"You hungry?"

Out of the corner of Dean's eye, he saw Sam twitch a little. Other than that, his question when unacknowledged.

"Sam," he said, a little louder.

This time, Sam turned to him. "What?"

"I asked, are you hungry?"

Sam shook his head. Dean realized absently that he had stopped enforcing Sam's position in the backseat. "What's on your mind?" Dean tried. Sam had slipped in the misadventure with the Leviathans, mentioning Adam. Dean wasn't stupid enough to buy his story that it was the Leviathan's name. No, somehow Sam had learned about Adam, of all people, and Dean would ferret it out of Sam. He would have to ease into it.

"N-not much. Just . . . um, n-nothing."

Sam had never been a stuttering kid. Dean narrowed his eyes at the road. "Did the Leviathans freak you out?" he ventured.

"No, they weren't as scary as the clowns."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, I know how much Ronald McDonald gets to you."

Instead of laughing with him, Sam scooted away from Dean, as close to the window as he could get. "Are we going to stop soon?" he asked in a small voice.

"We can if you want."

With that, Sam turned his head away, effectively ending the conversation. Dean scowled, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. It had been almost two weeks since Sam had been turned into a kid. If the spell was as weak as the witch had claimed, why hadn't he turned back yet?

They had been trailing their way down south, and Dean huffed as he stepped out into the boggy humidity. In one very tiny, minuscule and minor way, it was a good thing they didn't have the Impala; no air conditioning meant summers driving through the south were usually an exercise in torture. At least this crap car had a decent a/c. Dean stripped off his flannel over-shirt, noticing Sam watching him and then mimicking his action. He had forgotten how much Sam liked to copy him back when he was younger.

"Maybe we should go to the beach once we hit Savannah, huh?" Dean suggested.

Sam nodded, curls already dripping with sweat.

"You want to go to the bathroom, or—"

Sam scurried off. The rest stop was a little nicer than usual; they must have just crossed the border into Georgia. States always tried to show off with the first set of bathrooms on the highway, then let the rest fall into disrepair. Dean leaned back against the car, feeling his shirt stick disgustingly to his back as he did.

And waited.

And continued waiting.

Dean frowned at the rest stop. Sam could be a girl about some things, but even he didn't need ten minutes in the bathroom. He peeled himself off the car, trotting into the restroom.

"Sam," he called out, "C'mon, kid, you ready to go?"

A whimper from a stall at the end put Dean on instant alert. He approached carefully, knocking open the stall with a well-placed kick. Sam was wedged in the corner between the grimy toilet and wall.

"Sam?" Dean asked, modulating his voice to sound a little softer. "Are you okay?"

Sam lifted his head, red-rimmed eyes meeting Dean's. "I—I thought I heard a monster," he whispered.

"Easy kiddo." Dean pried him out of the corner, tilting his head up. "How 'bout next time I come with you?"

For one of the first times since Sam had been turned into a kid, Dean felt like he had said the exact right thing. The relieved slump of Sam's shoulders, his eyes clearing up, the small smile—Dean felt like a million bucks for one brilliant moment.

"You see any monsters, just let me know," Dean promised rashly, "I'll kick their butts."

Sam giggled.


The case in Savannah was pretty research-intensive—old Civil War-age ghosts tended to be finicky like that. Sam was a brilliant kid, sure, but he couldn't do much to help Dean. Dean's Sam would've loved this hunt.

The two of them spent most of the day in the library, Dean skimming the historical records while Sam amused himself with whatever books caught his eye. The second day, Dean left Sam in the motel while he ran around doing interviews. He felt bad, leaving Sam alone, so he dropped by a bookstore on his way back, picking up a few he had seen Sam skimming in the library.

"Call me Santa Claus because I—"

The room was dark and silent. Dean's heart rate jumped immediately. "Sam!" he called out. The bathroom and closet were empty, and panic began to set in.

Dean pulled out his cell phone, but vibration from the motel table killed that option.

"If you're in the library, I'm going to kill you," Dean promised darkly. He strode outside of the room, getting back into the car. He nearly side-swiped a parked car in his hurry, finally pulling up to the library.

The place was about to close, but Dean claimed he had left his wallet somewhere and was let in reluctantly by the janitor. Dean wasn't able to yell Sam's name, but he did prowl the stacks swiftly, jogging up and down the aisles. He combed the entire library, but there was no sign of Sam.

Dean was kicked out by the janitor after an hour, leaving him standing next to the car with nothing. He had his phone out and his finger hovering over Bobby's number before he even thought about it.

No help. No one to turn to. Dean couldn't decide whether he wanted to scream or throw up or kill something.

Dean scanned the streets for hours, driving and walking. He stopped anyone who looked even remotely alert, giving a succinct description of Sam—he would kill for a photograph right now—and receiving no positive responses. The dim streets of Savannah had nothing to offer Dean, the mix of historical old buildings and ghetto giving Dean a mix of people refusing to meet his eyes, and junkies trying to steal some cash from Dean's pockets.

By two in the morning, Dean was completely lost. He went back to the motel, pulling up maps of Savannah, the missing persons list of the county, anything that could be remotely related to Sam's disappearance. He didn't even quite realize once morning had hit, the weak light piercing the holes of the motel curtain his first alert.

Dean forced himself into a semblance of professional appearance before going straight to the motel front office.

"Do you have security cameras?" he asked without preamble.

The attendant looked up from her computer, frowning. "What? What's it to you?"

Dean flipped open an ID—he wasn't even sure what it was this time, FBI, police, or health inspector, it didn't matter—and pressed out a tight smile. "Looking into a missing persons case. Care to help me out, darlin'?"

Most strangers couldn't tell the difference between Dean's real smiles and his fake ones. Only Sam was good at that. The woman melted a little, nodding agreeably and closing out of her computer.

"Right here in the back." She guided him into the back office, booting up an ancient-looking system. Dean hid a grimace, leaning forward to stare at the grainy footage.

"I keep telling the boss to update, but he hasn't yet. What time do you think your person went missing?"

"Yesterday, mid-afternoon to evening."

The woman obligingly opened up to the right time, leaving Dean to stare dully at the indistinguishable images. Eventually she left, muttering something about manning the front desk.

At about 4:00pm, Dean saw Sam.

The image was too far away for Dean to tell what was going on, but it was definitely Sam leaving their room. Dean pressed up to the screen, close enough that his breath fogged the surface. Nothing he could see gave him any indication of where Sam went—at least it was on his own power.

Sam was so tiny.

"Did you want some water?"

The attendant's cheerful voice broke through Dean's concentration.

"No, thank you," he said gruffly. "I think I have what I need."


"Sheriff Mills."

"Jody." Dean's voice was barely a croak, and he coughed in an attempt to clear his throat. "This is Dean Winchester."

"Dean? What's wrong?" The question was sharp and to the point. Dean felt his eyes burn without warning, and he forced himself to take a breath.

"It's Sam. He's missing."

Jody swore, echoing Dean's feelings exactly.

"Has he been taken? Do you know how he—"

"Listen, Jody, this is going to sound insane, but I need you to go on faith with me for this one," Dean interrupted her.

"When is that not the case," Jody said drily. "Fine, shoot."

"I need you to put out a missing persons on a nine year old boy. Skinny, with shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes, about four feet and three inches tall."

"Dean," Jody drew out his name. "Are you saying that Sam—"

"Yeah, he's a midget right now. Spell gone wrong."

"My brain hurts," Jody muttered. "Where are you right now?"

"Savannah, Georgia."

"Do you want me to come down? I could—"

"No, we're in hot water as it is," Dean said. "Please, just make the call."

"Will do. You call me if something comes up."

"Sure thing, Jody. Make sure our names don't come up, please."

"You got it."

Dean disconnected the call, staring blankly at the phone for a moment. He had played his last card, and now? Now, he had nothing.


A/N: Poor Dean's blood pressure. Okay so I may be shooting myself in the foot by saying this, but my current goal is to have this all posted by August 8th, which is when I leave for a mission trip. Here goes nothing! :D