Even with a slow waking, Bowman knew something was wrong before he noticed anything else. His back hurt from lying on something hard, and his limbs were sore, cramped. Bruises and aches laced his body, but not as many as he remembered starting with.
Small snippets of memory came back to him. Finding himself in a cage again, after years of avoiding them. Finding the nestlings in another cage, alive but in varying stages of malnutrition. His heart fluttered as he remembered the state of little Vel's wings. Darker than they should be, and weak.
Rischa, surrounded by the fear and despair of the others. Forced to stay calm and hide whatever fear she felt. Bowman could swear just a day trapped like that had aged her.
The real jolt that prompted him to roll over sluggishly was the third cage and its occupant.
Dean, a human who was supposed to stand much taller than any sprite, had been in a cage just like Bowman. Reduced to sprite-size by the same man that had been taking Wellwood's children.
Bowman groaned and his hands lifted to his face of their own accord. They dragged over his eyes and then back through his hair, clutching it in bunches. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and then opened them.
The top bars of the cage and the hook connecting him to the ceiling greeted his tired vision. The dingy light from the bulb still filled the room, neglected by the man holding them captive. No wonder the nestlings' wings were in such poor shape. Even when they had light, it was no good.
Bowman's own wings twitched in begrudging agreement.
He sat up laboriously, wincing as his back twinged. When he stretched his wings behind him, they bumped the cold metal bars of his prison, and he glared over his shoulder. "Blasted cages," he mumbled, "worst thing humans could make."
He rolled over so he could face the other cages. His hands clutched the bars as he ignored the room, only checking on the others.
Dean looked to still be asleep. Most of the nestlings were still lying down, with only Vel and the little wraith sprite sitting up. They huddled close together, saying nothing.
Bowman's heart fell at the sight of how forlorn they were.
Vel noticed him watching before Bowman could think of anything to say. The young boy grinned, a tired little smile, and waved. "Hi, Bowman," he greeted. "The human's prolly gonna bring food soon."
Sam slept deeply, his dreams troubled but unfocused, shifting around in his small bed throughout the night.
When he woke up, the satchel had slipped to the ground and the strap fallen from his arm. One hand was draped down, his fingers just touching the top of it. The blanket hung askew, no longer covering his upper body or legs. Most of it lay in a pile against the bottom of the nightstand.
With a groan, Sam blinked his eyes fiercely to clear the sand from them. He dragged his hand up from where it was draped, the other tangled up by his side in the blanket, and rubbed at his face to try and clear it. He needed water. Even just to dunk his head.
Trying to untangle from the sheet, Sam ended up rolling off and landed in a pile next to the small bed. It was a fall of just over an inch, so he wouldn't bruise, and he kicked his legs free of the sheet. Then, when he looked around the small room, the realization fell over him again.
Dean was gone.
None of Sam's belongings were in their regular spots. The tiny desk was crooked, and there was no cup of water. Jacob had done his best, but he couldn't know how the brothers normally set up their rooms. Sam appreciated all his help, but at times like this, it all came crashing back down on him.
He needed his older brother back, and that was that.
Dean twitched at the voice in the room, but he didn't wake.
He was curled into a corner of his cage, using the food bowl to lean against with his arms tucked tightly (almost protectively) against his chest. Even in sleep his body remembered the damage to them, though Rischa had repaired the outward injuries.
Inside was another matter, and would never be an easy fix.
His eyes flicked from side to side under the lids, reliving the same nightmare again, one he couldn't escape no matter how hard he tried.
This time when the nightmare comes, he is not the giant.
Dean cowers in the corner of the room, watching the other person blow up in proportion as the witch cackles. Her laugh has haunted his dreams for a lifetime, and continues to haunt him even now.
Sam remains in his cage, beating the bars with his fists. Dean reaches for him, but the cage is too far away. Every time he tries to lunge to free his little brother, it is gone.
Always gone.
Farther and farther off...
Receding away...
Then Dean recognizes the person the witch is transforming, and his eyes widen in recognition.
Jacob!
The kid is over two dozen feet tall, bent over and barely fitting into the house. His hand reaches for Sam's cage, much like Dean's had in reality when trying to free his baby brother.
Then, it reaches past.
Dean feels curious fingers brush over his neck, and curls himself protectively into a ball. All he can see now is the hurt look on Jacob's face when they first met, that morning so long ago.
Another lifetime. One where Sam's at his side.
Now Jacob has all of the power, and Dean has none as those fingers curl unrelentingly around his body.
Full of renewed determination, Sam tossed a clean shirt and pants on, swapping out some of the stuff in his satchel in preparation for the day. They were going to find Dean and the sprites.
A few times, he wondered how he'd gotten all the way to the nightstand. The last thing he remembered was working on research. No clues had turned up yet, but they'd only just begun. There were times he and Dean spent weeks checking things out before finding the monster. This time, it felt like they were on a ticking clock, so Sam had tried his best to keep going through the night.
Figuring he could just wash up at the bathroom again and see if Jacob could get him a cup of water later on, Sam meandered his way past the wall of books and hopped down from the shelf, glancing around at his surroundings before starting an easy jog.
Jacob didn't pull late nights like that very often. After moving Sam to his bed under the nightstand, he had gotten back to the books. Since he didn't know what to look for, a lot of his notes were peppered with question marks and page numbers, references in case he wanted to ponder them later.
Hunting monsters was a lot more tedious than he'd envisioned. At least this part was.
He'd gotten a few hours of sleep, claiming one of the beds in the room without even moving the covers. As tired as he was, from the long hours slouched over the table and the stress of not knowing what was happening, he had drifted right off.
He woke with several sluggish blinks. His mind didn't catch up to where he was right away. The decor in the motel room, shabby and worn by time, held his focus for a long, drawn out minute while he sorted out the memories of the day before.
Bowman was gone, vanished from his own hand. Jacob glanced at the palm that had sported that mystery symbol. He hadn't found a single lead on that stupid mark.
Every second he didn't spend trying to help somehow felt wasted. With a groan, Jacob pushed himself upright. He sat on the edge of the bed facing the window, and the table loaded with notes and books and an idle laptop. He could splash some water on his face and then get back to it. There wasn't anything else he could do.
He stood, stretching his arms overhead until his back popped quietly, and then sidled around the bed. The bathroom alcove was his next goal, and he trudged toward it.
Sam didn't get much of a warning, but it was enough.
For so long, he'd grown used to having Dean around. The hunter didn't look like much to people on the outside; loud, brash and often abrasive, Dean was the last person anyone expected to gain the trust of people that fit in the palm of his hand.
Even Sam had a hard time at first believing how far Dean had come, in such a short amount of time. During the first few weeks together, he'd avoided the floor or spent his time hugging the walls, doing anything to avoid a place he might be underfoot. It had taken months to realize how naturally careful Dean was, no matter how boisterous he seemed. He scrutinized each step he took with that unique focus he was known for on hunts.
The realization that Jacob was walking around hit Sam when he was a few inches beyond the edge of the bed in his light jog. He threw himself backwards with a startled cry, lunging for the safety of the dark area underneath the bed.
As the instincts from living over half his life at this size hit him full-force, sending him scrambling around the bedpost into hiding, Sam could remember a time when this was a very similar situation with Dean, right around when the elder brother had learned to watch every step…
There is a flash of boots coming straight at him, and Sam dives out of the way.
It is an instinctive, unthinking reaction to the sight of those massive leather structures that move under the control of the humans that share the world with people his size. "Borrowers," Dean calls them, no matter how many times Sam argues against it.
He has only been traveling with his brother for two days and so is not adjusted to having a person so large around.
Sam hits the ground and rolls under the bed. It is a space that gives him more safety than the wide open area of the rest of the motel room. Dean doesn't understand this yet, because he can't see things the way Sam does.
He can't see the way he towers over the entire room. He doesn't understand the fear lurking in Sam that one of those massive hands will shoot towards the smaller hunter-in-training and trap him against his will.
It is these thoughts that Sam always has in mind. They plague him every day. After all, within the week Dean has grabbed him against his will not once, but twice.
The first time was no one's fault. Dean hadn't known it was Sam he was stalking in his motel room any more than Sam had known Dean was the human stalking him.
The second time was on purpose for Dean, but unexpected once more for Sam. It was a demonstration of why Sam couldn't let his guard down, even with Dean.
It saddens him to think how dangerous his own older brother could be, just because of a curse that befell him when they were children. They were so close back then.
Sometimes Sam wonders what would have happened to them if Dean had been struck by the curse as well. Or if the witch had chosen to strike at the older Winchester in the moment before their dad busted down the door.
The boots hesitate where they'd stopped. The weight on them shifts, and Sam sees a huge knee drop down from above to press into the ground.
Dean is kneeling.
It awes Sam to consider just how much power his older brother has grown into as an adult. And not just in comparison to Sam. The older Winchester goes head to head with monsters on a regular basis and always comes out on top. There are scars from these fights, scars that Sam can see better than anyone else, but still Dean lives to fight on.
Sam scrambles to his feet as kind green eyes dip down into view and Dean peers under the bed to look for him. Guilt covers the hunter's face over the way his little brother has run from him.
Sam's chest heaves from the brief scare when the green eyes land on him at last, and this makes Dean's face soften even more. There aren't many things that can break the stern facade that Dean Winchester keeps around him, but his little brother looking so afraid is one of them.
"Sammy," he says, his voice a soft thunder of concern. "You know..." He has to pause and clear his throat. "I didn't mean to scare you," he switches track smoothly. "You know I can see you on the ground, right? I'm not about to step on my baby brother."
The desperate apology in those eyes surprises Sam. He never means to make Dean feel that way. It was simply a reaction, one that was instinctive when dealing with people that towered over his head and he was small enough to get pinned to the ground by a single finger.
Compared to a human, he is small and weak.
Sam wishes he can make Dean understand it isn't his fault. It never will be. And so he tries.
First, he steps out from under cover. The safety of the bed is deceptive, anyway. The mattress can be lifted by a human like Dean without a problem. One of those hands can shoot out to grab him where he hides. More vulnerability for Sam.
Dean's eyes track Sam's movements, but he doesn't make a move. It doesn't help that whenever Dean moves, Sam flinches. Because of this, the hunter is already learning to restrain unnecessary movements.
The necessity saddens Sam.
His brother shouldn't have to change who he is if he wants to be around his little brother without getting flinches or fear in return.
"I-I know you're not," Sam manages to get out as he stares up at Dean. The older hunter has flattened himself against the dusty rug so they can talk and his eyes are still above Sam's head. Dean could put his chin against the ground and it would be the same.
Sam is too small.
"It's just..." Sam waves his hand at the open area between the beds, trying to ignore how small it looks in comparison to his surroundings. For so long, he lived in the walls and with people his own size. Now, he is with Dean constantly, and reminded of his curse every single moment.
"You're really big" Sam finishes lamely, wishing he had the words.
Dean's lips thin to a line, and Sam feels tension start to wind up his back. The sight of a giant with an intense glare like that on his face is not easy to take in at four inches in height. Dean doesn't mean it, but his size gets in the way of an innocent look.
"Sam," Dean says, "I know you have to be careful. I just want you to know... I won't forget you're here. You deserve to be able to live without being afraid all the time. I... I want to help."
This time, it is Sam's face that softens. He takes another step out into the open, this time completely away from the cover of the bed. "I know you do."
He rests his small arm on one of Dean's massive hands and uses it to lean on. That huge hand could spring up at any time and coil completely around his body.
But it doesn't, and it won't, and Sam knows this.
"Just watch where you toss your dirty socks," Sam snarks up at his brother, feeling the last of the tension sloughing off at the return of their normal banter. Moments like this were when he barely even felt the size difference, and it was good. "I don't need the nightstand smelling like dirty feet all night." He wrinkles his nose and is rewarded with a chuckle from Dean.
No matter how different, they will always be brothers.
Which is probably why Sam finds a dirty sock lurking outside of the nightstand the next morning.
Sam took a deep breath where he was standing, momentarily overwhelmed by the rush of emotions that came with the memory of Dean. He let the adrenaline start to work its way out through his arms, leaving them shaking from the temporary terror that hit him, realizing he'd just about blacked out after getting under the bed.
Jacob was frozen, his steps faltered. His eyes shot down to the floor after catching the barest sign of motion down there. Only a step more and he'd have reached the same spot where he saw it, and his cheeks erupted in flame.
Sam. Fuckdammit. He's awake.
A/N:
In which Dean has issues, Sam has issues, Bowman hates cages, and Jacob is Jacob.
For those who follow the tumblr, you may recognize the flashback as one that we previewed some time back!.
Cowritten by PL1, the creator of the Wellwood sprites and Jacob Andris!
Beta read by creatorofuniverses on tumblr.
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Next: August 16th, 2020 at 9pm