A/N: I can't help but love this idea. Mini!Cas! This isn't really going to be a formal story. Just a bunch of parts thrown together for my own amusement, though hey; who know what may actually happen. It may also involve some Dean/Cas, but I'm not entirely sure yet.

It certainly isn't the first time that Dean has woken up with a startle, and not the first he's woken up with something standing up between his legs. That he is used to – happily or otherwise – but this time it's just a little different. He can't figure out what exactly is going on, and he blames it on the fact he's only just woken up from a pinch to his thigh (damn his habit of kicking the sheets off). Tired, disgruntled, and confused is not the way to wake up, and ready he is to lash out at Sam, because who else would wake him up like that, until he finds that the thing standing between his legs is not what he's used to it being, and is certainly not the person he thinks it might be.

At first he thinks the little figure is a fairy, or a leprechaun – he can see those now, after all – but the messy dark hair, the trench coat, and the still-amazingly blue eyes tell him otherwise.

Dean really hopes he's dreaming, because he can see a pair of black wings, and it just adds to Dean's mental Reasons This is a Dream list. Then the figure opens its mouth, and speaks.

"Dean, we need to talk."

"Jesus Christ."

"I am not awake enough for this."

Dean knows that Sam is fixing a stare at him, despite his face being covered by his hands. Awake enough or drunk enough—he's neither, and it's only 9 in the morning. He groans a muffled groan, and parts a few fingers to give another glance at the five-inch tall angel standing on the little motel table. He's a little uncertain if the figure is impressive or otherwise. Cas is Cas, Angel of the Lord and therefore kind of already impressive on that alone. But five inches tall, against the 1970's Ugly Yellow Curtain™? Another groan escapes him as he rubs his face before leaning back in the chair. Of all the things to wake up and discover….

"I'm aware of how jarring this must be for you, but please believe it when I say I'm rather startled about this, myself."

Dean lets go of something between a chuckle and a sob. "Cas…." The figure on the table is completely and undeniably the real, live, waking Castiel, no matter how badly he's hoping that this is still just some kind of dream. Clothes, looks, voice, demeanor; aside from his size, there's absolutely nothing different about him. Well, unless you count the fact that they can now see his—

"Wings," Sam prompts. "Let's start small."

"Small!" Dean throws his hands in the air, and rolls his head back some.

"Dean, relax! It's not like he's dying."

Castiel nods in affirmation toward Sam, and reassuringly towards Dean. "I am perfectly healthy, as is my vessel."

Dean nods with a, "Hm," and he fixes his position as Sam prompts again, "How come we can see your wings?"

Dean lets his leg bounce on his foot in his excitement-fear-anticipation-whatever it's called, watching on as Castiel unfurls his wings, stretching them out to a pretty impressive span, even for a five-inch-tall little dude. The wings easily stretch over a foot, and are unhindered by Castiel's coat. They are both what Dean expects of an angel's wings, and completely notwhat he expects of an angel's wings. What he expects are white, fluffy, feathered wings. Well, Castiel's wings certainly do look fluffy and feathered, but they're not white. Their color is something closer to onyx, and the color makes them look sleek, smooth—perfect for some kind of jet-stream gliding, or aerodynamic displays. Yet … they still look really fluffy, and soft, and perfect for calming someone down.

"I believe it's due to the side-effects of my diminutive state."

"No shit, Sherlock."

Sam sends Dean A Look; the Not Quite a Bitchface but We're Definitely Getting There if you Don't Stop look. Dean sticks his tongue out, and shuts up a bit longer as he tilts his chair back.

"My wings don't disappear, or appear. They are always present. Humans are unable to perceive them due to the power of my Grace. Or any angel's."

Dean returns his chair's position with a sharp thud. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I thought your Grace or whatever burns eyes out. My eyes ain't burning."

"My wings are an extension of myself, but they themselves are not my true form; simply a part of it."

"Look at Medusa's snakes, you're still okay. Look into her eyes and you're toast," Sam says easily. Dork.

"Something like that, yes, but she turned her victims to stone, not toast."

Dean snorts, and Sam rolls his eyes. Castiel continues, seeming to not quite catch the humor.

"But as for why you can see them…." Castiel is quiet for a moment. "It might be easier to relate my wings to something like frequencies. For example, sound waves? Humans can only hear a certain range, and you are aware that animals hear a wider range. And the color spectrum: humans can perceive anything ranging from red to violet, though there are far more colors in existence.

"Think of them more as waves of Grace that have been toned down due to my … situation." Castiel's wings ruffle some, and move in a way that reminds Dean of a dog laying its ears back. Cas isn't ashamed, is he? "Therefore, even with your limited senses, you're now able to see them."

"More than a shitty shadow, anyway," Dean teases. Not a moment later he feels something spark in his ears. He winces with a light curse, rubbing carefully below his right ear. His eyes catch Castiel, and he knows it was him. Even though Castiel has been miniaturized and his power diminished, he's still got some mojo. Dean should have likely kept that in mind.

The feathers of Castiel's wings ruffle again, only this time in anger as the wings hunch up, and the larger feathers flatten threateningly. If Cas was his full size and height? Dean might be intimidated. But, seeing as Cas is now a walking, talking, (flying?) figurine? …Definitely more cute than scary. (Sparking in the ears aside.)

"I happen to recall seeing awe in your eyes and on your face at those shitty shadowswhen we first met, Dean. That same awe did not go away after you two returned from your rendezvous in an alternate reality."

Dean feels his face go a bit warm. Okay, so they hadn't been shitty shadows, but they were still just shadows. He clears his throat. "And your coat—?"

"My wings are obstructed only insofar as intent goes."

Dean blinks a few times with an impressed, "Huh," on his face. There's no time to stop himself from reaching a finger out to try and touch a wing, but it's more than enough time for Castiel to reach both wings up, and step back. Castiel fixes Dean with an accusing stare.

"Friendly intent or otherwise, I would appreciate it if you would abstain from touching them."

Dean jerks his hand back. "Geesh, touchy."

Sam laughs lightly. "Actually, kinda … untouchy."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean gives a light push to Sam's shoulder, earning only another light chuckle. Dean stands and goes to lean against the wall, arms crossed, as Sam leans back in his own chair and rests his hands behind his head. Dean sighs. "Can you can zap anywhere? Probably forget wreaking heavenly havoc, or killing demons."

Slowly, Castiel's wings began sinking again, almost as if in apology. "No, I can't."

"Great," he breathes. "So what do we do, then? Wrap some string around you and hang you from the rear-view mirror, like some toy?"

"I would prefer you not do that."

"Well you're about as useful as a … as a Mozart action figure with karate chop-sonata action!" Dean moves to sit at the foot of his motel bed, staring out the window, and definitely not at Castiel's slouching silhouette. No one says anything for a few tense moments, evidently still processing just what the hell is going on, until Dean's stomach reminds him of one simple fact. He sighs and stands up as another growl echoes out. He claps his hands together, slaps a smile on his face, and throws on a button-up over his tee.

"Well, conveniently travel-sized angel or not," he begins, trying to keep it light despite the questions and worry still swimming in his head. He glances to Castiel, wondering in the back of his head just how to transport him—there's no way they're leaving mini-Cas alone in some motel room. "I'm hungry. It's a Tuesday morning, and I'll be damned if I ain't gettin' me some pig. Eh, Sammy?" Dean laughs to himself. He really is hilarious.

"Shut up, Dean."

He just can't see why others don't agree.

END PART I

Hope to have the second bit up soon. :)