December 3rd excerpt: 

Lestrade, admittedly, lost himself in thought as he watched a person he thought he knew fairly well interacting with someone who, by all rights and laws of nature, shouldn’t exist. It was certainly a sight he never thought he’d see, and he couldn’t stop staring at Dean while the little fella’s attention was elsewhere.

Dean seemed American, which was definitely noteworthy, and fairly young. Lestrade couldn’t tell for sure, but he couldn’t be older than his mid-twenties. Everything about him was scaled down perfectly, from his boots to his jeans and jacket.

Curiosity got the better of Lestrade, and without putting much thought to it, he reached forward slowly to place his hand next to Dean, a few inches away. He stood his hand on its side, shifting his gaze between it and the tiny man to see how he measured up next to his palm.

November 21st excerpt:

Rather than taking the pen and letting Dean carry on, the great pale hand reached out just a little further, knocking the smaller man off his feet and into Sherlock’s palm. Long fingers curled around Dean and the pen, lifting them both up to join him on the couch.

His grip was loose, far from crushing his passengers together, and it loosened even further as Sherlock tucked the hand under his chin, let his other hand fold lazily over it, and went back to thinking.

July 1st excerpt:

Stan blinked quickly as he watched Dean step on, and it took him a few seconds to remember to breathe. For all his bluster and readiness to boss around people much taller than him, it was easy to forget just how small Dean was. His every movement, every shift of his minuscule weight, tickled Stan’s palm, and it was all he could do to keep perfectly still. In such a precarious position, Stan certainly didn’t want to knock Dean over with a twitch.

March 30th excerpt:

Jacob took a few careful steps forward, but he barely made it to Dean’s first knuckle before he stumbled and pitched forward. He tumbled head over heels onto Dean’s hand and a whuff of air rushed out of his lungs. He rolled to a stop on his back, his eyes wide and staring straight up. A few deep breaths restored his bearings, enough to realize he’d fallen right to the base of Dean’s fingers.

“Well that’s one way to do it,” he tried to play it off, but felt his cheeks heating up from the clumsy mishap.

Dean couldn’t hold in a chuckle at the abashed Jacob on his palm. As Sam grabbed his satchel, leaving his dirtied jacket behind, Dean shifted the hand a little so the flesh around Jacob was cupped, keeping him safely away from any edges as long as the fingers remained closed. It was strange to see how some of the wrinkles on his palm loomed over Jacob while he was lying flat on his back. Dean was careful not to pinch any of those tiny limbs as he shifted.

“Maybe you should let Sam give you some pointers,” Dean joked. “I think he’s the leading expert on standing on hands around here. He could even show you a thing or two about climbing.”

Hmm, they wouldn’t be a fan of most of those options. Closed fist gives the human all the control over the situation, and two fingers feels a lot like dangling over a cliff. Three fingers might help a little, but it’s still only one slight tightening of those fingers before there’s a snapped rib. 

If there wasn’t time for a palm, it would be safest to just sweep them off the ground into a cupped hand.