Wind shrieked through the hollows and gaps of the cave like banshees haunting a graveyard. Sam listened to the muffled sound of wind in the trees outside, the skitter of animals somewhere deep in the lower depths of the cave, and water dripping from some unseen space amongst the bumpy, knobby rock. He let his hand sweep across the wet fissures, his fingers dancing over the slimy stone of his new home.

Home, of course, was a stretch.

Home was their village, Lawrence. Home was two beds in a single room, the heat of a fireplace, Dean stumbling through the door late at night, drunk, a barmaid on his arm, Sam grumbling about how he was trying to study, trying, desperately, to earn the opportunity to get far away from Lawrence, to claw his way up and out of generational poverty. Home was Dean. Human Dean. Not the cruel, dominating giant he'd been turned into.

It had been a year. A year since the witch. A year since the destruction of Lawrence. Dean and Sam had been traveling since then, although traveling perhaps wasn't the best word. Dean had taken Sam captive, forcing them into the woods or surrounding rural farmland to evade people. Although Sam didn't think people were a threat-there was no weapon in the world that could kill something as large as Dean-Dean seemed to want to avoid them. Unless, of course, he was hungry. Since Dean brought Sam everywhere Sam had a front row seat to just how monstrous Dean could be when he was famished. There was nothing like seeing somebody being bitten in half like a summer sausage (the screeches abruptly cut off, the sound of tearing, the gush of blood falling to the ground, the glistening purple white of rendering intestines, the gleam of a disconnected spinal cord, the vomit-inducing crunch of molars crushing a still-twitching skull) for Sam to learn the importance of passivity. Although Dean had never been violent with him, Sam thought it best to be as acquiescent as possible, lest Dean find a reason he didn't want him anymore. There was no room to voice his displeasure, his fears, his worries. There was no telling how this new and improved Dean would react.

It had been a year of being Dean's plaything, his sex toy. Although perhaps sex toy was a stretch. Dean's sexual advances were exclusively oral-licking, lapping at Sam's body until he inevitably fell into climax-probably because of their enormous size difference. Dean couldn't do much else in the intimacy department since he'd probably kill Sam on accident. But Dean seemed content enough, which Sam was relieved about, although never in his life would he want to be intimate with his own blood. Although there was no one watching, he turned his face away in shame and revulsion, a light flush blooming on his cheeks. He was tainted. Who would want to be with him after what Dean had done, what he himself he become accustomed to, to perhaps even crave now? He knew that when he'd close his eyes, he'd picture the tight tip of Dean's thick, wet tongue roving around his puckered hole, flicking up against his cock and balls as Dean rumbled about how pretty, how perfect, Sam was for him. How much he loved him, how much he wanted to protect him from the big, bad scary world out there, a world that Dean didn't seem to belong to anymore.

Sam would be lying if he said that it was all bad. Most days Dean talked to him like they used to, but perhaps that made that worse because there were fleeing moments, staring into Dean's large green eyes, that he forgot what his brother had done to their village, to so many other villages, just to pause his infinite appetite. Sam hated himself for seeing his Dean-the Dean that had been practically forced to raise him and didn't complain once about it-beyond the ginormous, aggressive exterior.

Sam glanced at the wide entrance of the cave. The increasingly cold and heavy rain soaked the earth in a dismal wall, obscuring the world beyond. The downpour gradually filled the large footprints impeded in the ground extending away from the cave. Dean. Dean had left an hour ago. He'd said he didn't think it was safe for Sam to be out in the storm, even if Dean could cup him in his hand. The fragrance of wet stone, rotting vegetation, stagnant, standing water, and the briny aroma of slimy lichen swirled in Sam's senses, nearly overtaken by the woodsmoke of the fire. He walked along the cave wall, eyes on the flickering flame near the mouth of the cave. This was the first time Dean had ever left Sam by himself since he became a giant and, frankly, Sam didn't know what to do with himself. The only reason Sam didn't leave while Dean was sleeping was because Dean always blocked the entrance to the cave until only a ten feet sliver was left between his side and the cave roof. Of course, Sam could scale that height, but he couldn't count on Dean staying asleep.

Sam wondered if he could leave. Sneak out. Run. Take the chance. How long it would take Dean to find him? If Dean found him at all. Perhaps he could find a cure, find the damned witch who'd done this to his big brother. Perhaps he could make her turn him back.

What a pipe dream, Sam thought bitterly. What would Dean do if he found him? Sam swallowed nervously at the thought. Although Dean hadn't openly expressed it, Sam had a slinking suspicion Dean would kill him if he ran. Maybe not on purpose. Maybe in a fit of rage. Though perhaps he would do it on purpose. Maybe even gobble him up like he'd done to so many others. Sam licked his dry lips, reaching down for his bag to pull out a moleskin bottle of spring water. He uncapped his drink and took a long swig, walking closer to the campfire.

No. It was better not to think of stupid ideas. Stupid ideas had stupid consequences.

He dropped onto the slick rock floor. He rummaged through his bag until he pulled out a small container of provisions. He placed stinging nettle leaves into the broth he was brewing, adding a tingling, chlorophyll flavor. Bits and pieces of hare meat bobbled in the murky broth. He stirred the soup with his wooden spoon. The fire crackled, seeing red sparks dancing upon the moist ground only to be extinguished moments after contact.

Sam stared into the fire. As rivers in full flow, flames made their way upward toward the high ceiling. Briefly, he thought about the fire that had burned down their small, modest cottage when he was just six months old. The fire had killed their mother, Mary, and had left their father drunk with grief and later, drunk with rage and spirits. He wondered what their mother would think if she could see her sons now. Sam tried not to think about it, but without Dean, every evasive, limping thought refused to leave his mind. He hadn't realized it until now how Dean had taken up his full attention for long, not unlike how a wolf's presence always keeps the sheep present and in the moment.

Sam took his soup off the pot and began to eat. The rain was letting up, but not by much. The forest was usually teeming with wildlife, but now the world outside had gone quiet with the storm. Scurrying squirrels and nervous hares, who usually searched for food under bristles of wispy moss, had slipped underneath crushed, uprooted trees. The fresh and organic amora of the woodlands was dampened with the flood. The aged trees, with their knotted arms stretching towards the sky, whined underneath the assault of wind and water. Mushrooms grew under the shady roof of the forest; plump purple berries ripened, scattered across disrupted earth. Arthritic boughs, gnarled with age, dripped their bounty of nuts onto long forgotten paths.

Near the entrance of the immense cave wild basil grew freely on the clumpy, torn earth. The resilient survivors. Sam glanced at the basil bushes, contemplated tearing some leaves off for more flavor. In the distance, Sam thought he could hear shuffling noises, deadened by the cunningly woven web of leaves and thrum of torrential rain. Probably a predator. There weren't many big animals that came around here. They were too easy for Dean to spot. Dean didn't hesitate to eat wild animals, too. Predators, he'd said, tasted the best. Sam didn't contemplate too much on that.

After eating, Sam grabbed the long, curved dagger hidden at the bottom of his bag. Dean did not know he had it. Sam ran the blade's tip across his thumb, feeling the whisper of violence underneath the touch. Just a little deeper, a little harder. Blood would bloom. He dragged the knife away and inspected the handle. Sam had thought countless nights of plunging the blade into Dean's sleeping eye or perhaps cutting one of the thick arteries bulging beneath his biceps. But there was no way he'd kill Dean, not with his size. And, although Sam didn't want to admit it, he felt a tremor of shame. He didn't know if he had the gall to actually hurt his big brother when the time came.

One benefit of the dagger, though, was that Sam could cut his hair. Unlike Dean who seemed to be frozen in time-his hair was still shaved closed to his head and his fingernails hadn't grown-Sam used every opportunity when Dean was asleep to trim his hair slowly but surely. Sure, his hair was normally longer than most men, but that didn't mean Sam wanted it as long as a woman's. He reached behind his head and began to slowly saw off a bit from the back he'd missed last time. He winced at the sharp tugging at his scalp but continued undeterred. Who said progress was painless?

Just then, Sam felt a vibration underneath his bottom. Startled, the blade slipped against Sam's thumb, cutting deep. He jerked the blade and his hand back around.

"Ow, shit," Sam murmured, shoving his bleeding thumb past his lips and sucking. Coppery blood scorched his tongue, sending his gag reflex into a tight spasm, but Sam continued to clean his wound. He popped his thumb out and although it stung, he wiped his saliva off on his trousers. He quickly shoved the blade back down into the recesses of his bag and he stared into the wall of rain. Sam's stomach spasmed at the unmistakable sound of Dean. Dean couldn't be quiet if he wanted to. His steps vibrated the earth like thunder. You could hear the cracking of trees from miles away.

From the rain emerged Dean like a giant from a fairy tale. Naked and soaking wet, rivulets of water flicking down his soaked hair to drip down his bare shoulders. Although the trees were the towers of the forest, they were average compared to his brother's enormous 65-foot physique. When human, Dean was use to catching looks. After all, he was an attractive man, especially for his birth rank. Sam remembered Dean bringing a plethora of women home to their shared little cottage. As a giant, Dean's looks were exemplified. Looking into his green eyes was like looking into electric emeralds. Dean's bare feet slammed against the soaked earth, letting out a loud squishy, sucking clamor. Sam glanced up Dean's bowed legs. Dean's silken, flaccid penis, thickly veined and hefty, swung gently back and forth with each step, smacking lightly into his plump, well-hung testicles. He craned his neck up further.

Dean's normally chiseled belly was slightly distended, movement writhing just beneath the skin. A nudge here and there, a moment of raised skin, then nothing. How many people had he'd eaten? Ten? Twelve? Maybe even more? Sometimes Dean would tear his victims asunder before consumption, other times he'd eat them alive, flailing and screaming. Although the former scenario was egregious, the latter often left Sam on the verge of vomiting. It was one thing to lose your life quickly with the snap of teeth and the tug of fingers, it was another to be swallowed whole, dragged down a ravished gullet, plopped into a dark, fowl stomach, slowly bathed in gastrointestinal acids, churned up into meat sludge, extracting your body's nutrients to feed another's. All while being alive and aware.

Sam quickly moved his eyes past his distended belly to his chest. His nipples were peaked, a tight, vivid pink. Sam looked up further into Dean's lightly freckled face. Dean pursed his plump lips before flashing Sam a smile. Dean was finally at the cave entrance and crouched down. There was something in Dean's hand. Sam prayed it wasn't any more victims-he couldn't handle any more trauma this week-and scooted away from the fire and towards the cave wall.

"Hey, Sammy. I brought you back something." Dean said. His voice wasn't so much as a rumble but was exemplified all the same. Sam felt that if Dean was his normal size the way he was talking now would be equivalent to whispering.

Dean crawled inside the cave and shimmied onto his side, lying down. He propped up on his elbow, resting his jaw on his palm. He moved his giant arm towards Sam. Sam eyed the object pinched in between his fingers. It was a quilt. Soon, it was a yard away. Sam stepped forward and brought his hands up, grasping the soft, beautiful material. Dean let go, leaving Sam with the weight of the quilt. It was not light.

"Do you like it?" Dean said.

Sam fingered the gorgeous squares, each unique to the others beside it. Sam instantly knew it wasn't cheap. That meant Dean had gone after the wealthy. He couldn't say he was surprised. Dean hadn't liked the rich before he was turned into a giant, now they were on the menu. Problem solved, in a way. Although Sam would argue that the wealthy that screwed them over weren't the random rich Dean now targeted. Sam repressed a look of distain as he looked over the quilt. Dean had stolen this from one of his victims. Sam wanted nothing more than to toss it out in the downpour, maybe even burn it in the fire.

"Yes. It's beautiful." Sam lied. He fastened the material around his shoulders, curling into the blanket and inhaling the clean scent of it. Dean must have held his fist pretty tight in order to keep the material dry.

Dean nodded, like that was exactly what he expected. His blood-shot green eyes danced over Sam, eyeing him. Sam purposefully didn't look up. He didn't want to see what sentiment might be on his brother's face.

"Miss me while I was gone?" Dean said. Sam froze. He couldn't tell if Dean was testing him or not. He peered up at Dean's face. Dean's eyes were half lidded, sleepy. Dean was usually drowsy after a big meal, and he watched Sam with a passive lethargy.

"You weren't gone long enough for me to," Sam finally admitted.

Dean smirked. "You're not wrong. Come here." Dean let his elbow fall so he was resting his head on his arm.

Sam licked his lips and slowly moved towards Dean. When he was a yard away from Dean's face, he stopped. Dean reached out his hand, gently wrapping his fingers around Sam's back. They were just there, not pushing. Sam stiffened. The water on Dean's fingers soaked into the quilt, but not Sam's clothing. Sam subconsciously leaned back against Dean's embrace and felt Dean move his pinkie finger up and down in a gentle gesture, rubbing Sam's back above his rump. Sam found that he actually found it comforting. And then he abruptly cursed himself for finding it comforting.

"There was more where that came from. You should see it, man. Textile joint. Real pricey. I was thinking about bringing back more tomorrow. Maybe make you a little nest with the blankets." Dean said.

Sam stared down at the quilt again, remaining quiet.

"Hey," Dean said. Sam snapped his head up.

"There was a printing press next door. They had books. Plenty of them. Would that make you happy?" Dean said in a not-so-accusatory tone.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. His palms felt suddenly sweaty. Did Dean not think he was content? Didn't think he was happy to be held captive? To be a silent spectator as his brother-his best friend, his only surviving blood-tore the world asunder around him?

Sam licked his lips. "Yeah, that would be great. I'd love something to read."

Dean's eyes softened, the tension between his eyes lifting, and he smiled, flashing rows of white, enormous teeth. "Good."

Sam leaned back against Dean's insistent fingers, allowing the tender nudges to release some of the tension in his body. Dean's lethargic eyes danced over his small body. Used to the observation, Sam stared at a spot somewhere over Dean's massive shoulder. Momentarily, Dean's fingers stopped. Sam glanced at his brother's face. Dean was not smiling anymore.

"You're bleeding." Dean said, frowning.

"Oh," Sam said, feigning surprise. He glanced down at his bloody thumb. Droplets of crimson drippled to the floor. "I guess I am."

"What happened?" Dean nudged the tip of his picky finger underneath Sam's hand in inspection.

"Rock." Sam said. "I fell."

"Try to be more careful."

"Yes," Sam said, wiping his cut against the quilt, stains be damned. Then he added, "I'm sorry."

Agitation crossed Dean's face. "Stop saying that. You keep saying your sorry, Sammy. I'm sick and tired of you apologizing all the time."

Sam opened his mouth, about to apologize again, but snapped his mouth shut. He frowned. He didn't know what to say. It was true, he had never said sorry more than after Dean had captured him. Mostly because he was scared to make Dean upset. Over the last few months, however, Sam had gotten better about being a little more assertive, testing the waters, seeing where at which point Dean would get angry and try to relinquish back control.

The agitated melted from Dean's face as quickly as it had come. Dean slipped his hand away from Sam's back and with his pointer finger, gently ran the tip across Sam's chest and stomach in placating, soothing swipes.

"You know I'd never hurt you, man, right?" Dean said, his full lips pursed in concern. It briefly reminded Sam of when he was little. Dean was always the one to take care of him. When he'd fallen from a horse, Dean was there to pick him up and take him home through that cold, snowy night. When he was scared when their father, John, got home from a hunting expedition drunk and enraged, Dean had been there to comfort him, pulling Sam to his chest and hiding them underneath the bed.

"Sam," Dean repeated, a little more sternly. "You know I'd never hurt you. Right?"

Sam wanted to say no, he wasn't sure, but he didn't quite have the gall to do it.

"Yes. I mean, no. I know you'd never hurt me," Sam said, although he wanted to remind Dean he had hurt him in ways deeper than any physical violence. Dean seemed content with his answer. He gave him a small, closed mouth smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling like it had always done when he was human.

"Good," he said and nudged Sam closer. Understanding what he wanted, Sam closed his eyes, his miniscule hands reaching out to grab onto Dean's face as Dean laid a kiss on Sam's. Dean pressed a following kiss to Sam's neck and chest region before pulling away.

"There. Now, let's hit the hay," Dean said. Sam nodded and threw the blanket up and onto the ground. There was a patch of color amongst the slick, gray cave stone. Pulling his coat off, Sam laid down, pushing his overgrown hair out of his eyes, and glanced up at the incredibly tall ceiling. He yanked his coat over him and tried to get comfortable. Perhaps a pile of blankets wasn't a bad idea after all. It would save him from a sore, aching back. The wind screeched through the depressions and breaches of the cave. But with Dean here, the sound wasn't so scary. The rain and the wind were actually kind of soothing. Not to mention the inhale and exhale of Dean's ginormous lungs. Sam felt his eyes get heavier.

He glanced at Dean. He was already fast asleep.

Sam raced through the forest. The torrent of rain from this morning had settled into a misty spray. Sam shivered uncontrollably, his heart hammering in his chest. The forest floor was moss-covered and wet, a dangerous combination. Sam used his height to his advantage, pivoting over crushed, fallen trees, and small puddles, trying desperately to dodge unfallen trees and to keep his footing.

"Sam!"

This was a horrible idea. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Why?

"Sammy!" The voice boomed again. Sam trembled with it. Was Dean getting closer or was it Sam's blind terror?

"Sam! Where are you?!" Dean boomed, shaking the forest. Dean sounded mad. Of course, he sounded mad. This was Sam's doing, after all. Sam glanced behind him, eyes wide. Birds pivoted through the air, desperately trying to evade the hulking figure romping through the forest. The earth vibrated. Sam heard the sharp cracking of trees breaking and the ambiances of Dean's massive footsteps. His gorge rose in his throat as adrenaline thrummed in his body, leaving him shaky and spinning.

Although Sam had always been the brains between the two of them-the one to think things over, to plan things out-he had begun packing up his things and ran the moment Dean stepped out that morning to go retrieve the blankets and books he'd promised Sam the day before. He'd suspected if he hadn't run in that moment of opportunity, he'd never get the gall to do it. Sam hadn't really considered that Dean would panic and destroy the forest looking for him, however.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. Sam glanced behind him. Just then, he slipped on a patch of moss. Sam's ankle rolled and he smacked against the ground, hands outstretched to catch his fall. He rolled onto his side. He covered his mouth to muffle the scream of agony threatening to tear from his throat. With his free hand, he grabbed his ankle. Liquid heat, like knives, sliced into his flesh with each pounding heartbeat. He yanked his trouser leg up and pawed at the flesh. Already, his ankle was starting to swell. The skin was warm. Too warm. He cursed under his breath, hitting his forearm against the ground. He was so close. He could have made it.

"Sam!" Closer now. Oh, so close.

Tears blurred Sam's vision, but he forced himself to crawl up onto his hands and knees. Using a tree for support, Sam hobbled into a standing position. He dared to press his weight against his injured ankle. Although it felt horrible, enough to induce vomiting, Sam gritted his teeth and hobbled. When he hit a valley, he knew he was in big trouble. He was out in the open and Dean was gradually approaching. He ran as fast as he could and dived down. Only a minute or two later Dean came into view. He was shouting Sam's name, looking down at the ground, eyes roving, desperately trying to look for him. Using Dean's moment of distraction, Sam darted behind a thick tree and crouched down, staring up at Dean's hulking figure. When he made it to the valley, his brother stopped. He glanced up and looked straight ahead.

If Sam wasn't mistaken, there was a look of fear on Dean's face. It never occurred to Sam that Dean could get scared. Sam assumed that somehow, someway, when Dean had turned into a giant, most of his human emotions had dulled with the change, making him cold and uncaring, akin to an apex predator. Animals didn't care, why would Dean? What did Dean have to be scared of anyway? The asshole was 65 feet tall now. He could crush anything or anyone who tried to hurt him.

"Sammy."

Sam froze in terror. Had Dean spotted him? He glanced up. No, Dean wasn't looking at him.

Sam realized Dean had said it to himself. Sam ran a shaky hand across his mouth and tried not to cry out from the pressure he held on his ankle. He dared to shift more to the right to relieve the pressure and sagged with relief.

Dean's bottom lip trembled and…no…there was no way. Sam blinked, startled. Dean's eyes became wet. His shoulders wilted. A single tear roved over his cheek, flicking off his jawline. Dean wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling.

Sam couldn't believe his eyes.

Dean was crying.

Dean swiped again at his eyes, angrier this time, as if the tears offended him. His chest heaved, his breath coming in wet, raspy rattles. Sam frowned. Dean peered past his closed fist, electric green eyes bloodshot and misty. A horribly miserable expression encapsulated his flushed features.

Sam couldn't keep his crouched position. He tried to get up, but his good leg gave out. He let out a cry of pain as he fell, unable to stifle it. Dean's head snapped down and he sobered up instantly when he caught sight of his little brother on the ground in front of a pine tree. Sam dismally stared up at Dean's rapidly changing features. If a look could kill, Sam would be long dead.

Although it hurt, Sam got up, scrambling back on his ass as Dean reached for him. He grasped a shady patch, but it was futile. Dean grabbed him by the legs, dragging him out. Sam clawed desperately at the ground, shouting from the strain Dean was unknowingly placing on his ankle.

Dean yanked him up off the ground, curling his fingers around Sam's squirming form before bringing Sam to his face. Sam was dizzy with the sudden motion. Sam's heart hammered in his chest, his eyes flickering over Dean's large, enraged face and then to his bared teeth. He squirmed, which only earned him more pressure on his torso and arms. Sam whimpered. It hurt. He couldn't breathe. His lungs seized. His bones creaked. Just like that, Dean softened his grip. Sam coughed, wiggling his arm enough to slip one hand free to cough in his fist. Once he got his breathing under control, he peered up at Dean's face, curling his arm against Dean's fist for leverage. He flinched at what he saw there.

"Did you think you could run away from me, little brother?" Dean sneered. "Did you think I wouldn't find you?"

All the spit had dried in Sam's mouth. He couldn't say anything. He could only stare.

"Answer me." Dean snarled, hot breath sending every hair on Sam's body on end. He had never seen Dean so angry before. Even when he was destroying villages, it was with a sadistic, voracious pleasure, but never with anger.

"N-no." Sam stuttered, subconsciously rubbing his hand against Dean's clenched fist, a self-soothing gesture.

"You're mine, Sammy. Ever since Dad put you in my arms the night of the fire, you've been mine." Dean snapped.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, cowering away.

"Tell me." Dean seethed.

Sam didn't understand. He kept his eyes closed, tried to calm his breathing.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." Dean's tone could freeze hell. Sam sobered up and opened his eyes, glancing up at Dean, although he felt like he might piss his pants from the look Dean had directed his way.

"Tell me who you belong to. Say it." Dean said coldly.

Sam swallowed. "I belong to you."

"That's right. You do. Don't you forget it." Dean said sharply.

"I…I won't." Sam breathed shakily.

Dean glowered. He held him like that for a minute. Sam couldn't stand the expression on Dean's face, not this close up. Dean eyed him as if he was judging if he was being honest. Dean finally relented after a few more minutes, crouching down and placing Sam on the mossy valley floor. Instantly, Sam's good leg gave out and he cried out in pain, dropping on his ass. Dean's eyes widened.

"Are you okay?" He asked, pointer finger gently touching Sam's side. Sam grasped his ankle and sat up.

"My ankle."

A pained expression crossed Dean's face. "Did I…did I hurt you?"

For a cruel second, Sam wanted to say yes. He wanted to make Dean think he'd hurt him. Think he'd broken him. But no, he couldn't lie. He couldn't do that to Dean.

"No. I fell."

Dean frowned, pursing his full lips. He gently ran a finger down Sam's leg, not daring to touch his ankle.

"I need a doctor," Sam admitted. "I think it's sprained or…broken."

Dean nodded. "Can I pick you up?"

This was the first time Dean had asked for consent before just doing something. Sam nodded.

Dean carefully scooped Sam up and brought him to his chest, protectively shielding him from the elements. Despite himself, Sam pressed himself up against Dean's chest, one hand clenched against warm, damp skin, another clutching at his ankle.

"It's our lucky day." Dean said to Sam, glancing down at the small Winchester in his hands.

"Why?" Sam breathed.

"Because I didn't eat the doctor." Dean smirked.

Dean hadn't lied. He hadn't eaten the doctor. Mostly because the man knew how to hide, not because of any sentiment Dean held for medical professionals. Half the town was ruined from the last two days of Dean's escapades, but the little doctor's office was intact. The doctor was a portly little man who refused to come out of the building, even when Dean reluctantly put Sam on the ground in front of the door and explained everything. It took Dean tearing the roof off the structure and the doc pissing his pants in turn for Sam to receive medical attention.

"If you don't help him, I'll tear the rest of your village apart." Dean's lips drew back over his ginormous teeth in a wild snarl as he stared down at the man cowering in the corner of the room, surrounded by medical supplies. With urine drying in his trousers and his pallor white with terror, the doctor examined Sam's ankle, Dean standing watch above them. With the diagnosis of a sprained ankle, the doctor gave Sam herbal remedies and suggested bedrest. The doctor was more than glad to get them out of his hair, watching with awe as the giant man scooped up his patient and walked off into the dreary woods once more.

Lesson learned: watch your footing and if you're trying to escape your giant brother, at least be smart about it.