect.

"SAM! "

An electric shock coursed through Sam at the sound of his name, shouted at an almost deafening level. Huge footsteps heralded his brother's arrival as the door to the room slammed closed and sent a tremor through the floor. Sam barely dove under the bottom of the nightstand in time to escape from Dean's wrath, ducking under the crack before Dean could see where he was.

Naturally, it didn't take Dean long to find him. It didn't help that Sam was practically choking with laughter in his hiding place with the dust bunnies for company. He'd caught a brief glimpse of Dean - his hair tipped neon pink, reflecting in the early morning sunlight. Best wake up ever. Knowing Dean had gone out to get a paper without checking how he looked made it even better. Sam sniggered at the thought of all the strange looks Dean had probably attracted when he went out. He doubted Dean got the normal looks women gave him all the time.

A huge boot slammed into the ground directly outside of Sam's hiding place, casting the entire area into darkness and shifting the dust around him. At the same time, the strength of the jolt sent Sam rolling farther into the darkness. He shivered at how close he was to the impact, despite knowing he was perfectly safe. That part just never seemed to get any easier.

Sam rolled himself over, sitting so he could scramble back a few more inches, getting as far out of reach in the cramped hiding place as he could while Dean knelt down. His brother pressed his face flat against the floor, powerful gusts of breath sending the dust puffing around Sam even more as he tried to spy the little hunter hiding from him.

Dean's single eye, lit from above, was all Sam could see. His breath hitched with brief fear at the annoyance on Dean's face - a nerve-wracking look no matter what for someone only four inches tall and trapped under a nightstand with no other way to escape. He hadn't exactly picked the best place to hide from Dean either, since he knew his brother could easily lift the entire stand away from him.

He was pretty sure it wouldn't come to that.

Dean's one visible eye glared at Sam. "Dude, what the hell?"

"What, can't take a bit of your own medicine, Pinkie Pie?" Sam sniggered, confident he was out of reach. "Didn't see you complaining when I took a tumble the other morning!!"

"I practically got laughed out of the Gas ‘n Sip!"

Sam cracked up at that thought, chest heaving when he accidentally inhaled some of the dust. The big green eye glared at him again before closing briefly, looking thoughtful. Dean's face pulled away, replaced by huge fingers stretching to reach Sam’s small body. The space was too small for Dean to be able to fit his entire hand, leaving Sam just barely out of reach. The tips of Dean's fingers were about an inch away from his boots. Listening to the muttered curses coming from over his head, Sam couldn't help a brief surge of fearlessness.

Crawling forward, he kicked at Dean's groping fingers with a playful grin. One of them flinched back when he made contact, afraid, Sam knew, of accidentally hurting him. Dean growled overhead, growing frustrated. Renewing his attempt to get Sam, his fingernails scraped against the ground harmlessly, unable to reach Sam from where they were stuck.

Unfortunately for Sam, this didn't last. His grin faded away when he tried to kick the hand one last time for good measure, quickly replaced with surprise when two of the fingers cleverly twisted around, closing around his small boot with a solid hold. He was held in place firmly, but the huge fingers were careful to not crush his foot. Sam desperately tried to shake free, but of course he was struggling with someone whose finger alone could overpower him without a problem.

His boot stayed stuck.

"OH, shi--" was all Sam got out before he was yanked forward, dragged from his temporary sanctuary into the open air, dangling helplessly by one leg in front of his giant brother. The world spun around him briefly before he was able to focus on Dean, still glaring at him upside down.

"Hey!" Sam tried to bat at the fingers holding him suspended in midair. A quick glance down showed him Dean's other hand spread out like a safety net under him for protection. Giving up on reaching the fingers, Sam hung there upside down with his arms crossed, ignoring the way his shirt bunched around his head and arms.

He glared at Dean. "You done, Godzilla?" he snipped, annoyed he couldn't get himself free.

"Serves you right, pint-size. Ruining a national treasure like this," Dean snorted.

A second later Sam was flying through the air thanks to a flick of Dean's wrist. Sam flailed his arms, caught off guard by his sudden flight. He wasn't afraid though. He knew there was no way Dean would ever let anything happen to him, no matter how much he managed to piss him off. His confidence was rewarded - his fall was easily cushioned by Dean's palm a moment later, landing safely in the center without even a bruise. Sam rolled himself over, bouncing to a stand.

The second he caught sight of Dean's hair again, he cracked up, doubling over from the laughter shaking him. "Dude, you should see your hair!" he sniggered. When the offended look came back over Dean's face, he decided it was time to take pity on his older brother, before Dean came up with an even worse retaliation. "It's alright," he said, still laughing. "It washes out, I promise. I made sure to check first."

He motioned for Dean to let him down on the floor. Dean dropped back to his knees, letting Sam slide carefully off his palm. Sam went under the bed, ignoring the hand hovering near him that he was certain would prevent him from running away again. He wasn't planning on tempting fate anymore than he already had today. He knew to pick his battles.

Sam pushed the container of hair dye he'd hidden the night before out from under the bed, into plain sight. Dean's hand approached, easily lifting the container away from Sam. Sam couldn't help the slight jealousy for how easy it all was for Dean, especially after all the work he'd gone through to get the hair dye from the other room in the first place.

All that work had definitely been worth it.

The look on Dean's face had been priceless.

An hour later, Dean grouchily gathered himself and Sam together to head out and do more poking around in town.

He’d spent the entire hour scrubbing his hair in the shower, trying to rid it of the annoying pink gleam it had taken after the prank. He’d been mostlysuccessful; Sam had told the truth. It did come out with water, but normally people wore it for at least a day before attempting to remove it. Sam didn't exactly know the finer points of hair dye after all his years living at Trails West. As a result, Dean had faded pink tips ringing his hair at certain points, including the spike in the front he was so proud of.

He had to hand it to the kid; he’d certainly risen to the challenge of retaliating. Sam hadn’t let his size hold him back a single time, not with the boots, not with his coup de gras. That spark of Winchester determination inside of Sam hadn’t been downsized along with his body by the curse. Anyone who tried to take advantage of his size assuming that would hold him back would be sorely disappointed.

Proud of the prank or not, Dean kept a straight face on as they headed out. They had work to do, and he didn’t want the whole thing to go to Sam’s head.

Little did either brother know, or even suspect, their presence had already been marked.

The hunters, so assured of their prowess with the hunt, had unknowingly become the prey.

Under a dark cloak, the whispering sound of wings stirring filled the air. Two huge, segmented eyes followed the progress of the brothers as Dean strolled along. He left the motel room behind, heading towards the black sheen of the Impala.

Any time the light hit those glittering eyes it would fracture, thrown back into the air with a red gleam.

Unlike the unfortunate little bipeds it followed now, weak, defenseless creatures that needed second-skins to protect themselves from the air itself, the creature, a cryptid long thought nothing more than a legend and a folktale, only used the cloak to hide from prying eyes. It needed to stay hidden, the last of a forgotten race. It had no need of a mate to birth its young.

It did, however, require energy.

Energy it could only draw from the emotional tumult caused by tragedies. The same energy it had been so close to maximizing back in the days of the fabled bridge collapse. The suspicion of the humans and the unfortunate preponderance of that recent invention, the camera, had driven it into hiding before it was able to collect its just reward and assure the propagation of its race.

These, these filthy little bipeds, these soft little bipeds did not know the forces they were meddling with. Their squishy thoraxes and missing exoskeletons meant they were easy prey, but the cryptid didn’t need their meat. It needed their desperation, their misery. Giving up in the face of overwhelming odds, laying down to die and even killing themselves. They would die just as they’d killed off the others of its race. It would make sure of it, then take that energy of desperation and decay and use it, giving birth to the fluttering lives within itself.

Soon… it thought, air escaping its shortened proboscis in a sibilant rush, soon I will have you, and all others like you.

Dean was a threat, and so became the prey.

Those eyes glittered as a thought was sent towards the hunter. It would infect him, and he would turn on those around him. Though the creature could no longer affect large scale catastrophes to pull the desperation from the air, it could still create a bond with a human mind. Make them do its work for it. This hunter needed to die before he tracked down the creature, and it would devour the thoughts that escaped him before his death. In doing so, the hunter would help give birth to a new race of monsters, all set to reclaim their proper place in evolution.

Unbeknownst to the cryptid, there was a certain small hunter with Dean at that very moment. Instead of infecting Dean the way that Mike had been infected the day of the circus, the tendril of thought was preempted by Sam’s mind, and latched itself onto the smaller hunter’s subconscious.

Once planted, it began to take root.

And spread.

Chapter Text

Dean casually strolled down the sidewalk, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets.

Getting closer. He’s getting closer.

Sam rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his mind. A cloud hovered over it, trying to push away his memory. Dark and foreboding, it pushed away the bright thoughts from that morning.

Pranking Dean.

Laughing. Diving under the bottom of the nightstand and kicking playfully at a finger.

Threat. Must stop the threat.

Sam’s hold on his mind was starting to slip. The world around him, even just in the pocket, started to take on a haze. He was disconnected from the events. He could remember sitting in Dean’s pocket while the hunter talked to Mike’s coworkers, finding out if he’d started acting differently during the weeks before the accident. Discovering that the man had been normal all the way up to that day.

Dean’s gait rocked the pocket back and forth, reminding Sam where he was.

Then it slipped his mind again.

Stop him.

The urge to lash out grew in Sam. The alien mind that lapped at the outskirts of his own, taking over and pushing him aside.

His eyes took on a red tint.

A slice of pain hit Dean in the chest, and his sauntering walk came to a screeching halt.

“Son of a…!” Glancing down at his pocket, he saw blood start to seep through it.

Blood?!

Almost in a panic, he flipped the flap of the pocket wide open, desperate to see what had happened to Sam in the last few seconds to elicit such a move.

Instead of finding a reason, all he saw was Sam lash out with his knife again. A slice of pain hit Dean, more blood welling up from the cut to soak the pocket through.

“Sam, hold on!”

He looped his fingers around the tiny body, and Sam writhed to escape. The silver blade flashed in the light, and sliced into Dean’s fingers.

“Motherfu--" Changing tactics, Dean managed to snag Sam’s arm between his own fingers, closing his fist completely around the tiny hunter. All that was visible was Sam’s head, whipping from side to side to try and escape. Dean pinched the blade of the knife between two fingers, trying to pry it free.

Sam tried his best to resist, but the gap between Dean’s strength and his was forever insurmountable for the smaller hunter. His fingers slowly lost grip on the handle, the fingernails scraping along the edge before it was gone.

With the tiny silver knife in hand, Dean squinted down at his brother. “Sam… what happened? Why’d you attack?” All that could be found in his voice was concern. No anger, no annoyance.

At the back of his mind, a fluttering could be heard.

Dean whipped around, cupping Sam against his chest. “Who's there?” his deep voice called out.

There was no response, but in the background Dean could have sworn he heard branches rustle. A dark shape slipped into the air, too distant to tell what it was. A vague outline that sang of a crane or a moth had his mind confused.

Tiny struggles brought his attention back down to Sam. The little hunter hadn’t given up, though he couldn’t make much headway trapped between fingers the size of his body and as strong as steel.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean whispered. “C’mon, man. Talk to me. What happened?” He paid no mind to the blood that dripped down his other hand, or the blood that soaked his chest pocket. As determined as Sam was, he wasn’t big enough to land a fatal injury on the larger hunter. He had spirit, that was for sure, but spirit could only get him so far when he was pitted against Dean.

Dean held him close to his face, staring at the tiny, scrunched up features. Afraid he was hurting his little brother, Dean loosened his grip. Sam’s eyes snapped open, staring straight through his older brother.

Dean’s blood froze.

The eyes that were so small he could barely make them out most days had taken on a red glint. They stared back at him unflinchingly, and he got the sense that something was looking through Sam’s eyes. An unfamiliar, alien presence that was nothing like anything he’d encountered previously.

“Fuck, it’s got you too,” he whispered, fear for Sam surging through his heart. Mac had red eyes when the accident happened.

And now he was dead.

Dean glanced around the area, searching desperately for some sign of what had caused Sam’s freak out. Tiny struggles in his fist kept his thoughts on Sam even as he sought out the creep.

People always saw this bastard when the accidents happened. It’s like it wanted to be seen, or…

He got an idea, and hated himself the second it came to him.

The plan was simple, and one of the worst ones Dean had ever thought of.

The creature, the cryptid that had stalked this town for generations, was always near the scene of its crime. It was always spotted near the wanton destruction that it wreaked carelessly on innocent people. So it either had to be close to control them, or it needed something from them. It wouldn’t be the first creature that fed on destruction.

Either way, it was always close to its victims, and now Dean had a victim in hand.

To use as bait, and for that he’d never forgive himself.

“Sammy, c’mon man,” he begged, trying to open up his hand without Sam writhing free of the grip. “You’ve gotta fight it. I know you can fight it!”

There was no response. He wasn’t really expecting one after the length of their walk back to the room. Sam had shown no recognition of whose hands he was in the entire time.

He just fought.

It was with a heavy heart that Dean set the last part of his trap in motion. To the right side of the television in the room, there was a vase full of fake, plastic flowers. They added a bright splash of color to an otherwise drab room, even with the coating of dust that covered them.

It wasn’t the flowers that Dean had any interest in. He snatched up the vase, tossing the flowers into the floor in a haphazard pile. He did his best to blow out the dust that caked the interior, and eyed up the size of the vase.

Sam would never be able to escape on his own.

Dean bit his lip. He hated himself for every part of his plan, and this more than anything. Sam’s silver knife was already tucked into one of his shirt pockets, away from the sliced-up pocket through which Sam had tried to stab Dean moments before.

Next, Dean had to unclench his fist from around his brother’s fragile form. The bag Sam carried slung around his shoulder had more than one weapon and way out for the small hunter, and Dean couldn’t risk Sam injuring himself, or escaping out into the world while the creature was in control. Dean could lose him forever if that happened.

He had to take that bag away.

That bag was everything to Sam. Removing it would make him completely helpless in a world that outsized him almost twenty times. Worse, it would make him vulnerable to not only Dean, but the creature that was stalking them.

Sam couldn’t stop Dean from rolling him over. Two large fingers pinched around the little chest, pinning Sam in place. Some of the bones in Sam’s body were microscopic compared to his older brother, so Dean worked with as much care as he’d ever shown in his life. Nothing matched the amount of caution he displayed when dealing with his cursed younger brother.

Despite trying to grab at the strap, Sam couldn’t stop a large finger from nudging under it, then slipping the bag from over his head.

This was what finally broke through the silence that had blanketed Sam like a thick cloak.

“You sonovabitch!” the small man yelled angrily. “You’re not my brother, what did you do with Dean?!”

“Sam, it’s--"

Heedless of the words that Dean tried to slip in during his rant, Sam kept going. “He’d never trap me like this. I know he wouldn’t.”

Dean closed his eyes, and steeled himself. Ignoring threats and pleas from Sam, he lowered his hand into the vase, and released the small hunter to the bottom.

Sam slammed against the ground with a barely audible thump. Dean winced, knowing that no matter how light the landing sounded to him, it was a decent strike against Sam’s tiny body.

Sam was scrambling to his feet within seconds of landing, oblivious to any pain that he might be in after the fall. A small fist struck the glass wall that arched far over his head. The slick sides would keep him from even attempting to climb out despite knowing how to get around even without his gear.

“You son of a bitch!” Sam shouted at the top of his lungs. An eerie echo accompanied his voice, the vase distorting the sound waves before they reached Dean’s ears. “What did you do to my brother? He’d never do this to me, I know it!”

The echo of the same words hit Dean like a punch. “Sam…” His throat was dry and his voice hoarse. “It’s me. You’ve been with me all day. Ever since the prank, remember?” He was almost pleading by the end, wanting his little brother back.

Sam snarled angrily, punching the wall again. Any sign of his calm, collected demeanor was gone, washed away like a sandcastle when the tide came in. “LIAR! ” Another punch, and another. Dean gaped when he saw bloody streaks accompanying the hits. Sam didn’t care if he hurt himself.

Artwork by TorchMLP!

“Sammy… I don’t know if you can hear me in there, but I will get you out of this. I promise. I have a plan. Just sit tight, kid, okay?”

Those were the last words Dean said to him. He turned away from Sam, sticking the leather satchel in his pocket along with the silver knife. He gathered up the supplies in his room silently, even going so far as to take Sam’s bed and place it in the container he owned to keep it safe.

In short order, the room was as bare as though they’d never stayed in it. The only sign that anyone had ever been in was the rumpled bedsheets…

And the vase on the table, holding the trapped form of his little brother.

Dean left the room, Sam’s terrified, angry cries falling on deaf ears.

“Dean would never leave me!”

I’ll get you out of this, Sam. I promise.

Chapter Text

The cryptid cocked its head as the black metal beast pulled out of the parking lot. A strange clicking sound came from its mouth as it watched with confusion. In none of its varied plans for the hunter had it ever seen him leaving like that.

One hunter might have left, but it could still feel the flames of rage beckoning it back to the room. It could feed yet, and perhaps gain enough strength to hatch its young. The strange, small hunter it had discovered did not lack in sustenance for it. If it could give birth to its young, the larger hunter would be no threat.

With a flutter of wings, it landed outside of the motel room. A dark shadow fell over the doorway. No lock could keep it out, and a judicious push concentrating its strength on the lock snapped the door inwards.

There were no belongings inside. The hunter truly had left his companion behind.

The tiny human was trapped inside of the vase. Red eyes like pinpricks kept the hunter from spotting the creature as it slunk across the floor towards the table. It was drawn to his terror and fear, his rage and anger pulling it forward like a moth to flame. It needed the energy he was putting out, as much as a human needed water.

“You filthy son of a bitch, you better step away from that table, now.”

The voice caught it off guard. There should be no one else around, and the tiny human on the table didn’t have anywhere near so deep a voice.

It whirled in place, claws clacking inside of the deep folds of the cloak it wore.

The human hunter stood there, a lighter lit in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. Hard green eyes tightened as they saw the creature that had plotted his death.

“Don’t you ever go near my little brother again.”

A burst of flame lit up the room.

Dean’s shoulders sagged down as he watched the disgusting corpse curl in on itself. His plan had worked. The creature had thought he’d abandon Sam on his own after failing to bring him back from the edge it dragged him over.

“Sammy…”

He went over to the table, stepping over the smoldering corpse. They were lucky that his makeshift torch hadn’t lit the entire room on fire. His assumption that it would be weak to fire just like the moth it was named for had paid off for them, and it was dead. After over half a century of tormenting the little town, Dean had stopped Mothman's depredations.

Sam’s small form was slumped down at the bottom of the vase, making Dean’s stomach clench with fear. Bloody streaks from where Sam had beat his fists raw showed exactly how he’d fallen. Even the knees of his pants and parts of his jacket showed bloodstains.

As gentle as he’d ever been, Dean carefully reached in and gathered up the tiny body. Sam was so lightweight, it was almost like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t worry,” Dean whispered down to him. With the pad of his thumb, he lightly brushed the bangs from Sam’s eyes. “Big bro’s gotcha.”

He surveyed the room one last time, then took his leave of the forsaken place. The memory of having to trap Sam would forever mar the memories of the case.

Dean watched as the city lights flew by the windows of the Impala. The darkness outside matched the stormcloud that hung over his thoughts, making his stomach roil with unease.

He’d trapped Sam.

More than that. He’d used his own brother as bait.

He’d done the unthinkable. After earning Sam’s trust and confidence over the past year, he’d twisted it around and used his size against the younger hunter. There was nothing Sam could do to stop him. He couldn’t even stop Dean from taking his knife away. The only remnant of the time when they’d been the same size, when a younger Dean had sat down and painstakingly crafted a weapon meant to help Sam protect himself.

The same weapon he’d pried out of Sam’s small, fragile, vulnerable hands. Ripped away from him like it was nothing.

Every day for more than a year, Dean had vowed that he’d never do such a thing. How could he ask for Sam’s trust if they both knew he’d take advantage of his size the moment he could?

Failure.

Fucking failure. He always deserved better than you and you know it.

The voice in his head was relentless. Even as the city lights fled behind the car, leaving the open road ahead, it shoved and pecked at the memories that Nixie had once forced him to confront. The knowledge that Sam trusted him was now a curse, one he’d taken advantage of. It stripped him of any confidence. He glanced down at the tiny figure collapsed across his fingers, almost driven to put him down.

To put him somewhere he’d be safe.

Away from Dean.

What held him back from that action was the fact that it was too dangerous. Sam was too small to strap into the backseat like he might want to do. A pocket couldn’t be risked if he was injured and as long as Sam was knocked out like that he had no way to tell.

So he carefully cradled his brother’s bloodied, prostrate form against his chest, curling his fingers inward to prevent Sam from falling or rolling off.

To drive the guilt-ridden silence away, Dean began to talk.

His hands were sore.

That was the first thought that came to Sam upon waking. He groaned, shifting slightly to curl his hands closer to his chest.

It was then that he realized he had no idea where he was.

He shifted around a little more. The darkness closed in, but it wasn’t absolute. There were shards of light streaking overhead, occasionally lighting up Sam’s world with brief flashes of vibrant clarity. Not that it helped much in the strange, almost completely enclosed environment.

Sam held up his hands in front of his face, focusing on what he knew was wrong. Out of place. What had happened? Blood caked them completely, enough to make it to his sleeves. His blood. Raw, aching muscles. Ragged skin peeling off of them in places.

Pain in other parts of his body slowly became apparent as his mind continued to focus. His knees, in just as much pain as his fists. He shifted just enough to see that his jeans were ripped, and his kneecaps bloodied. Shredded strips of fabric hung down his leg, his clothing ruined. He’d have to patch them if he could.

His elbows. They weren’t in as much pain as the rest, but a soreness remained. His shoulder, like he’d rammed into a doorway to break it down. Over, and over, and over again.

Sam groaned again. He let his head flop down.

That was when the rest of the world around him started to clear up.

A rough, rigid surface was under him. It was warm, with a steady beat that pulsed underneath the hunter’s body. His head rested on a cushion of the strange material.

The strange, living material.

For a second, Sam idly traced the whorls and lines of the surface with a finger. It was fascinating to see that his finger could fit into the imprints. There was a voice rumbling overhead, and that voice let him know he was safe, in gentle hands that wouldn’t hurt him.

Flashes of memory hit. Fingers arched around him. His knife torn from his grasp and his satchel forced from his shoulders. Trapped in a vase. Trapped where he could never escape on his own, and his satchel taken from him.

That wasn’t his fault. He never wanted to do that, I know he never wanted to do that.

He was once again in a hand. Dean’s hand.

Only this time it wasn’t trying to trap him. This time, the voice above was speaking to the air, trying to fill the silence that stretched between them. Fingers arched overhead, blocking out the sight of the car around him. Sam was in the Impala, and they were driving. The flashes of light were distant streetlights passing by overhead, offering brief glimpses of illumination. The purr of the engine was a constant background thrum that Sam had taken for granted at first, but now he could pick out the familiar sound.

It was the sound of his home.

There was no reaction from Dean to the precise movements of a four inch tall man down on his hand. His voice continued on, uninterrupted. A rumble overhead continued on with the stories.

Stories from a life without Sam.

Sam almost sat up before he caught himself. A motion like that would give away that he was awake, and there was nothing that would make Dean close up faster than knowing someone else was listening to the cathartic stories that overpowered the soft rock in the background. It was for him, just as much as it was for the brother he thought was knocked out in his hand.

Dean had never shared his past with Sam. The most he’d ever gotten out of his brother was either information on past cases…

Or that time in the forest, when Dean had forgotten who Sam was even as he held him in a hand.

Sammy died. We lost him and Dad… Dad says I have to be a better hunter. He says if I don’t stay sharp I’m asking to die.

Just like Sammy.

That was it. His only insight into how Dean had become the man he was. An edgy, dangerous hunter with an intensity that followed him in everything he did. A man with a burdened past and a desperate fear of abandonment.

Because he’d been abandoned and left all alone in the end.

His mother, dead when he was a kid.

Sam, lost when he was barely ten. Not dead, but for all intents and purposes he might as well have been. Thirteen long years they’d spent apart, learning to survive without a brother to lean on for help.

And of course, John. Vanishing into thin air to leave his only remaining son to fend for himself. Dean had no backup on cases for months before he’d rediscovered Sam.

Clenched in his own unforgiving fist.

Even Bobby, the one constant in his life, had been pushed away. As though, somewhere in his mind, Dean was trying to sever all connections to others after he’d lost John.

Letting people in had only ever got him hurt. Opening up just gave them ammo to use against him.

But now Sam was back. He might be small enough to conceal in a fist, cupped against Dean’s chest, but he wasn’t going anywhere. He would neverabandon his brother.

Not again.

He could remember being angry at Dean earlier that day. Not even just angry-- absolutely infuriated. Beating his fists against the tall glass wall that arched over his head, trapping him inside the vase. Long, bloody streaks marred the clear surface, his own determination the reason his hands were shredded. Slamming his body against it again and again.

Looking back at that time, it was like a cloud had lifted from his mind. He could see what he’d been doing, he could see what Dean had prevented. He could remember attacking Dean.

Over and over again. His knife slicing into flesh and blood pouring out of the wound. Dean’s blood. The only reason Sam had been able to attack him so easily was because of the trust Dean gave him, letting him sit in a pocket so close to his heart. They were lucky Sam’s knife was too small to plunge that deep.

Dean, who’d just been trying to help.

Now that the veil was lifted from Sam’s eyes, he could never be mad at that.

Dean’s voice drew him away from his thoughts once more. Sam flexed a hand, taking brief note of the blood stains that had spread on the skin he was collapsed on. Pushing that out of his mind, he let himself relax on the cushioned surface below.

And let himself be drawn into the past. A past without Sam.

The voice was gruff as Dean talked, the tall chest behind where he was collapsed vibrating in time with the flow of words. Dean must have been going for some time before he woke up.

"Y’know, those thirteen years you were gone don’t sound like much sometimes, but to me it felt like a lifetime. Day in, day out. Just me an’ dad, hopping the road from town to town. Doin’ what we could for others to keep them safe. Getting by just to get by.

“Losing mom… losing you… I think that mighta been what sent him over that edge he was on for so long. Instead of hearing ‘Watch out for Sammy! Look out for your little brother, boy!’ it became ‘Are you askin’ to die?’ ”

Sam’s breath caught at that. There it was. The affirmation that John had tossed his supposed ‘death’ in Dean’s face. Forcing Dean to confront a terrible loss, over and over just to make a point. In all the years Sam had lived apart, he’d never thought that Dean would be put through so much pain without him. He never even expected it.

Dean continued on. He had no way of knowing that Sam was listening, so the flow of words was uninterrupted.

“And it wasn’t just one time. No.” There was a laugh that shook straight through the hand Sam lay on, and his body rolled slightly from the force. Dean didn’t notice, probably assuming the shift meant Sam slept on. “That would have been easier to take. I heard it all the damn time.. I never got to really mourn you because I never went more than a few days without your death being thrown in my face. It was like there was always someone there to rub shards of broken glass in the wound. He might have started out blamin’ himself for your death, but I think he shifted the blame to me, a little more each month you were gone.”

There was a heartfelt sigh, and Sam blinked back tears of his own. He couldn’t find the words to interrupt and take some of that blame away from Dean. No child or teenager deserved to have that weight on his shoulders.

No adult should have to shoulder that blame, for that matter. It was no one’s fault but that damn witch.

“Hell, when dad first vanished, I thought that was my fault too. That I’d driven him away. Dean, the failure. The unwanted son. The man that couldn’t even protect his own damn brother from three feet away.”

Sam heard Dean swallow thickly above, and forced himself to remain in place as the hand started to shift around him. Fingers flexed and curled, and the light touch of eyes on him brushed against his neck.

A thumb the size of Sam's body curled inwards and smoothed down his arm. The muscles in the hand underneath Sam’s body flexed and shifted at the motion. Dean, trying to find something to anchor too.

Sam was proud to be his anchor.

“Who wants to hunt with a man who has that hanging over his head?”

The thumb against his side twitched nervously, and the hand shifted again so Sam was once again enclosed in darkness.

“I even started to believe it myself.”

“No.” Sam shocked himself with a whisper. His mind rebelled against the thought of Dean losing faith in himself. His older brother was a good man, one of the best.

“I tried, Sam. I really did.” Dean never heard Sam’s light voice down in his hand. He was too caught up in the memories of the past and lost to the world around him. His other hand clenched tighter on the steering wheel, but the hand Sam was on didn't budge an inch. “I never wanted to let you down. I did everything the way you’d want me to do. That way…”

Dean’s voice dropped off, and Sam found himself waiting with bated breath for what he was going to say. When it came, even the tiny, four-inch hunter on his hand had to listen intently. Dean was almost whispering to himself with shame. “...That way you could be proud of the man I’d become, no matter where you were watchin’ from.”

The next part wasn’t so quiet. “And then I found you. You weren’t dead, you were cursed and we left you there to fend for yourself and the first thing I did when I found you again was almost crush you… I don’t know why you ever wanted to come with me in the first place. You deserve better, kid. And after what I did back there in that motel… You should get yourself far away from me. As far as you can. I’ll never be the brother you deser--”

The word cut out, and Sam realized that the world had opened up over his head while he was lost in the words flowing out of Dean’s mouth. His eye met Dean’s, and he found himself sitting up with a hand placed on Dean’s thumb for support.

There was panic in the green eyes above, and Sam knew that Dean had never truly meant those words to be heard by anyone else.

Dean licked his lips. “Sam… I… I didn’t m--”

Sam cut him off, finding his voice in his determination. “Dean… is that really how you feel?” His eyes shone in the lights that passed by the car in the night, and then Dean pulled the car into the breakdown lane.

He was lifted up so he was held in front of the green eyes on an equal level. “Sammy…” Dean’s eyes shone as well, the streetlights outside the car reflecting back at Sam in the wide pools. “I don’t deserve a brother like you. I-- I d-don’t--”

It was painful to watch him stutter. Sam made a jerking motion with his hand, cutting Dean off. The hand was still coated with blood, and Dean’s eyes locked right on that.

Sam knew what he’d say, and he didn’t want to hear it. “Dean,” he started firmly. “You’re wrong. You’ve always been here for me, and it was never your fault that were were separated. That bitch of a witch is the only person we should ever blame. Not you, not dad, not me. We did what we had to.”

Shifting in place, he sat in the cupped hand with his legs crossed. “Dean, I am proud of you. Prouder than I’ve ever been.” His tone was gentle, knowing from the wide-eyed look in Dean’s face that it would be far too easy to startle Dean back behind his shields. They’d crumbled with Sam injured and trapped, and they would snap right back up in seconds if he made a mistake in how he handled this.

“I know you’d never hurt me, and this?” Sam held up his hands, showing off his bloodied arms. He’d rammed into the glass, again and again, pounded his fists against the wall of the vase, until his fists blistered and his blood ran. “This wasn’t you. This was that creep.”

Dean blinked. “You-- you remember what happened?”

Sam bobbed his head in reply. “Like I was watching myself through a fog. I could see it, but I couldn’t stop it. Like a spectator to my own life. And you did what you had to.” He laughed. “I’m just glad your half-assed plan worked.”

Some of the emotion came back to Dean, and he shot an offended glare at Sam. “Hey! My plan was flawless.”

Sam grinned in reply, glad to see his words helping Dean get back to himself. “It saved my ass.”

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes, knowing Sam was messing with him. “Whatever pint-size.” Some of the tension drained from his shoulders and hope grew in the green eyes. “You really didn’t mind hearing that?”

Sam patted the hand he was on reassuringly. He could hear the lingering fear that lurked behind those words and knew how terrified Dean really was of being rejected by the last of his family. Sam would never do that, and Dean needed to know. “Not a bit. I’d love to hear more… if you want to share. I missed a lot back then. I don’t want to miss it again.”

They shared a tentative smile, and the car pulled back onto the highway.

Sam found himself leaning back against Dean’s chest as the hand cupped him high enough to watch the road. It was better than riding shotgun, any day. This was Sam's life, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

The steady rumble of Dean’s voice filled the air, talking about the trouble he’d gotten into time and time again without Sam around to keep his nose clean, and afterwards, Sam’s soft and gentle voice piped up to share his adventures from when he was first learning his way around the Trails West.

For the first time since reuniting, they shared the memories of their childhoods and let each other in.

FIN