"Doll Day Afternoon"
Title: Doll Day Afternoon
Author: kellifer_fic
Rating: PG
Category: SPN Gen
Word Count: 2,092
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Notes: A coda of sorts to Doll House. Can be read as a separate story.
Summary: Dean has to spend 15 days as a doll. Just don't call him Beanie Deanie.
Day One…
“It’s not that bad.”
Dean is sitting up on the dash of the Impala with his little boots pressed to the windshield because, oh yeah, he’s stuck being a doll. He wants to scowl but he can tell by his reflection that his face isn’t as cooperative when plush as it is when flesh. He turns around, using a hand to push his eyebrows down so Sam can tell he’s unhappy.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Sam asks instead with a snort.
“Firetruck you!” Dean snaps and then throws himself down, flailing his arms and legs because he also can’t swear.
He has fifteen days of this to go and he needs to devote most of that time to trying to figure out how to strangle Sam with soft, stumpy arms.
000
Day Two…
As if it isn’t humiliating enough being a doll, Sam also has to come and rescue him from being dragged off by a Chihuahua from the next room.
Okay, so maybe afterwards, having stolen a doll from the little girl on the other side and removing its leg, leaving it just inside their room with a trail of stuffing leading to the bathroom wasn’t very nice.
Sam screaming though? Totally worth it.
000
Day Three…
“Man, am I sick of not having a dinkle.”
“What the hell is a… you know what? I don’t wanna know.”
000
Day Four…
Dean stands at the window with his face pressed against the glass. When a little boy passes Dean waves and the kid’s mouth drops open.
“Stop doing that,” Sam snaps from the other side of the room. He has the laptop open and is looking for a way to break Dean’s curse early. Squashing over six foot into a package slightly bigger than his hand seems to have given them concentrated Dean which is slowly driving Sam insane.
“Why?”
“You’re mooshing your face all out of shape. I’m not going to spend half an hour fixing it for you again.”
“You’re a cruel brother,” Dean complains, hopping down from the window with a thump. He doesn’t even try to land on his feet, rather pitching himself off things and then picking himself up afterwards. When Sam had asked about that, disconcerted, Dean had shrugged and said, “I’m pretty much a pillow. It doesn’t matter if I land on my head.”
“I’m bored, Sammy. Take me to a movie.”
“I am not taking a doll to a movie,” Sam grits.
“Fine, I’ll amuse myself,” Dean says and pulls Sam’s duffle over, yanking it open and crawling inside. Sam watches it twitch for about ten seconds before he can’t stand it any longer.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Seeing what comes out when I poop,” Dean calls, muffled from inside the bag.
“Movie sounds great,” Sam relents, picking up his bag and tipping Dean out.
“Knew you’d see it my way,” Dean says, dusting himself off.
000
Day Five…
Sam patiently holds a squirming Dean under the hand dryer in the motel’s public bathroom.
“I told you not to try and shower, man,” he scolds, turning Dean over to get an even dry.
“Not my fault,” Dean huffs. “I didn’t expect to lose structural integrity.”
000
Day Six…
“You’re hilarious!”
Dean has woken up between two halves of a hamburger roll.
“You said yesterday you felt like a burger. I was just making your dream come true.”
000
Day Seven…
“You’re not taking my boots off,” Dean says, dodging Sam’s questing hands. He’s quick as a doll and can squeeze into spaces Sam can’t reach. He wedges himself behind the room’s radiator and Sam curses.
“You keep kicking me in the chin when we’re asleep. Either the boots come off or you sleep in the sink!”
Dean crawls out from behind the radiator, accepting Sam brushing him off when he drags about six months worth of dust with him. “I just… you can’t,” he says and he sounds so miserable that Sam pauses.
“You really don’t want me to that much?”
“No, I mean you can’t. I tried getting them off on the first day and they’re…” Dean takes a large, watery-sounding sniff which is an achievement considering his throat is cotton. “They’re stitched on.”
“Dude,” Sam breathes. “That’s…”
“Yeah, I know. The sink for me.”
“No, it’s…” Sam snags Dean as he makes his way over to the bathroom. “I mean, it’s fine. I’ll cope.”
Sam tries to remember how upset Dean had looked when hours later, Dean tucked into the crook of his elbow and boots beating a steady rhythm against his sternum, Sam mysteriously finds he’s unable to sleep.
It doesn’t help that he could’ve sworn he heard Dean murmur sucker right before climbing onto the bed.
000
Day Eight…
“What the hell is this thing?” Dean demands when he gets grabbed by Sam and something is shoved down the back of his jeans.
“I’m sick of panicking every time I can’t see you,” Sam explains and then claps once, loud.
Dean’s butt beeps.
“It’s one of those key rings you get if you’re always losing your keys.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Dean promises, trying to inject menace into his tone.
“Y’know, you’re adorable when you’re trying to threaten me,” Sam says.
000
Day Nine…
“Hey sweet cheeks!”
Sam runs for it when the biker who must outweigh him by two hundred pounds wheels around. Sam yanks Dean out of his backpack and shakes him.
“Are you kidding me?” he yells.
“Maybe next time you’ll take me seriously!” Dean squawks in triumph.
000
Day Ten…
Sam wakes from his mid-afternoon crash when he feels small boots walking up his back. He props himself up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder. Dean flops down on his stomach when he reaches Sam’s shoulder blade and drums his feet thoughtfully.
“So I’m thinkin’ this sucks,” he says.
“And you came to this startling realisation when?” Sam asks, more bemused than anything. He would’ve pegged Dean for a full on melt-down much earlier and had almost been weirded out by the relative calm which Dean had accepted his new, albeit temporary, form in.
“I need to kill something,” Dean says almost sagely, propping his chin on a tiny arm.
“Sure,” Sam says, plucking Dean off his shoulder and putting him down in front of the weapons duffle. “The minute you can find something you can lift, I’ll go with you.”
Dean looks back around at Sam and Sam’s pretty sure he’s trying to glare but it’s hard to tell with button eyes. Dean stands, dusts himself off and marches purposefully for the duffle. He dives inside and moments later he’s dragging back an automatic that’s probably twice his size and ten times the weight.
“I can…” Dean huffs. “Totally… lift this.”
“Off the floor,” Sam says, rolling onto his side and watching Dean struggle with barely contained glee. He knows it’s not really sporting to be tormenting Dean in such a way, but he’d had about fifteen years of being smaller when they were growing up and Dean hadn’t been exactly sporting then.
Dean puts the gun flat on the floor, then wriggles, shoves and pushes until he’s mostly under it. It’s squashing him comically flat but Sam has to give it to him.
The gun is off the floor.
“I’m not taking you hunting,” Sam says, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. “You wouldn’t even make decent ammo.”
Dean flails his arms because it seems that getting out from under the gun is proving more difficult than getting under it. Sam leans over and plucks the gun off him, watching Dean slowly fill back out. He actually picks Dean up and plumps him because the whole roadkill look unnerves him.
Dean puts up with Sam’s ministrations only long enough to be three dimensional again before he’s kicking tiny boots, demanding to be put down.
“I’ll show you who’s good for ammo,” Dean snarls.
000
Day Eleven…
The problem is, there is a hunt that can’t wait the next town over. Dean is like a bloodhound for a hunt, even in small doll form, and shoves the paper under Sam’s nose during breakfast the next day.
Four year old children have been going missing in homes ringing an old well and although the thing has been drained and searched, they aren’t being found.
Dean swears to stay in the car so Sam grudgingly takes him along, knowing from the information he can pull together that the creature is probably a Scatter, a dank water dwelling monster that feasts on small bones. Holy water and jasmine will kill it but Sam is in trouble when he disposes of one Scatter that crawls out of the well right on midnight and it’s fifteen or so infuriated cousins pour out.
Something whistles by his ear right when one of the creatures is hooking a taloned hand at his face and Sam feels droplets of water on his cheek. The Scatter that had launched itself at him plus the three remaining behind it let out squeals of pain and outrage and Sam kicks aside the struggling mass to find Dean, soaking wet and laughing hard.
Sam finds, when they get back to the car, five elastic bands all knotted together and stretched between the sides of one of the car windows. Dean had rigged up a catapult of all things.
He also smelled faintly like whiskey.
“You tipped booze on yourself? I didn’t think that would hurt them,” Sam says.
“I meant to tip holy water on me,” Dean says. “I got the wrong flask on my first try.”
000
Day Twelve…
They both sleep, Sam sprawled on his back and Dean held loosely in one hand, the other dropped over his face. Despite being held outside the Impala’s window on the way back to the motel, he still smells faintly like whiskey.
Sam finds it familiar and comforting and would never admit that to Dean.
000
Day Thirteen…
It was inevitable really.
Dean is propped on the diner table as Sam eats, after having sworn he would yell from the backpack if he wasn’t taken out.
He disappears and when Sam finally finds him under the table, he’s talking to another doll.
A barbie.
“What are the odds?” Dean asks, innocently.
“What did you do?” Sam demands, snatching Dean and the disconcertingly giggly barbie up.
“Dad had this animation spell in his diary, kind of like a protective thing so if you want to hide something valuable it’ll move about. I was just…”
“Dude, you only have to wait two more days.”
“He says I’m pretty!” the barbie chirrups from Sam’s other hand.
“This is just… wrong, even for you,” Sam groans.
000
Day Fourteen…
“Sam!” Dean yells in indignation, mostly muffled because he’s locked in the Impala’s glove compartment.
000
Day Fifteen…
“Sad.”
“Sam.”
“Happy.”
“Sam.”
“Astonished.”
“Sam!”
“What?”
“Quit doing that and put me down.”
“You were the one complaining about not being able to make expressions,” Sam says, as Dean slaps ineffectually at his hands. “I’m just helping.”
“You’re pushing my face all out of shape,” Dean complains. He’s set on Sam’s knee and it’s a long drop so he stays put. “Today, right?”
“Should be. You feel any different?”
“Nah, but I didn’t feel any different when the curse was put on me,” Dean says and then sighs. Sam is giving him puppy eyes and that’s just not fair. “Alright, fine,” he grumbles. “Just give me a pissed-and-going-to-kill-my-brother look,” Dean adds when Sam reaches for him again.
He feels the gentle push-pull of Sam’s fingers and grunts, slapping at Sam’s hands again. “You’re making me smile, aren’t you?” he grumbles.
There’s an almighty crack and then a full-sized Dean sprawled across Sam.
“Ow, get off me you oaf!” Sam squeaks.
Dean pivots, laughing and slaps hands on either side of Sam’s face. “Let’s see how you like it!” he crows, digging fingers into Sam’s mouth and dragging up, giving him a macabre smile. Sam manages to get one leg up and around and kicks Dean off onto the floor.
Dean lays on his back for a moment, looking up at the ceiling and still laughing. He thumps his chest once and then waggles his fingers. “I missed you thumbs!” he announces and that sets Sam off.
They both laugh until they’re sore and then head out, Dean in search of the biggest burger he can find and Sam following the faint scent of whiskey.
Author: kellifer_fic
Rating: PG
Category: SPN Gen
Word Count: 2,092
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no offense, no money.
Notes: A coda of sorts to Doll House. Can be read as a separate story.
Summary: Dean has to spend 15 days as a doll. Just don't call him Beanie Deanie.
Day One…
“It’s not that bad.”
Dean is sitting up on the dash of the Impala with his little boots pressed to the windshield because, oh yeah, he’s stuck being a doll. He wants to scowl but he can tell by his reflection that his face isn’t as cooperative when plush as it is when flesh. He turns around, using a hand to push his eyebrows down so Sam can tell he’s unhappy.
“Dude, what are you doing?” Sam asks instead with a snort.
“Firetruck you!” Dean snaps and then throws himself down, flailing his arms and legs because he also can’t swear.
He has fifteen days of this to go and he needs to devote most of that time to trying to figure out how to strangle Sam with soft, stumpy arms.
000
Day Two…
As if it isn’t humiliating enough being a doll, Sam also has to come and rescue him from being dragged off by a Chihuahua from the next room.
Okay, so maybe afterwards, having stolen a doll from the little girl on the other side and removing its leg, leaving it just inside their room with a trail of stuffing leading to the bathroom wasn’t very nice.
Sam screaming though? Totally worth it.
000
Day Three…
“Man, am I sick of not having a dinkle.”
“What the hell is a… you know what? I don’t wanna know.”
000
Day Four…
Dean stands at the window with his face pressed against the glass. When a little boy passes Dean waves and the kid’s mouth drops open.
“Stop doing that,” Sam snaps from the other side of the room. He has the laptop open and is looking for a way to break Dean’s curse early. Squashing over six foot into a package slightly bigger than his hand seems to have given them concentrated Dean which is slowly driving Sam insane.
“Why?”
“You’re mooshing your face all out of shape. I’m not going to spend half an hour fixing it for you again.”
“You’re a cruel brother,” Dean complains, hopping down from the window with a thump. He doesn’t even try to land on his feet, rather pitching himself off things and then picking himself up afterwards. When Sam had asked about that, disconcerted, Dean had shrugged and said, “I’m pretty much a pillow. It doesn’t matter if I land on my head.”
“I’m bored, Sammy. Take me to a movie.”
“I am not taking a doll to a movie,” Sam grits.
“Fine, I’ll amuse myself,” Dean says and pulls Sam’s duffle over, yanking it open and crawling inside. Sam watches it twitch for about ten seconds before he can’t stand it any longer.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Seeing what comes out when I poop,” Dean calls, muffled from inside the bag.
“Movie sounds great,” Sam relents, picking up his bag and tipping Dean out.
“Knew you’d see it my way,” Dean says, dusting himself off.
000
Day Five…
Sam patiently holds a squirming Dean under the hand dryer in the motel’s public bathroom.
“I told you not to try and shower, man,” he scolds, turning Dean over to get an even dry.
“Not my fault,” Dean huffs. “I didn’t expect to lose structural integrity.”
000
Day Six…
“You’re hilarious!”
Dean has woken up between two halves of a hamburger roll.
“You said yesterday you felt like a burger. I was just making your dream come true.”
000
Day Seven…
“You’re not taking my boots off,” Dean says, dodging Sam’s questing hands. He’s quick as a doll and can squeeze into spaces Sam can’t reach. He wedges himself behind the room’s radiator and Sam curses.
“You keep kicking me in the chin when we’re asleep. Either the boots come off or you sleep in the sink!”
Dean crawls out from behind the radiator, accepting Sam brushing him off when he drags about six months worth of dust with him. “I just… you can’t,” he says and he sounds so miserable that Sam pauses.
“You really don’t want me to that much?”
“No, I mean you can’t. I tried getting them off on the first day and they’re…” Dean takes a large, watery-sounding sniff which is an achievement considering his throat is cotton. “They’re stitched on.”
“Dude,” Sam breathes. “That’s…”
“Yeah, I know. The sink for me.”
“No, it’s…” Sam snags Dean as he makes his way over to the bathroom. “I mean, it’s fine. I’ll cope.”
Sam tries to remember how upset Dean had looked when hours later, Dean tucked into the crook of his elbow and boots beating a steady rhythm against his sternum, Sam mysteriously finds he’s unable to sleep.
It doesn’t help that he could’ve sworn he heard Dean murmur sucker right before climbing onto the bed.
000
Day Eight…
“What the hell is this thing?” Dean demands when he gets grabbed by Sam and something is shoved down the back of his jeans.
“I’m sick of panicking every time I can’t see you,” Sam explains and then claps once, loud.
Dean’s butt beeps.
“It’s one of those key rings you get if you’re always losing your keys.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Dean promises, trying to inject menace into his tone.
“Y’know, you’re adorable when you’re trying to threaten me,” Sam says.
000
Day Nine…
“Hey sweet cheeks!”
Sam runs for it when the biker who must outweigh him by two hundred pounds wheels around. Sam yanks Dean out of his backpack and shakes him.
“Are you kidding me?” he yells.
“Maybe next time you’ll take me seriously!” Dean squawks in triumph.
000
Day Ten…
Sam wakes from his mid-afternoon crash when he feels small boots walking up his back. He props himself up on his elbows and looks over his shoulder. Dean flops down on his stomach when he reaches Sam’s shoulder blade and drums his feet thoughtfully.
“So I’m thinkin’ this sucks,” he says.
“And you came to this startling realisation when?” Sam asks, more bemused than anything. He would’ve pegged Dean for a full on melt-down much earlier and had almost been weirded out by the relative calm which Dean had accepted his new, albeit temporary, form in.
“I need to kill something,” Dean says almost sagely, propping his chin on a tiny arm.
“Sure,” Sam says, plucking Dean off his shoulder and putting him down in front of the weapons duffle. “The minute you can find something you can lift, I’ll go with you.”
Dean looks back around at Sam and Sam’s pretty sure he’s trying to glare but it’s hard to tell with button eyes. Dean stands, dusts himself off and marches purposefully for the duffle. He dives inside and moments later he’s dragging back an automatic that’s probably twice his size and ten times the weight.
“I can…” Dean huffs. “Totally… lift this.”
“Off the floor,” Sam says, rolling onto his side and watching Dean struggle with barely contained glee. He knows it’s not really sporting to be tormenting Dean in such a way, but he’d had about fifteen years of being smaller when they were growing up and Dean hadn’t been exactly sporting then.
Dean puts the gun flat on the floor, then wriggles, shoves and pushes until he’s mostly under it. It’s squashing him comically flat but Sam has to give it to him.
The gun is off the floor.
“I’m not taking you hunting,” Sam says, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. “You wouldn’t even make decent ammo.”
Dean flails his arms because it seems that getting out from under the gun is proving more difficult than getting under it. Sam leans over and plucks the gun off him, watching Dean slowly fill back out. He actually picks Dean up and plumps him because the whole roadkill look unnerves him.
Dean puts up with Sam’s ministrations only long enough to be three dimensional again before he’s kicking tiny boots, demanding to be put down.
“I’ll show you who’s good for ammo,” Dean snarls.
000
Day Eleven…
The problem is, there is a hunt that can’t wait the next town over. Dean is like a bloodhound for a hunt, even in small doll form, and shoves the paper under Sam’s nose during breakfast the next day.
Four year old children have been going missing in homes ringing an old well and although the thing has been drained and searched, they aren’t being found.
Dean swears to stay in the car so Sam grudgingly takes him along, knowing from the information he can pull together that the creature is probably a Scatter, a dank water dwelling monster that feasts on small bones. Holy water and jasmine will kill it but Sam is in trouble when he disposes of one Scatter that crawls out of the well right on midnight and it’s fifteen or so infuriated cousins pour out.
Something whistles by his ear right when one of the creatures is hooking a taloned hand at his face and Sam feels droplets of water on his cheek. The Scatter that had launched itself at him plus the three remaining behind it let out squeals of pain and outrage and Sam kicks aside the struggling mass to find Dean, soaking wet and laughing hard.
Sam finds, when they get back to the car, five elastic bands all knotted together and stretched between the sides of one of the car windows. Dean had rigged up a catapult of all things.
He also smelled faintly like whiskey.
“You tipped booze on yourself? I didn’t think that would hurt them,” Sam says.
“I meant to tip holy water on me,” Dean says. “I got the wrong flask on my first try.”
000
Day Twelve…
They both sleep, Sam sprawled on his back and Dean held loosely in one hand, the other dropped over his face. Despite being held outside the Impala’s window on the way back to the motel, he still smells faintly like whiskey.
Sam finds it familiar and comforting and would never admit that to Dean.
000
Day Thirteen…
It was inevitable really.
Dean is propped on the diner table as Sam eats, after having sworn he would yell from the backpack if he wasn’t taken out.
He disappears and when Sam finally finds him under the table, he’s talking to another doll.
A barbie.
“What are the odds?” Dean asks, innocently.
“What did you do?” Sam demands, snatching Dean and the disconcertingly giggly barbie up.
“Dad had this animation spell in his diary, kind of like a protective thing so if you want to hide something valuable it’ll move about. I was just…”
“Dude, you only have to wait two more days.”
“He says I’m pretty!” the barbie chirrups from Sam’s other hand.
“This is just… wrong, even for you,” Sam groans.
000
Day Fourteen…
“Sam!” Dean yells in indignation, mostly muffled because he’s locked in the Impala’s glove compartment.
000
Day Fifteen…
“Sad.”
“Sam.”
“Happy.”
“Sam.”
“Astonished.”
“Sam!”
“What?”
“Quit doing that and put me down.”
“You were the one complaining about not being able to make expressions,” Sam says, as Dean slaps ineffectually at his hands. “I’m just helping.”
“You’re pushing my face all out of shape,” Dean complains. He’s set on Sam’s knee and it’s a long drop so he stays put. “Today, right?”
“Should be. You feel any different?”
“Nah, but I didn’t feel any different when the curse was put on me,” Dean says and then sighs. Sam is giving him puppy eyes and that’s just not fair. “Alright, fine,” he grumbles. “Just give me a pissed-and-going-to-kill-my-brother look,” Dean adds when Sam reaches for him again.
He feels the gentle push-pull of Sam’s fingers and grunts, slapping at Sam’s hands again. “You’re making me smile, aren’t you?” he grumbles.
There’s an almighty crack and then a full-sized Dean sprawled across Sam.
“Ow, get off me you oaf!” Sam squeaks.
Dean pivots, laughing and slaps hands on either side of Sam’s face. “Let’s see how you like it!” he crows, digging fingers into Sam’s mouth and dragging up, giving him a macabre smile. Sam manages to get one leg up and around and kicks Dean off onto the floor.
Dean lays on his back for a moment, looking up at the ceiling and still laughing. He thumps his chest once and then waggles his fingers. “I missed you thumbs!” he announces and that sets Sam off.
They both laugh until they’re sore and then head out, Dean in search of the biggest burger he can find and Sam following the faint scent of whiskey.