Dean's hand slipped into the pocket with ease as Sam frowned. "What are you talking-"

He trailed off. It took Dean seconds to curl his fingers around the tiny figure, sliding underneath Stan as the pocket moved to accommodate the hand the way it was made to. Then, the kid tumbled into Dean's grip and he once again sealed him in a fist, withdrawing him into the cool night air.

Stan barely had time to curl into a ball and fret about what was going to happen to him before gravity shifted around him and the fingers keeping him trapped unfurled, leaving the little guy sprawled on the hunter's palm. He scrambled to sit up, freezing again under the gazes of two unknown humans now.

Sam stared as Dean opened his hand, revealing the tiny figure in the center of his palm. "Found 'im when the witch tossed me," Dean said, a trace of satisfaction in his voice as he remembered the quick thinking reactions that had led to the tiny guy's capture. "Whatcha think he is? Some kind of leprechaun?" Shifting one of the fingers close to Stan, Dean lightly nudged the shock of red hair. "Maybe the witch made a deal with the fae…"

The fingertip brushing against his hair made Stan jump, his nerves strung taut. Even after living with that witch for so long, this was by far the most dangerous position he'd ever been in. These humans could decide to do anything with him, from leaving him behind without a second thought or simply tossing him into the fire to join his owner. The possibilities were endless, and every single one flashed through Stan's mind, making him feel sick and shaky.

He hugged his knees close and glanced up as they appraised him, waiting for their verdict. At least his fate seemed open for discussion.

"Whoa…" Sam breathed, awe in his face. His eyes briefly flickered to Dean's before returning to the tiny person huddled in Dean's palm. It made the guy look all the smaller there, though Sam knew the kid would be perfectly safe with Dean, unless and until he made any threatening moves. "And you just forgot him in there? That was like, half an hour ago!"

Dropping to his knees, Sam had eyes only for Stan. He missed the way Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes above them, his hand wavering slightly under Stan in his distraction. A movement that Sam missed, so slight that it was barely perceptible for the human hunter.

By contrast, even the tiniest movement from the hunter affected the little guy in his palm. Stan gave a stuttered gasp as the hand beneath him bucked, uncurling slightly to catch his balance with propped arms. It made his heart race to see just how tiny his own hands looked in comparison to the human's.

"Hey there," Sam said, his voice hushed so it was nearly a whisper. He flared his fingers open into a small wave. "My name's Sam. That's my brother Dean. What's your name?" His voice remained level and even, doing what he could to lessen any intimidation to the smaller man. After being left in Dean's pocket for so long, Sam doubted the guy would be thinking completely straight.

It took Stan a second to register the question he'd been asked. He was caught up in how much the man almost completely filled his vision.

As long as they were allowing him to live, Stan figured he had better answer their inquiries in the hopes of gaining their favor if he behaved.

"S… S-Stan," he replied, gaze lowering a bit as he internally chastised himself for being too quiet, stammering too much. He didn't know these humans well enough to tell if they would mind.

"Well Stan," Sam said, his face blossoming into a smile to help reassure the kid Dean was holding, "it's good to meet you." Despite the fire blazing behind him with the remains of the witch, he was completely sincere, a distinctly different countenance compared to Dean.

Stan's tiny green eyes flicked back up to Sam, only to drop shyly back down. It was startling to look up and suddenly find himself face to face with a toothy grin wider than he was tall. And while he was mostly sure that he didn't have to worry about anything from it, the hunters had given him nothing to say for sure that he didn't.

Either way, the sight of those large teeth did little more than make Stan cringe. His bones were so thin compared to the humans' fingers, and it was hard for Stan to banish the image of how easily he could snap in half between those incisors.

Sam's grin faltered at Stan's continued nerves, not sure if it was because of something he'd done or just because of the events of the night. The next part was going to make things harder, in any case. They needed to know if Stan was a danger, and that tended to be an... involved process. One that most people didn't understand and certainly didn't appreciate.

"Stan," Sam said, his voice remaining calm and level, "we're going to need to make sure you're not dangerous, okay? We don't want to hurt you, but it's our job to stop any threats. I'm going to have you touch a few things. It shouldn't hurt at all."

Stan looked back up at Sam when his name was called, his shoulders bunching up with uncertainty. He had no idea what sort of things he was going to touch that 'shouldn't hurt,' but he gave Sam a small nod to show he understood.

Not like he could exactly stop them, given his position.

"Right," Sam said, focusing himself when he saw Stan's small nod. He glanced up at Dean, who simply raised his eyebrows in reply. This was Sam's show now. Dean was just the platform. They both knew who was better with traumatized victims.

Patting down his jacket, Sam tried to remember what he had on him that was iron. It took him a moment to come up with an iron nail, grabbed for a case a few weeks back when he was up against a spirit that wouldn't take no for an answer, and that dispersed his salt lines. Sam held up the nail, pinched between two fingers. At least there was no question that it was iron after hitting the vengeful spirit with it.

"All you have to do is touch this," Sam prompted, holding it at the edge of Dean's hand.

Stan steeled himself, reaching out a thin arm. The nail at least seemed harmless enough, and Stan kept Sam's words in mind.

Shouldn't hurt a bit…

As his hand rested on the nail, Stan let out the breath he didn't realize he'd held. Nothing. Just like Sam said. He looked up at the human, hoping that was a suitable result.

Sam let out a matching breath, ruffling Stan's hair in the resulting breeze. "Good." He took back the nail. This was quickly replaced by the second part of the tests.

Silver.

Unfortunately, the only silver object Sam had on him was his knife. Dean was packing the silver bullets in his jacket, but was too busy watching the guy on his hand to realize what Sam needed. Sam pulled out his knife, keeping his eyes on Stan as he turned the flat part of the blade towards him. "Same deal. All you have to do is touch the silver." Both brothers watched like hawks for a bad reaction to the mention of the metal. Though Sam's was purer than normal silver might be, it still needed other metals in it to keep it from becoming too flexible.

Stan's heart jumped at the sight of the knife, and he had to stop himself as he recoiled from the massive blade. It was huge, more than a few times larger than Stan himself and sharp. Stan had no doubt that with it, Sam could cut him to ribbons in seconds.

But he could practically feel their expectant gazes, so he swallowed his fear and scooted closer to the knife as Sam offered it, reaching toward it with a more hesitant, trembling hand and pressing it flat to the metal, praying that he would escape the sharper parts of the knife.

"See?" Sam shot up at Dean. "Not a leprechaun."

Stan was still a little shaky from the scare of being so close to the weapon, wringing his hands while the humans talked over his head. That much he was used to, and he kept his focus on unwinding his nerves so he would be much more calm by the time Sam addressed him again.

Oblivious to the distress on his own hand, Dean rolled his eyes yet again. "Like it's a hard mistake to make. You have to admit he fits the profile."

"Minus the magic." Sam took the knife back, tucking it into the sheath in his jacket. "I doubt he'd sit quietly in your jacket for thirty minutes if he had spells he could sling at us."

Dean's face burned slightly in embarrassment. "I had other things on my mind, including hauling you out of trouble."

Sam ignored Dean, focusing back on Stan. "Last two tests," he informed the guy. "These should go quick."

Though it was unlikely the guy was a demon, Sam pulled out his holy water. There were always other kinds of hell-bound creatures that might react to the water, like imps, a distant relative of the fae. Uncorking the bottle, he tilted the bottle carefully over Stan's head, the rosary in the water moving in time with his movements.

Stan watched Sam carefully, tracking the large hand as it carried the mystery liquid over his head. Stan's hands clenched and unclenched anxiously, pressed firmly to his chest as the vessel above him poured a single drop out.

His hair was instantly drenched, plastering itself to his head from the mussed flame Dean's pocket had teased it into, and his shoulders and back were not free of the water either. Stan sputtered a bit, wiping his hands down his face and shaking the moisture from his hair.

It would have been a nearly futile attempt if they weren't close enough to the flaming remains of Nicholas to offer a warming, drying effect to Stan's short locks. Which Stan tried not to think about.

Dean's lips quirked into a smile at the sight of how flustered the water made Stan, but Sam remained focused.

"Last test," he said, putting the holy water away. "Easiest one there is."

A bit of salt was sprinkled onto Stan, but Sam was barely looking at him by then. "See?" he shot up at Dean. "I don't think he's even something supernatural… he might have been cursed or hexed by that witch. Like a trophy to keep around the house." A memory floated up from after their fight. "I saw some kind of jar in the remains of the desk. Kinda looked like there was a blanket inside."

Dean stiffened, staring down at Stan in consternation. "Were you a captive?" he demanded, his worry making him come off harsher than he meant to.

Stan jumped at Dean's tone, having occupied himself with brushing the salt off himself and starting to compile it so he could push it over the edge of Dean's hand. Nicholas always hated a mess, and if Stan was ever in the vicinity, he was helping to clean it. It was a habit by now, Stan had hardly thought about what he was doing until Dean broke his concentration.

He was tense all over again, worried that he was somehow in trouble now. He didn't quite know how to answer the question, his situation was more complex than simply being the witch's prisoner.

"I-I…" Stan stammered, but nothing else would come out so he settled on a helpless shrug.

Sam frowned at the reaction and sent Dean a look. "Lay off a little," he advised, putting a hand on his knee and pushing down to get back to his feet. Though it put him on Stan's level, kneeling in the grass and twigs and embedded rocks was far from comfortable.

Back on two feet, Sam found himself bothered by how little the guy looked from that angle. Arching his eyebrows at Dean, he jerked his head.

Dean took his point, lifting his hand closer to eye-level. Stan was still small between the brothers, incredibly, impossibly small, but it wasn't at such a steep, vaguely disturbing angle.

"Stan, we need to know everything," Sam said gently. "We're here to help. Once we finish up with the witch, we'll take care of you next, I promise. Now, how long have you been that size?"

Despite Sam's warm tone, Stan clammed up even more. The heat and sound of the flames behind him reminded Stan that that was how they 'took care' of the witch. Any hope he might have had of surviving this encounter was all but shattered as his mind spun with ways they might 'take care' of him next.

Stan hardly registered Sam's question. He couldn't even look at Sam and Dean, paralyzed with fear as he was, curling into a tighter ball and dreading glancing up to find his vision filled with two pairs of human eyes.

Dean huffed. "Dude, this isn't working," he said impatiently. The fire was almost down to coals, and they still had work to do. "We need to finish up with the witch and find out if he had any more hexbags around. This can wait until we get Stan back to the room."

Sam's eyes softened. "I guess," he said, his fingers twitching with the impulse to comfort the guy.

The mention of hexbags brought Stan back to reality. Some of the tension left his shoulders and he worked up the nerve to glance up at Sam and Dean.

"Y-you… You're looking for the hexbags?" he piped up, speaking up for the first time without being spoken to first. In his excitement, he forgot all about being proper and polite, quickly offering a way he could be of use. "I k-know where they are."

Stan's wavering voice drew their attention instantly down on him. Sam was the first one to reply, just a second ahead of Dean. "You do?" The brothers shared a look, like so many that night. This new guy was a kink in the works they'd never expected from the witch's profile. "Stan, can you help us track them down? We need to get them out before anyone else gets hurt."

"Yes!" Stan exclaimed, beyond elated for a second before he forced himself to rein it in. If he could prove himself useful to these hunters, they might take pity on him and let him live. Maybe even take him in like Nicholas adopted him. At least then he wouldn't end up dead or fending for himself in the wilderness.

"I-I mean," he amended once he'd composed himself, meekly sweeping away the salt he'd collected and letting it fall over the edge of Dean's hand, "I can t-try. I don't know addresses or anything, I only ever saw the inside, but I know where I put them…"

"Whoa, calm down there, Lucky," Dean chuckled. Now that they knew Stan wasn't a supernatural monster in disguise, he let himself relax his guard a little. "First things first. We have to find the houses. Then, you can help us find them inside."

Sam took back over from Dean, glad his older brother was starting to cool down. "Do you remember their names?" he asked Stan. "Or…" Remembering the journals, Sam pulled one out of his jacket. "Did Nicholas write them down?" He flipped through the first few pages, squinting in the low light of the darkening fire.

"He did, yes," Stan answered, eyes falling on the journal as Sam leafed through it. "He wrote down all his victims, but… I dunno if he finished the last ones. There were three of em, though. If there's anything missing, I probably overheard it. He talked to himself a lot."

Stan stopped himself before he could continue rambling and risk annoying the hunters. It was the most he'd spoken at once without stammering, and there was a slightly more prominent British lilt in his words.

"Okay, new plan," Dean announced, breaking Sam's attention from Stan. "You and shorty here figure out the victims while I finish cleaning up the mess in the house. We've gotta make sure there's nothing to connect us to Nicholas' death."

Sam nearly dropped the journal when Dean shoved the hand holding Stan at him, hurriedly pocketing the book to be able to cup his hands. There was no time to worry about the droplets of blood staining the side of his fingers, something he normally didn't think about until they finished the hunt.

Stan crouched low in Dean's hand as it moved, bracing himself through the movement. He couldn't keep his grip forever, though, especially when the hand tilted beneath him. A yelp died in his throat as he was passed to a new palm.

Sam's palm.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, frantic about how quick his brother was moving with the little guy.

"Don't worry, he's fine! " Dean insisted, tilting his hands into a slight incline to slide Stan into Sam's hands. "Right, kid?"

After Stan sat himself back up, he froze at the sight. He found he had even more room in his new spot, much more than he ever found in Nicholas' hands. Glancing at Sam's fingers, cupped and bloodstained as they were, wasn't comforting in the slightest. If Stan thought Dean's fingers were tall, he was sorely mistaken. There probably wasn't a single one of Sam's that Stan could stand a chance at outsizing.

"Y-yeah," said Stan in response to Dean, accustomed to answering in the affirmative no matter what he felt. And right now, Stan simply felt small. Smaller than he'd ever felt.

"See? What'd I say?" Dismissing Sam's worries, Dean glanced at the fire and judged it safe to leave. Most of it was down to ashes, and the weather had been wet recently. He'd burned enough corpses to know what he was doing.

A/N:

If the Winchesters told you it wouldn't hurt, would you believe them?

There will likely be a posting break over the holiday while all the family traditions are going on, but we'll pick right back up in January!

Next: December 8th, 2021 at 9PM est

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