Lestrade gaped openly, awed by the sensation of Dean's hands pulling up on his finger and hardly making an impression. Even as it lay there relaxed, with Lestrade making no conscious effort to keep it in place, his finger barely budged for all Dean's effort.

He couldn't leave Dean struggling, so following the little fellow's clear goal, Lestrade lifted his finger to wherever Dean guided it. If one didn't know better, they'd get the impression that Dean had done it on his own.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Dean and Lestrade's antics, looking the borrower up and down in comparison to the finger. "Not you, certainly," he said in cold honesty, providing an answer to Dean's question of who was taller.

Instead of being put off by the blunt answer, Dean's lips flattened as he mulled it over. Any sign of being disheartened by Sherlock's assessment was erased by the amount of focus Dean needed to follow through with simple motions while he was inebriated.

Letting go of that finger, Dean moved over to Lestrade's middle finger, deciding he would simply continue until he found one that he was taller in comparison to. He couldn't be shorter than all of them…

Right?

Lifting up this finger just like the first, he looked at Sherlock with slightly unfocused eyes. "How 'bout now?" he asked, his accent thickened with a distinct slur.

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "That one's longer than the last," he pointed out in lieu of a proper answer.

To say that Lestrade was bemused by all this would be an understatement. Now he was holding up two fingers. Evidently he couldn't lift his middle finger as high as Dean wanted it independently, so the first one hovered just behind and above Dean. And while Lestrade was far from matching Dean's level of drunk, his own whiskeys encouraged him to have a little fun.

Lestrade let his index finger curl in to gently settle on Dean's head, mussing the teeny spike he'd styled it into.

Dean's face transformed from his vaguely curious and intrigued expression to an expression of shock, startled to feel his carefully spiked hair getting fluffed up the way he messed with Sam's. A look of offense started to take over, and a garbled exclamation escaped Dean's throat as he stumbled a few steps forward, releasing the finger he was holding up (with a little help from Lestrade).

His first initial reaction taken care of, Dean launched himself straight into his second, twisting around and throwing a punch at the offending finger.

Lestrade couldn't hold in a chuckle anymore, curling his fingers back to be out of reach of Dean's little punch before relaxing them back down to the table. "Forgot about me, did ya?" he said knowingly, a little too entertained by Dean's drunken movements and ready to catch him in case his balance gave out on him.

"Did not! " Dean protested with his fists clenched by his sides. His shoulders bunched up, along with his leather jacket, as he stood there looking like a cat with its hair on end.

Or a kid, railing against the inevitable, as Dean had forgotten he wasn't alone with Sherlock.

This was far from a normal day for Dean, spending most of it out of the walls. Not only that, but Sam was out and about with John instead of the other way around. It wasn't his fault if he couldn't focus enough to remember!

With a huff, Dean stalked back over to the hand and sat down on the offending finger, hard, crossing his arms and daring Lestrade to try it again.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Dean, who clearly believed that his weight could pin down a finger larger than he was tall, as had been proven moments ago. Though it would be the easiest thing to simply lift the finger and prove Dean's protest held no water, Lestrade turned that thought away. That'd be needlessly mean-spirited, and though Lestrade was willing to tease, the last thing he wanted was to affect that confidence that was only amplified by the alcohol in Dean's system.

Instead, Lestrade grinned mischievously, then waited a moment to build suspense before reaching in with his other hand, one finger outstretched and headed straight for Dean's hair.

Dean didn't see the hand at first, completely focused on his dominance of the offending finger and smug that it wouldn't be able to reach his hair again.

Then he noticed the shadow and looked up to see the other hand swooping in to claim victory. With an outcry of offense, Dean hastily uncrossed his arms to mount some sort of defense against it, but the motion threw off his balance.

Instead of blocking Lestrade's teasing motion, Dean only managed to tumble backwards, sprawled across Lestrade's fingers and knuckles as he tried to guard the remnants of his regularly spiked 'do.

Lestrade laughed affably, and his oncoming hand retreated rather than following through with its planned hair-tousling. He'd had his fun and decided that was enough teasing.

"Alright, up you get," sighed the DI, carefully tilting his hand to lift Dean to his feet. He held the other nearby, fingers ready to catch Dean's balance if he wavered.

For his part, Sherlock leaned back in his chair and slouched, arms crossed grumpily against his chest. This entire affair had taken an unexpected turn in a hurry. Rather than treating Lestrade like an intruder in need of setting straight, Dean was getting chummy with the Detective Inspector. Agent Baker was one thing, that could hardly have been avoided and they'd been assured that partnership with him would be all the more beneficial in the future.

This was just irksome.

When the room went sideways as Lestrade helped him up, Dean ended up leaning against a long finger. Without it there to catch his balance, he very well might have spilled right onto the ground when the surface under him decided to move before he could pick himself up.

Trying to push himself away and stand on his own, the world spun. It took both his arms outstretched for balance and his feet firmly planted on the table before he could stand on his own. All it would take was a slight bump against the table and he'd go flying.

Ignoring Sherlock, Lestrade kept a close eye on Dean as he reoriented himself. He let his hands relax on the table again, lingering with the one that had supported Dean. Curious fingers lightly pinched the corner of the tiny leather jacket for another feel for the material. It was certainly not the work of a doll-maker, much too fine in detail and too well-fitted to Dean's exact size. And the leather, if Lestrade didn't know better…

"Is that real? " Lestrade asked, incredulous. He was almost sure it couldn't be, but it was far from faux.

This was enough to get Dean to stick his chin out, straightening his leather jacket with pride as he took a few steps to show it off, the swagger more pronounced than ever.

"Killed the rat this is made from myself!" Dean shamelessly bragged, brushing off each sleeve and then reaching up to fix his crooked spike. "It didn't stand a chance against us Winchesters, that's for sure. Gotta get rid of 'em as soon as they come sniffin' around, or everything goes to hell in a handbasket."

Lestrade's brow nearly jumped up to his hairline as the implications set in. Killing a rat didn't seem like that big of a deal until he considered how small Dean was and how big rats could get. Even Sherlock had to quirk an eyebrow at that little nugget of information.

"Christ," he muttered, impressed. "How the hell'd you manage it? What'd you use?" Lestrade couldn't help but wonder what kinds of weapons someone smaller than a finger would have to defend themselves against something about the size of a bear.

Dean was starting to get into the tale now. He reached into his leather jacket, into the hidden pocket he'd sewn in himself (normal borrowers had no need for pockets, but luckily for him Bobby had taught him a thing or two growing up), and grandly withdrew his silver knife, sharpened and shined.

"Sam circled around back, and kept it distracted so I could get the killing blow," Dean said, acting out the scene, swiftly striking the air with his knife. To his satisfaction, Lestrade moved his hands back with the knife in play,

Dean remained as drunk as ever, but something about having a blade in his hand and an imaginary enemy to fight erased any sign of a stagger from his movements. Dean was focused.

"Once we took care'a it, we skinned it like they taught us, and traded the meat away to a tanner. He made boots, bags, and one jacket out of what we got. Best deal I ever made." Dean sharply tugged his collar so it was straight.

Lestrade was awed by the sight of the absolutely tiny blade as Dean showed off his expertise with it. Across the table, Sherlock blinked and started to lean forward again. Dean rarely talked about the inner workings of people their size of his own volition, and Sherlock knew better than to pry too deeply into such matters if he wanted to see Dean for the rest of the day. He had a tendency of excusing himself from conversations he'd rather not be a part of.

But now, with a few drinks and Lestrade to show off for, a man with whom Dean had zero history, he was simply dropping facts like that casually. Even offhandedly mentioned Sam, despite Sherlock's efforts to keep him secret. But that was Dean's choice, and Sherlock was far too fascinated to care. He shot Lestrade an expectant stare, practically willing him to carry on asking questions.

Lestrade caught a glimpse of this look, but he was enthralled by Dean's story and simply had to know more.

" 'Least you put it to use," he commented, still blown away by the information he was taking in. He pointed at the teeny knife, putting his question about who Sam was on the backburner in favor of it. "Where'd ya get that? Another trade?"

If anything, Dean puffed up even more with pride, striking the flat of the blade with a loving hand as he recalled the knife's history. "Made 'em myself," he said, his eyes locked on a point in the distant past.

"Wanted to give Sam something worthwhile for his birthday after all the shit going on. Kid's gotta be able to protect himself, right?" Dean looked at them for confirmation. "I wanted to know if I could before I committed to the gift, so I made one for myself first. Bobby helped me design it, and helped me melt the silver into sheets we could work with. That guy has everything. Since dad went and used all our silver supplies first. And it worked!"

After a moment's consideration, Dean held up the knife so Lestrade could get a close look at his pride and joy, flattening his palms under it.

With a glance back at Dean's face to double check that it was alright with him, Lestrade scooted back in his chair and leaned one hand against the edge of the table to lean in for a good look at the knife. His breath caught as he took in the few details he could make out of the weapon. This was just as well, as part of Lestrade feared that an exhale too sharp would simply blow the delicate blade away.

"Blimey," he whispered in awe, leaning back once he'd had a fair look at Dean's knife. "I'm guessing this Sam of yours is family, then, if you made him one as well." Lestrade had a way of making potentially prying questions seem conversational. Not that he was actively trying to interrogate Dean, but old habits were hard to break for the Detective Inspector.

"My little brother," Dean corrected, glancing around the kitchen as he let his arms drop and tucked his blade back into the hidden sheath inside his leather jacket. There it would stay, either until it was needed or until he cleaned it later on.

With the knife gone from sight, some of Dean's inebriation came rushing up on him, and he surreptitiously rubbed his forehead. "Sam's... out," he explained, waving his other hand around the flat. "He went... somewhere."

Lestrade suspected as much, given what he already heard. Had to be a close family member of some sort. What was news was that apparently this Sam was still around and Sherlock neglected to mention him.

"So, you and Sam live here, then?" he inferred, kicking back the last of his whiskey with a look at Sherlock. While the detective never truly lost his wariness entirely, it was still coupled with an inquisitive expectancy trying to encourage Lestrade to keep prying.

Dean eyed Lestrade suspiciously. His inebriation, while it left him open to sharing stories, did nothing to stave off his instinctive protection of Sam.

"We made our own place and that's all you need to know," Dean said shortly to stop that line of questioning in its tracks.

Lestrade lifted his hands in surrender. "Gotcha," he assured, lacing his fingers together on the table. Clearly he'd hit a sore spot, but there was plenty else Lestrade was curious about.

"So, you made your knife and you traded for the leather getup. Did you have to trade for everything else?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at Dean as a whole, jeans and all.

Dean stared down at what else he was wearing, blankly looking at his jeans, t-shirt under his leather jacket, and feeling the socks he had on over his feet. Those, and some underclothes, made up the brothers outfits most days, and when it got colder out they'd layer up with longer, warmer shirts close to the flannels they used to wear as kids.

Not as comfortable, though. Dean missed those as much as he missed his colt and watch.

"Not much," he said. "Some clothes… socks 'specially. Those vanish fast even when you watch. I can find anything else we need. That's my specialty." Dean held his chin up proudly.

"Yeah, seems that you have a real knack for it, the way he tells it," said Lestrade with a nod at Sherlock. He recalled one of the cases he credited Dean for, the details of which had been gnawing at Lestrade for a bit.

"I mean, that one case a while back, the murder-suicide with the ring? I always wondered how the hell Sherlock found that ring, and now he says you're the one who found it. And don't get me wrong, that's bloody brilliant, but… it's gotta be more than you two just found that thing."

Dean smirked, not above the chance to brag on his accomplishments. "I'm a tracker," he said proudly, jutting his chin out. "So long as Sherlock gives me some idea what we're searching for, I can lead him right to it. Just like I coulda told him, if he asked me, that one of his missing glasses is in the back of that cupboard pushed behind everything else, the other is mixed into his lab equipment, and the last is right above our heads."

Pointing in time with each of his declarations, Dean indicated where all the missing cups were in the flat, and on the last, with his arm pointing overhead, he nearly stumbled over, losing his balance when the room went sideways.

Lestrade and Sherlock followed Dean's finger in each direction he pointed. While Lestrade was confused by the final location, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, knowing the glass hadn't been left on the light overhead. That left the flat upstairs as the only remaining option, the place where John Watson slept. And evidently did more than sleep.

Since he was closer, Lestrade noticed Dean's loss of balance first and his hand shot out to catch him before he could hit the table.

"You okay, kid?" he asked, adjusting his fingers minutely to make sure Dean was steady against them. Any questions he had about how the hell he could track things were replaced with concern for the little guy.

Dean wobbled as he tried using Lestrade's hand to push himself up, his legs refusing to support him. It was getting harder to stand in place with the way the room kept swooping from one side to the other.

"I'm not a kid!" he protested, quite clear, then slumped against Lestrade's fingers again. "Why the hell won't everything just stay still already."

Lestrade shook his head, regretting that he and Sherlock let Dean get this far gone. He seemed at least partially coherent, but his balance was all but nonexistent.

"Right, I think you need to take it easy, fella." Lestrade angled his fingers so that Dean was closer to upright, backing off with most of his fingers except his index finger wrapped behind Dean's back to keep him steady. He fully intended to help Dean get to wherever he wanted to rest. "Go on and sit yourself down, before you topple."

" 'Kay," Dean said agreeably, allowing Lestrade to help him as he walked. So much to drink at once with no resistance rendered him liable to suggestions, going along without complaint.

Spotting the closest he would get to a bench, Dean changed direction, only pausing for a second to make sure his legs were walking in the right direction. Since he wasn't certain Sherlock would sit still, and really the other human was a mostly-forgotten blur in the distance, Dean chose a new spot.

Reaching his destination, Dean sat himself down on Lestrade's other hand, using his thumb as a seat, and the first knuckle as a backrest, finally getting the chance to just kick out his legs and relax.

Lestrade could hardly protest Dean's choice of seat, giving a resigned sigh despite his warm grin. Though Dean acted more relaxed around his hands, Lestrade would never forget how it felt to see the fear when the little fella thought he was going to be grabbed. He wouldn't have harmed Dean, much less grabbed, and seeing him relaxing on his hand awakened something protective in Lestrade. After such a rough start, he was glad he seemed to work things out with the guy. Even if he was drunk for most of it.

Across the table, Sherlock was just as resigned. Obviously there was no going back from this, now that Lestrade was invested in the goings on between the detective and the borrower. At least he could be content knowing that Lestrade wouldn't take advantage of his size while Dean was in a state of weakened judgement. All things considered, that was a plus. Sherlock supposed this had gone better than anticipated.

Satisfied with their relaxation and fresh air for the day, John and Sam headed back to the flat. John had been too busy with helping Elyssa earlier to acknowledge that Sherlock was missing, but he did notice. And considering that he was wrapped up in an older case, John had a feeling he somehow managed to wrap Dean up in the affair and the pair of them headed off on their own.

Part of John expected them to be back when he and Sam returned. However the last thing he expected when he climbed up to the flat and rounded the corner was the back of a familiar silver head.

John stiffened in the entrance to the kitchen, frozen in shock to see Detective-Inspector Lestrade sitting calmly with Sherlock, and even more so at the sight of Dean leaning casually against the older man's hand!

"John," Sherlock greeted calmly, elbows resting on the table with his hands folded thoughtfully in front of his chin.

The doctor shot him a flat look. "Every time I leave the house," he lamented, his stance not relaxing one bit as Lestrade looked back at him sheepishly.

Sam barely heard what the three of them were talking about, his attention riveted on Dean the second he spotted where his older brother was.

"D-Dean!" Sam sputtered, barely able to keep from rising out of his seat to try and dash for him.

He was casually sitting on a stranger's hand!

A/N:

TW: Alcohol and drinking will be involved with the rest of the story, including drunken behavior.

Sherlock is absolutely put out that even Lestrade won Dean over without any problems. (Uh, Sherlock, it might be because Greg has some of those attributes like being attentive and interested when Dean's talking fyi)

No one warned Sam or John about any of this. Might want to try that next time.

Unfortunately, fanfiction doesn't allow images in posts. If you want to see the artwork for this chapter, check out the deviantart or archive of our own post.

Next: November 16th, 2022 at 9PM

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I'm getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow morning. Wish me luck, I'm so nervous.

So long as nothing else comes up, we will be finishing up this story next week right before (american) Thanksgiving. There will be a hiatus through Christmas and New Years. I'll put up a schedule for when the next story starts once I have it all sorted out! Keep an eye out on our story tumblr and also deviantart status updates, which seem the best places to announce such things. There will be a poll before the next story starts, letting everyone choose if they want to see Brothers Apart or Brothers Lost next.

Adding in this author's note for all my followers here, and will keep it on all chapters going forward:

If the worst happens and fanfiction shuts down, you can find all my stories on both archive of our own and deviantart, posted under the nightmares06 account. You can also find our story tumblr, which contains a ton of information and answers that are only posted on that site, along with artwork for the stories and future plans we have. That can be found under the brothersapart tumblr account. I can't put links in chapters, but googling "Brothersapart tumblr" should bring it right up!