Once the older men got over the initial shock, John, Sam, and Bobby sat drinking coffee around the table where Dean is standing, trying to retain his dignity while sipping coffee from his bottle lid. Sam and Dean explained what had happened with the witch, and as hunters, they all understood the next step will be to try to get her to undo the spell – or kill her which generally will negate any spell a witch has cast.

"Damn stupid, Dean. Going in without knowing what you're up against. I thought I taught you better than that." His father barks at him, and Dean nervously agrees. The middle Winchester looks like a war refugee – or a toy model of a war refugee – bandaged head and wearing a tee shirt as a cloak. He's pale and bruised, and as John is studying Dean – all twelve inches of him – the father sees something that surprises him. Dean looks delicate with his long neck and fine features.

John has this idea in his head that his older son is tall and stocky, a rock, but with Dean standing in only his jeans, John thinks he could count his ribs. John wonders when that happened. He looks younger than John expects too, and the father's heart twinges at how long he has thought of his son as an adult.

Sam is looking at his brother too. "Huh." He mutters, half to himself. "You seem taller in real life."

"I am taller in real life." Dean huffs at his brother, brows lowering into a scowl. "And you're not funny in real life, Sammy." Between knowing his father is disappointed in him, feeling sick from his head injury, and stupid for letting the witch get the drop on him, Dean has enough problems without his brother trying to be funny.

The younger brother is still staring. "No. I mean this is like looking at you through the looking glass, Dean. You usually seem so big – even though I'm almost as tall as you now. I guess I mean, this version of you helps put things in perspective."

"I AM taller than you, Bitch." Dean says, trying to straighten up more, but losing his hold on Sam's shirt he's been wearing as a cloak. "And I'm always going to be your big brother, so put that in your perspective before I put your nose in perspective."

Sam chuckles. "Bring it shorty, besides I'm growing again. I bet I'm going to be taller than you, like dad is." Dean stomps toward his brother, who uses his index finger to flick him on his leg. Dean stumbles and falls holding his leg and biting off a moan.

"Boys. This isn't helping." Bobby speaks up as he takes a clean blue bandana out of his pocket and drapes it over Dean's shoulders. "But I see what you both mean. Boytoy there usually has enough layers on that he looks more like a lumberjack than a fashion doll." Bobby winces. "It complicates things though. I mean, he ain't going to be any help in this hunt, and I need a few days to recuperate. I'm pretty banged up besides the pigskin patch job. I ain't getting any younger, ya know."

Bobby runs his hand over his freshly stitched side. "I got an idea, but you might not like it." He looks over at John who has a far-away look in his eyes, still staring at his older son. "John?"

"Hmmm?" John snaps out of his reverie. "He looks so much like Mary." He mutters, and all three of the others freeze. John never talks about his dead wife. Sam waits, breathless, he treasures every little hint ever dropped about the mother he doesn't remember. "Her eyes had those same long lashes."

Dean puffs up in his sitting position, and then he purposely cuts off his father's musing. Dean doesn't want the others to see how much it affects him, and with them staring like he's an interesting centerpiece in the middle of the table, he's pretty sure they wouldn't miss it. "First of all – all three of you are staring, and that's just rude. Second, you're letting this size thing go to your head. And third – third, well I haven't thought of what that is yet, but stop staring at me. We need to figure this out and get me back to normal." It's John's turn to snort. He turns to Bobby and asks what he was about to say.

"I need to recuperate. We need to keep Dean there safe until we find a way to reverse this, and you and Sam need to be able to hunt without worrying about me and him. So, I know a place less than five hours away where we might be able to do that – instead of back at my house. 'Cause I ain't up to keeping the Indian in the Cupboard there from getting into more trouble."

"I can look after myself." Dean shouts.

"Dude, you were getting chased off the counter by a roach." Sam states, as though that was some kind of explanation.

"Shut up, boys." John snaps at them. He's pretty sure he knows where Bobby wants to take Dean, but he's not sure he wants his son to go. John knows Bobby has been told at least one side of the story. He knows his sons probably don't even remember the one visit they had there. "She blames me, you know. No telling if she'll agree to help my son."

Bobby slurps some coffee and nods his head in understanding. "But she'll do it for me. We go way back – and we've helped each other out more times than either one of us can count." Bobby waits, drinking his coffee, giving John time to adjust to the idea. "She's got a little girl, you know. Might be able to help us in the amenities for a doll thing."

"Hey, right here. Not a doll." Dean snipes, but his head hurts, he's in pain, and he's getting blurry even with the coffee. He looks miserable and the jeans he has on are crusty with blood and vomit still. Boots too, he notices and unlaces them to tug them off.

John turns back to Bobby. "It's what? Four-five hours from here?"

"Bout that." Bobby agrees.

"Well, why don't you go get a few hours rest while I try to help Dean get a little more presentable. He's gonna have enough to overcome there without making a bad first impression." Bobby agrees and stretches out on one of the beds, pain medicine kicking in quickly and letting him doze off despite the coffee.

The Winchester patriarch turns toward his sons. "I'm going to drive into town to pick up a few things. Sam, I'm going to need you to help your brother get washed up. Get the dish basin and fill it with warm water. Slice off some soap. Dean can get a bath. Need to wash those jeans, too. Plus, I need you to keep an eye on him. He's still concussed, probably in pain too. Aren't you, Dean."

From his slumped over position, a sleepy-voiced Dean mutters. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, you look it." John huffs out in disbelief. "Strip to your skivvies and give your brother the pants." Dean doesn't say anything, but he doesn't move either, and John is startled. Dean usually is much better at obeying orders. "Dean, do what I tell you," John orders.

"Dean, it's okay, we won't look." Sam jumps in running interference and wondering if this is how his brother feels every time he tries to disperse the tension between him and their dad. Dean never defies his dad over something so simple.

John uses a finger to nudge Dean, inadvertently hitting his leg where his brother had flicked him earlier. Dean tries to bite back his groan, unsuccessfully. John growls. "Take 'em off, or I'll do it for you."

Dean shuffles around and empties his pockets, tiny keys, wallet, knives, gun, lighter forming a small pile next to his boots. He grunts in pain as he undoes his belt and tugs it off. Then he looks up to see if they are going to turn away. His father makes an impatient growling sound, so Dean stands up shakily and unbuttons his jeans. As he lowers them, both Sam and John gasp.

There's a large purple contusion where Sam had playfully flicked Dean earlier taking up a large portion of his thigh and continuing under his boxers, and the younger boy starts to moan. "Oh, damn, oh, Dean. I didn't mean to. Dad…I never would have…"

John looks grim. "That's enough, Sam." He tugs the pants away from his older son's tiny hands, but he does it gently, only now realizing how fragile Dean's current form is. "Go get your brother a piece of ice for that before it swells worse."

When Sam runs out of the room to go to the ice machine near the community room, John turns back to Dean. "Exactly how dumb are you planning to get on me?" The father demands, but he doesn't give Dean time to answer. "Do we hide injuries? Do you think we're going to be able to keep you alive if you try to hide them from us?"

"No, sir." Dean's head is bowed, and in only his underwear Dean's trembling is obvious. John backs away and wipes his mouth, stretches his neck trying to relieve some tension. He grumbles and stomps into the bathroom heading for the sink, dirty jeans in his hands. Looking back over his shoulder he barks out another order. "Sit down before you fall down and break something."

Sam comes back in with a piece of ice which he wraps in a napkin. Dean is reclining on Sam's wadded up shirt, bad leg stretched out. He has Bobby's bandana wrapped around his top half. Sam gently sets the ice on his brother, looking at him mournfully. John comes in and sets the jeans down to dry on the towel. He uses a washcloth to wipe Dean's boots before telling his sons to stay put, watch out for each other and Bobby, but he'd be right back after a quick run into town.

After John leaves, Dean can't stand the whipped puppy look in his brother's eyes one more second. "It's not your fault, Sam. You didn't know – hell, I didn't know that this could happen." Dean starts, but Sam waves him off.

"I should've been more careful, Dean. I am sorry, but mostly I'm determined to make sure you're okay until you're better." The younger brother gently lifts Dean to straighten out the shirts, and places him gently back on it, covering him with the bandana. "If you want to sleep, I'll wake you every couple hours. You can trust me, you know. I've got the watch."

Dean knows the kind of heart break his brother is trying to hide. "I trust you, Sammy. You and me – we've always got each other's back."