The shockwave from the witch hit Dean like a battering ram, tossing him across the room. He slammed into and through the desk, splintering the flimsy wood while his momentum kept him moving until he rammed into the wall. The knife slid from his hand as his grip loosened reflexively.

Unable to do more than moan after the impact, Dean slid to the ground, motionless while the room stopped spinning. Then, he shoved himself up from the floor, fully intending to jump back in and help Sam, who was back on his feet and in action.

But instead he froze in shock.

Not a foot and a half from where he'd landed, someone was staring back at him, equally wide-eyed with shock. Never in his life, despite growing up knowing about the supernatural and watching, eventually helping, his father kill witches, werewolves and vengeful spirits, had Dean ever seen anyone quite like the little guy with the flame of red hair.

The kid couldn't stand more than a few inches, if that. His skin was pale, hair so bright red it stood out against the background.

The shock of his discovery kept Dean rooted in place, unable to look away from the little guy as though he might evaporate into nothing if he did.

Stan's chest heaved with quick, frightened breaths and he was close to choking on his heart as it hammered in his throat. He'd been seen by the hunter, one of the largest and most dangerous human beings he'd ever encountered. His eyes darted away from the gaze bearing down on him to glance at the hands pressed to the floor nearby. Those were far too big, too, and would have absolutely no trouble smashing Stan into a stain in the carpet if they wanted to.

Just as a shudder ran through him at that mental image, the titanic battle between the witch and the other hunter ensued. Stan flinched hard, feeling each step and blow from the humans, and he didn't even bother to look at them or the hunter who was staring at him as he scrambled to his feet and took off running again, as fast as his little legs could carry him.

"Hey!" Dean blurted, snapping back to the present. The sight of the kid running away reminded him of the fight, and the knowledge that they were in the house of a witch.

They couldn't take anything at face value.

"Get back here!"

Pushing himself up to a squat, Dean dove for the tiny person running from him, instincts screaming that he couldn't let the guy get away. For all they knew, this guy was just as dangerous as the witch, and if he got under cover, they might not find him again short of burning down the house.

Sam tended to frown on such extreme measures.

Stan flinched again at the hunter's booming voice and the vibrations through the floor as he moved, but he kept running. He only dared look when a shadow suddenly enveloped him, and he glanced back to find one of those humongous hands surrounding his entire body before he could cry out.

The little guy instantly curled into a ball, not wanting any of his limbs to get pinched between any of those massive digits, each as long as Stan was tall- likely longer! He let out a whimper as he braced himself for death by crushing. All it would take was a squeeze of the hunter's hand, and Stan would cease to be.

A bit of the tension in Dean bled away as his hand closed around the tiny figure. His fingers sealed closed into a fist, and he was already going to stand up as he lifted his hand up from the ground.

The tiny guy inside weighed almost nothing, and didn't put up a fight or even struggle as Dean lifted his hand up. If he didn't feel the tiny guy in there, balled up in his fist, he wouldn't believe he existed.

Then, there was no time to wonder about the tiny oddity he'd discovered. He heard a grunt from Sam and sprang into action. Sweeping the discarded knife from the floor, Dean heedlessly threw himself back at the fight, dropping the tiny person into one of the side pockets of his leather jacket and promptly forgetting him in lieu of the witch.

Stan grunted softly as he landed unceremoniously in the bottom of the pocket, but for a moment he was too shocked to move. The human had spared him, trapping him in what looked like a jacket pocket instead of killing him. Stan had to wonder why he was allowed to live, especially as he clung to the material around him to keep himself from being thrown around while the human moved. He only had marginal success.

The witch was running out of options, frustrated that his attempt to decommission the taller hunter by making a bookcase tip over onto him only slowed him down a little. By then the other hunter was back on his feet, and Nicholas' bright blue gaze darted between his opponents, hoping to find some way to block their next move.

Nicholas was decidedly not a fighter. He simply wasn't built for it and never bothered to train himself once he'd learn the ways of magic. If the hunters managed to subdue him, he wouldn't stand a chance.

This time, when Dean reached the witch, Sam was on the opposite side. As though they knew each other's minds, they started to circle him like wolves might do with a stag. Both brothers held a knife at the ready, and now that Dean's hand was free of the little guy, he pulled out his handgun.

"Looks like you're running out of tricks," Dean taunted, pacing to the right in time with Sam. The adrenaline in his system had his eyes bright, and his grin was more feral than happy.

The moment Dean began to talk, Sam lunged forward with his knife, aiming at the witch's arm with him distracted, to keep him from using his telekinesis on them again.

Nicholas' lip twitched into a forced smirk, putting on a brave face and preparing to snap something witty back at the hunter before he knocked them around some more. His only hope was to make a break for it the second he had an opening, and that hope was shattered with a slice in his arm.

With his attention on Dean, the witch hadn't expected the attack from Sam. He cried out in pain, one hand flying to grip the wound tightly. Blood covered that hand in seconds, forming a growing stain on his jacket.

Inside the pocket, Stan cringed at the sound of Nicholas' pain. A whole new wave of fear washed over him as he realized that the witch, who had always seemed so powerful and practically indestructible to Stan, might not win.

Who would protect him from the hunters then?

Sam danced backwards, prepared to dodge any attacks that came his way. All to make room for Dean's follow-up attack, which came without warning.

Diving at the witch, Dean grabbed the injured arm and squeezed, one thumb in the cut. He yanked the man back, tossing him to the ground.

Witches were one of his least favorite kills, because they were still human, yet they took pleasure in the suffering of others, and for that, Dean would never forgive them. The trail of bodies they'd followed through the surrounding area pointed to just how irredeemable this man was. His hands were coated in the blood of his victims as much as any werewolf.

"You've killed your last," Dean said darkly. Taking aim with the engraved colt he always had at his side, he sighted down his arm, and pulled the trigger.

Stan's entire body jolted at the sound of the gunshot, the sound just barely muffled by the lining of the pocket. His hands clapped over his ears a fraction of a second too late, and the ringing in them ominously blocked out all other sounds for a few minutes.

In that time, Stan felt his entire body going cold. If the hunter's final words were any indication, the witch was dead now.

Gone forever.

And Stan was left alone in the pocket of a strange human, a hunter, a murderer- helpless, purposeless, and utterly alone.

Overwhelmed, Stan began to sob silently. His hands moved from his ringing ears to hug his knees close as he wept into them, and again to cling to the pocket when the human moved. Still his tears flowed, becoming fearful as it sank in that his life was now in the hands of hunters.

Which surely meant that it would soon be over for him, too.

As Dean lowered his gun, Sam already had a bitchface reserved for him. "What?" Dean asked, baffled momentarily by the annoyance sent his way.

"We were supposed to find out if he had any more hexbags planted," Sam griped, bending down to wipe off the blade of his knife on the witch's clothing. Once it was clean of the blood, he tucked it back into his jacket.

Dean paused. In the heat of battle, their initial plan of questioning the man had completely flown out of his mind. Not once had it occurred to him after being tossed into the wall.

"The man was a menace," Dean said gruffly, refusing to admit his mistake. "I didn't want to take any chances. If he got the jump on us, more people would be in danger."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever, man. Now we're back to step one on tracking down his victims."

Dean gestured with his gun at the remains of the desk. "Grab anything you see. Once we take care of the body, we'll do what we can."

"What's the plan with his body?"

Tucking his colt back into his pants, jostling the pocket of his leather jacket, Dean jerked his head out the open door. The witch lived in a deserted part of town, so they didn't have to worry about any well-meaning neighbors calling the cops on them while they worked. "Burn, witch, burn," he said with a smirk.

Sam shook his head ruefully, kneeling next to the shattered remains of the desk. As Dean got his hands underneath Nicholas' armpits, the limp arms of the dead man flopping to the ground, Sam nudged a jar off the top of a worn journal, taking no note of the odd sight of a small handkerchief tucked inside. It was far from the oddest thing he'd ever seen in the den of a monster, and human or not, this witch was a monster. He'd left them a long trail of dead bodies to track back here.

Dean grunted as he lifted up the witch's body, starting the slow journey towards the darkness outside. Once Sam had the journal tucked into his jacket much like Dean kept their father's by his heart, he joined his older brother and grabbed the dragging legs, hefting up the witch as they headed towards a clearing in the back.

By the time the hunters were discussing what to do with Nicholas' body, Stan's hearing started to return. The rumbling voices overhead were still muffled to his ears, like his head was stuffed with cotton, but it was getting easier and easier to understand them.

He bit back a startled yelp when the pocket shook roughly, beginning to suspect that the hunter who grabbed him had forgotten he was there entirely. Though it startled Stan at first to be reminded of how easily he could be overlooked, he reasoned that it would probably be more frightening if he was remembered. Maybe if Stan kept still and quiet, waited them out, he could find a way to sneak out when they weren't paying attention.

Please don't find me…

With his hearing slowly coming back, he rubbed the back of his neck anxiously and strained to listen as the humans worked on disposing of his former owner's body.

Dean wiped the sweat from his brow when they were finally far enough from the house, the witch's body dumped in a heap by their feet. Sam let the bag he had slung over a shoulder fall to the ground by his feet, letting out a deep breath.

This wasn't the most pleasant side of hunting by far, but it had to be done.

They gathered up some dry wood and kindling from the nearby forest, piling it in a pyre around the witch. Sam only stopped to check the man's pockets to confirm they weren't going to burn any important evidence, stepping back when he was certain the man was clear. Dean nodded, understanding without words, and started to squirt fire-starter over the corpse.

Once it was thoroughly drenched, Dean dropped the empty bottle onto the duffel bag, and reached into his jacket again. From one of the inner pockets, he drew out a match, striking it and watching the flame flare to life, wondering why it felt like he was forgetting something important.

Shaking that off, Dean met Sam's eyes, standing next to him. "One less evil sonovabitch to worry about," he declared to the cool night air, letting the match fall.

When it hit the body, it burst into flames. Creeping tendrils of energy coiled around Nicholas, beginning to consume him, soon to be nothing but ash.

Stan flinched at the sound of the flames bursting to life, the light and heat of the fire leaking in through the opening of the pocket.

The death grip Stan had kept on the inner lining of the pocket all this time, holding him in place while the hunter moved and reached into other pockets, finally loosened when the smell made its way to him. An awful odor of burning flesh and smoke that made his lungs stutter against his will.

Stan's hands flew up to cover his mouth and stifle his coughs, his eyes pricking once more with tears as the combination of the heat and smell and toxins from the smoke stung them.

One of Stan's few lucky moments that night came because of his size. Because he was so small, his cough was lost to the roar of the flames as Sam and Dean watched them stretch towards the sky. Once the remains of the witch burned, there would be no danger of the man coming back, one of the few things that the Salem witch trials had gotten right.

Unlike the majority of the victims of those flames. So many innocent women had burned because of the jealousy of their neighbors instead of any inherent evil in them.

That was just one of many reasons the brothers were diligent with their research before taking down the monster. Innocents got caught up and framed in schemes like this far too often. They didn't want any blood on their hands that didn't belong to the murderous creatures they hunted.

The stench of the body as it burned didn't faze either brother as they stood vigil over the pyre. Not even a twitch. They'd relived this scene a hundred times, with salt and burns for vengeful spirits and other times they needed to dispose of monsters or guarantee they weren't coming back. It was something that happened so often that the matches and lighters in Dean's jacket were used up as often as a chain smoker's.

Stan couldn't believe his luck when the hunters didn't notice his fit. Granted, it wasn't particularly violent or loud, but it did make him think. Maybe he could slip out sooner than he thought.

It wouldn't hurt to peek, while the humans were still and distracted.

Slowly, Stan uncurled from his ball and crawled over to the seam at the end of the pocket, tentatively using it to climb up to the top. His head poked out a tiny bit as he peered out, squinting in the light of the flames. Beyond the glare, he couldn't see much in the darkness.

As his eyes swept to one side, Stan gave an involuntary flinch at the sight of the other hunter. This was his first glimpse of the man, ominously half-shaded by the night and lit only by the flickering flames he stood near. The sheer size of him, seen at the height of the other human's hip, was startling for Stan. The man was a living tower, a behemoth to match the first hunter, at least.

That was where Stan's luck ran out.

Though Dean never heard a peep from his pocket with the ambient noise of the night and the fire around them, it was hard to miss the flinch, jarring the pocket directly against his hip. He glanced down, spotting the shock of red hair with the fire lighting it up.

"That's right, I almost forgot," Dean murmured in surprise, drawing Sam's eyes right to him, distracted from watching the fire slowly die down. He went to reach for the pocket, shifting his weight to make it easier for his hand to slip in.

A shudder shook Stan's entire body as he realized he'd been remembered. All concern about keeping quiet was thrown out the window as the world shifted to one side and the hunter's hand returned to his vision.

"No-!" Stan gave a strangled cry as he lost his grip on the pocket seam and fell back to the bottom, scrambling back into the corner as though it would help. All that accomplished was corralling himself into one spot, making it all the easier for the hand to inexorably pluck him out again.

A/N:

Content warning; Minor character death in this chapter

Stan's now stuck with these two hunters, and no idea what fate has in store for him!

Dean, stop forgetting about the borrower you pocketed.

Next: December 1st, 2021 at 9PM est

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