As far is Sam is concerned, he is ultra protective, but the first thing Sam will do is scold him for not giving him space or independence. Dean tends to take stuff like that to heart, so he’ll lay off (a little), and Sam won’t feel so stifled.
Of course, if you don’t tell Dean right off, he tends to get in habits, and might end up just casually picking you up and taking you wherever he is, as Jacob can well attest to in certain future AUs. Sam would be the first to tell him he shouldn’t let Dean get set in his ways!
As a little himself, he’s an incredibly fussy guy. He’ll lecture Sam for days if he gets himself picked on at school, and when Sam’s a smol Dean does his best to keep him away from danger. It’s a lot harder for the little guy, but he tries!
If Logan had been the one holding Bowman for that scene, there would most certainly have been an injured sprite to deal with. Dean tends to be much more fair when it comes to dealing with tiny unknowns. He probably wouldn’t approve of Logan jumping to conclusions.
Bowman would make it easy to choose his side, too. He would be absolutely devastated if something happened to his wings and he couldn’t fly. The little guy doesn’t cry often, but there would be spritely tears.
Bowman may not agree, but he’s better off with Dean any day.
Moira tried to steel her heart. Dean was in trouble, and she needed to get him out of that human’s hands, now. Then once Dean woke up they could escape and find Sam, wherever he was, even if the human had him trapped somewhere else.
“I’m Moira,” she snapped defiantly, the pin wobbling slightly in her grasp. His voice was so huge and booming, like it could overpower hers without any effort. Just another thing to drill his size in, as though she could miss it.
Moira’s lip curled, and she glared up at the human. “You’re that human doctor, aren’tcha?” Her voice dripped with disdain from all the stories she’d heard of others like her and Dean being experimented on, often by these ‘doctors.’ “I won’t let you run tests on our Dean!”
Timeline: After moving into 221B Baker Street and before the first story
Sam ran along the tabletop, his pulse thudding in his ears as he went.
Another day, another supply run.
Of course, this time was a little different. With Dean’s odd ability, they’d been able to track down some pencil lead for Sam to use to write with, always a hard-to-find commodity even here, in a flat with belongings strewn haphazardly about and a vast treasure trove of supplies for people Sam and Dean’s size.
It was a bit of a risk, with the humans still in the building, but Sam didn’t want to risk the snapped lead vanishing when one of them cleaned up. He’d been able to find enough scraps of paper to form a haphazard journal, but needed something to write with. His old bit of lead was nearly ground to dust.
Two shards of the tip of a pencil were nestled in his leather satchel, bouncing against his side as he ran. Sam made it to the edge of the table, peering down at the floor to see where Dean was, waiting for him to get down. They couldn’t afford them both out in such an exposed place, so Dean, the weaker climber, stayed on the ground.
Instead of using his hook and thread to climb with, Sam took advantage of the chair that was leaning against the edge of the table. A black jacket was draped overtop the chair, and offered Sam more than enough handholds to get himself to the floor. He cautiously began to pick his way down the fabric, occasionally glancing at his surroundings.
Just then, the stairs between the flat and the one upstairs creaked as John descended from his room, tugging on a jumper as he went. He needed to go to the bank, run to town for a few things, and was considering a stop at the pub later that night for a well-needed drink.
And with Sherlock shut in the bathroom preoccupied with his bioluminescent bacteria cultures, without a case on, John had a rare opportunity to slip away.
John was straightening his short, sandy hair, mussed by his jumper, as he entered the main area of the flat.
Sam stiffened, and Dean didn’t need his signal to know it was time to dive for cover. The older Winchester vanished behind one of the sturdy table legs as the floor shook under his boots, unable to do anything to help Sam out without taking an even greater risk of John spotting them.
With his knack tingling a sharp warning, Sam looked up at the table. It was too far up for him to risk climbing back up and searching for a hiding spot. The floor was too far down to reach in time if John decided to come into the kitchen.
Which left him one option.
Sam let go of the fabric he was clinging too, plummeting straight down into the dark folds of the pocket which yawned open beneath his feet.
John paused at the door when he noticed his coat wasn’t on its usual hook. It wasn’t on his claimed armchair in the living room either, and that’s when he remembered he’d left it in the kitchen. With a sigh, he rounded the corner and approached the table, never spotting the small shadow that ducked behind a table leg, only leaning out slightly to keep an eye on him.
He bent to retrieve his gloves from the pocket first, without even the slightest suspicion that there was someone inside, dodging fingers longer than he was tall.
Which, from the second John’s hand entered the pocket, Sam was.
His first warning was the cold shock that ran down his back from his knack. Sam’s eyes widened in the darkness as he saw a shadow fall over the light that leaked in from the kitchen. Hide. He had to hide better.
In the pocket with him was two black gloves, providing the cushioning for his landing. Without them in the way, Sam would have tumbled all the way to the bottom of the pocket. With John so close, that’s what Sam needed. More distance.
Squirming around the gloves, Sam put them between him and the opening of the pocket. Long fingers reached in, groping around for the gloves that were stuffed inside for safekeeping. Sam spotted them, and his breathing sped up.
Memories of his first week cursed came flooding back, and his desperation to escape John’s grasp only grew. Sam twisted around, kicking the gloves further up in the pocket interior while he slid all the way to the bottom. His first experience with hands like that, his shoulder was dislocated. The last thing he wanted to do was relive that, and it was all made worse by the knowledge that John was a doctor, more than qualified to dissect either brother if he got them into his hands. All the experiments around the flat always drove that truth home to them when they were out.
Finding the gloves right away, John’s fingers dove straight down to achieve a secure grip on them. A knuckle brushed against Sam’s jacket, the contact going unnoticed by the human as something else caught his eye.
“Dammit, Sherlock…” muttered the doctor, straightening and placing the gloves on the table.
“I said, keep your cultures off my things!” John strode toward Sherlock’s work table, delicately plucking petri dishes from his laptop, which his flatmate had a habit of commandeering. With a huff, John tucked the computer under his arm and rushed it upstairs to scrub it and lock it in his bedroom before he found anything sprouting on his keyboard.
Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. He remained flattened at the bottom of the pocket, listening to the distant footsteps as they thudded up the stairs of the flat, waiting to be sure that John was actually leaving, even after touching Sam’s jacket, the closest he’d come to a human in years. He’d thought it was all over right then, the hand would shift position, making him tumble into the human’s grasp and sealed into a fist by fingers stronger than his entire body.
Instead, John had pulled away and stalked across the flat yelling at Sherlock, and Sam was wasting his opportunity to escape thinking about it.
Quickly pulling himself to his feet, Sam scaled out of the pocket in record time. Dean was down by the table leg, staying close to cover in case the human came back. He didn’t have Sam’s uncanny knack of knowing when someone was about to come into the room and spot them, leaving him more vulnerable than Sam.
Not that it was doing Sam any good today.
Sam used the thick threads of the jacket to climb down, dropping the last few inches. His arms continued trembling from the close call, shaken. Dean’s arm was on his back to keep him steady the moment he got down, but seconds later they were running across the floor.
It was time to get out of sight for the rest of the day. Their luck had been pushed the the limit enough that week.
Timeline: During A Lich of Sense, after Dean’s arm is bitten and they are on their way to Wellwood.
“But why wings? ”
Sam blinked, having started to drift off during their trip through the forest. He didn’t exactly have much he could do, between Bowman guiding Dean towards his village and Dean doing the actual walking. On the opposite shoulder, Bowman frowned critically and eyed Dean’s profile. His attention had been on guiding the human back, but now he was more concerned by the sudden outburst.
There hadn’t been much conversation since starting off aside from Bowman’s directions, over on Dean’s other shoulder. Sam had to smirk at that, entertained by the thought of his brother serving as a taxi to people the size of his finger. Dean Winchester, the man monsters had nightmares about, ferrying around the tiniest people around.
The smile soon fled. Dean was growing weaker. Sam couldn’t stop from glancing at his brother’s injured arm, the bloodsoaked sleeve of his jacket a poignant reminder of just how much damage the wolves had done to him during their fight.
That, and the odd non sequiturs Dean kept blurting out.
“Wings, Dean?” Sam asked, curious despite himself.
“Yes, wings,” Dean pronounced, gesturing wildly with his good arm. Luckily, the arm that was attached to the shoulder Sam was perched on, and he was prepared for the movement. Bowman, who wasn’t prepared, nearly fluttered off of his perch to avoid the erratic movement, but before he could complain, Dean went right on with his rant.
“Everyone we meet these days has wings! We’ve got small fry over here, but then you remember Nixie? And Ilyana? Wings. Nixie couldn’t even function without hers! It’s like having you with me automatically attracts the first people with wings in the state right to us!” On his shoulder, Bowman lifted a wing to peer at it with an eyebrow raised, wondering why exactly it mattered.
Sam rubbed his face. “Y’know, I don’t think Bowman wanted to run into us…” he pointed out, wondering what had brought this on.
“Spirit’s truth,” muttered out from the perplexed sprite sitting opposite him.
“He’s here, ain’t he?” Dean asked knowingly. “I’m shocked you didn’t end up with wings. That’s just what I’d need. A pint-sized brother fluttering around my head. You know what happens if you have a Dean with wings?”
The silence drew out until Sam realized he was supposed to respond. “What? What happens if we’ve got a Dean with wings?”
With that, Dean nodded sharply to himself, and resumed his previous trek through the forest.