#mini dean

“Giant! Naked Giant!” The words finally make sense as one of my Deans suddenly freezes before jumping behind the youngest’s Ecto-1 replica, knocking three figures down in quick succession. And I’m squinting against the light of my phone and wondering why the hell I am having this dream right now, I have to work in three fucking hours and ???, just go through the motions until you wake up or die right? Whatever.

Everything gets really still, then the entire house rattles with a lone car whizzing by, but the quiet voice and the other figures remain in their places. I go back to bed, it’s warmer than I had hoped and I shiver back into my usual place.

Walking back in from the shit show that is Saturday morning opening shift at the coffee shop, I am flooded with voices.

“Mom! Mom!”

“Did you bring us anything?” The obnoxious sounds of the Croods Netflix show float in the back ground making everything more overwhelming.

“Mom, Raven found one of your guys behind the desk. Did you know he makes noise now? Look!” My middle child is holding up the Dean from last night and a weird sense of sick irony settles in my stomach. “He doesn’t like being held, but I think he’s sick, he keeps sneezing.”

It takes five minutes before I can actually look at the toy. Between the tray of drinks in my hand, lunch bags, my keys, coat and purse. “Middle Child, where’s the miniature? I don’t want the cats playing with them.” I bullshit, she is zoned out against the screen. She doesn’t hear me, so I walk over and take little Dean before she sits on him, or loses him to the recesses of the couch. I take the oddly soft mini man and put him back on the shelf, as I turn to walk away, I hear a faint, but heavy sigh of relief.

I keep walking.

I wake to a pawing at my shoulders, I roll over, trying to shoo the cat from my side of the bed. In stead I get a very sharp pin prick to the back, I sit up, desperately searching the bed for whatever needle or bobby pin I had impaled myself on.

“Where are the hex bags?” A faint voice snapped. Again I grab my phone to see. There on my bed in a wide stance with an old diaper pin is the Dean Winchester figurine threatening me. He is about four inches tall and pissed. I start to laugh, because he is so angry, but so, so tiny.

“Watch it, witch! Just give me the hex bags and you can go back to sleep.”

“What no witch killing bullets to try out?” I reply, laying back down. It isn’t too late, the husband is still downstairs playing DnD online, but I always pass out early after opening. Sleep deprivation is a thing and I am officially hallucinating, whatever, I can roll with this. I have conversation with characters all the time. Writers are crazy, everyone knows that. That’s why they love us, and fear us.

“Uh, maybe.”

“Real convincing there, little man. But at least a witch is better than a giant.”

“You are kind of big. Easy mi-ih-ih--tah!.” He sneezed.

“And you’re kind of an action figure.” I sigh, pulling the comforter up to my neck. “Listen, I’m not any creature or witch or big bad, Dean. So you can stab me with that pin or you can let me sleep. The kids would love to have you around,” I taunt.

“No, please. That one with the big teeth? She has the sweatiest hands.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get twenty questions, she’s my little scientist.”

“Lady, look, I don’t know how I got here and I have no idea who you are, please let me go.”

“You’re not a prisoner, genius.” I roll over as he drops the pin in defeat. “Good luck opening the door before the cats find you.”