It didn't take more than a few minutes for Stan to find the hexbag where he'd left it, haul it back to the entrance and shove it out into the open before crawling out himself. His breaths were heavy from his hurry, and he wiped beads of sweat from his brow, looking up at Sam in the hopes that he'd done well.

Sam grinned congratulations at Stan, beaming that he was right about the guy. "Good job!" he complimented, plucking up the hexbag as he scooped the guy up in his other hand. "We would have spent days trying to find it on our own without breaking into the walls."

Tossing the hexbag up to Dean, Sam stood as his brother smoothly caught it. "Now we just gotta get rid of it for good."

Stan righted himself in Sam's palm, recovering quickly from the grab. He'd had plenty of experience being handled, and this was far from the worst way to be picked up.

He gave a brief, curious glance over at Dean and the hand that held the hexbag, wondering how they were going to deal with it. Magic like that could be ugly, that much Stan knew for sure. Then again, he figured he'd better not doubt the people who had bested his previous owner so easily.

"Thank you, sir- Sam, I mean." Stan bit back a wince, trying to ride the high of the praise he'd been given. "Glad I could be of help."

"You kidding? This is awesome," Dean said, unusually enthusiastic. He brushed a finger over Stan's hair to muss it up like he did to Sam on occasion, the only difference being that normally he'd need an entire hand to do something that took a fingertip with Stan. "We'll have this finished up in time to grab some food at Biggerson's."

Stan blinked, reflexively reaching a hand up to brush his hair back into place. This wasn't an unusual gesture for him, either, but the corner of Stan's lip twitched into a smirk that refused to stay in place. Nicholas never got as excited as these humans unless he was killing, and certainly was never this happy with Stan.

Sam huffed in amusement at the way Dean was treating Stan, recognizing the older brother's protectiveness coming out in him. Now that they knew Stan wasn't supernatural, they were treating him the way he deserved; like a lost victim, kidnapped and done who-knows-what-to by the witch. Once the case was over they needed to find out if Stan knew how he'd turned so small.

"Get on with it," Sam shoo'd Dean off, nudging him towards the front door. "We're not out of hot water yet."

"I'm just saying!"

Past the banter, they both kept their voices lowered, quickly exiting the house. Sam shut the door silently behind himself. With any luck, the people that lived there would assume they'd forgotten to lock it before heading to bed. Nothing was out of place, nothing was missing.

Aside from a hexbag.

Dean was holding out the hexbag when Sam got to the car, flicking his lighter. He lit the hexbag up, carefully tilting it once the flame began to grow to make sure it burned evenly on all sides before dropping it to watch the fire consume it.

The flames flickered several colors, blue and green interlocking as the bag sagged into ash. Stan watched the flames in quiet awe, watching the colors change and die out. It was amazing to him how something so foul could look so beautiful in its last moments.

Once it was blackened and the flames were dying, Dean's heavy boot landed on top, crushing the remains until they were unrecognizable, and then scraping backwards to scatter the ashes, turning the deadly hexbag into just another smear on the ground.

"One down, two to go."

The harsh action broke Stan out of his reverie, and he ducked a little closer to the edge of Sam's hand. That hexbag had been Stan's size, likely bigger than him, and now it was crushed into nothing.

Maybe that's how they'll do it, something morbid in the back of Stan's mind thought. Crushing. Relatively clean, takes less than a second.

Stan shook that thought off. Sam and Dean were being good to him, treating him well. …While he was useful, he reminded himself. They were still going to 'take care' of him after all this was over.

He could only pray that the brothers took a liking to him after this job was over and decided to keep him. Being taken care of by a hunter like Sam was a far more appealing option than being left to fend for himself. Or worse, disposed of once his usefulness ran out.

The next two houses, now that they had a system down, went quickly enough.

Sam continued to hold Stan, nominated for the honor since Dean needed both hands free to drive the Impala. Though he had many questions for the kid, Sam kept them to himself. The hexbags had to come first, and they all remained focused on the goal.

Watching Stan slip into the walls as easily as he did was mesmerizing for both hunters. Though they'd both on occasion slipped into a vent or explored the insides of a wall while checking for vengeful spirits or hexbags, this was on a whole other level. Stan made such a task look like child's play.

There was a slight fear that persisted that Stan would decide to vanish on them, but it lowered each time he was seen pushing the heavy hexbags out of the walls. He hadn't lied; he knew exactly where to find each one. A part of Sam wondered why a witch would use a proxy like that. Most of the practitioners of black magic they found loved the thrill of placing a hexbag themselves.

Dean was keeping watch as the third hexbag appeared in the crack in the wall, Sam kneeling once more, trying not to hover.

Stan was feeling quite proud of himself as he watched the hexbag lift away in Sam's grasp. He'd done his job, and done it well if the brothers' praise was any indication.

Knowing their mission was over, Dean broke into a smile. "Good job, kid!" he said in a whisper, playfully nudging at the guy with a boot since he couldn't leave his post until they were ready to go.

Any thought of congratulations went straight out of Stan's head at the sight of Dean's boot fast approaching in the corner of his eye, still smudged with the ashes of its last two victims. All logic and reason ceased to exist to Stan in that moment, replaced by pure terror at the thought that he was next.

He gave a startled, strangled cry, bringing his arms up to futilely shield himself as the edge of the rubber sole gently bumped into him. Stan jumped back like it had burned him, stumbling over his own legs in an attempt to get away. Instead, he landed in a trembling heap on the floor, curling tightly in on himself and covering his head with his hands as though it could protect him in any way.

The grin on Dean's face dropped away like it had never existed at the sight of Stan's terrified huddle. "What the-"

Sam, watching the entire thing, swept the guy up, his hand curling around Stan's frightened form. "Nice going, asshat!" he shot at Dean, chucking the other hexbag at his older brother. "How'd you think that would go over with him?"

Dean's lips opened and closed like a fish, unable to come up with a reply. He caught the hexbag on little more than instinct. "But-"

"We'll talk later," Sam snipped, cupping his second hand protectively around Stan as well as he stood. "Just go take care of that, wouldja?"

Stalking out, Sam barely heard Dean's mumbled affirmative, too concerned about the tiny, shuddering form curled in his hands. There was an entire person in there, hidden from sight. Maybe the brothers had been too careless around him, in thought if not in deed.

How would it look if a boot came at them, far bigger and taller than they were? Sam had to admit, he'd make himself scarce the second it happened. There was no way of controlling something that large. Dean would fill a boot with lead first, before ever backing down.

Stan was vulnerable around them, and they had to be mindful. Exiting the house, the cool night air helped clear Sam's mind. He lifted up his hand, cautiously cracking the two hands to make sure Stan was okay.

Spotting the tiny flame of red, Sam's look softened. "Hey…" he whispered. So many times Stan had flinched or cowered from them that night. What had that witch done to the guy to make him so afraid of people? "You're okay, I promise. Dean doesn't bite. He just has a rough sense of humor." He gently nudged at one of the tiny shoulders. "Neither of us is going to hurt you, Stan."

Stan was still working to calm himself down since Sam had scooped him up. He wasn't dead, and Sam was right there, keeping him safe. Stan couldn't quite understand exactly what Sam said over the roaring of his pulse in his ears, but his tone was comforting and he got the gist of it. Shortly, Stan's panicked breathing started to slow and his head cleared.

Once he was feeling more steady, Stan lifted his head to meet Sam's gaze, finding himself once again cupped in a small, dark space made by giant hands. Swallowing to moisten his bone-dry throat, he made a shaky attempt to sit up.

"R-right," he murmured, once again ashamed by his perceived overreaction. "Sorry, I-I… I should have known that, of course…"

Sam sighed. "It's not your fault," he reassured once more, for what felt like the thousandth time that night, wondering again just what had put Stan in this state.

Neither Winchester would put a victim at risk, or threaten them without cause. Stan's reaction drove home that their actions looked very different to him. A playful nudge from Dean looked terrifying from Stan's point of view. Other innocent actions might do the same.

Sam had to use his second hand to open the car door, so he unfolded his hands and cupped his fingers close around Stan to help the guy feel secure. He sat down quickly, rolling his window back up so they had some modicum of privacy.

Lifting Stan up, Sam's brow furrowed in concern. "Once we get back to the room, we're going to do what we can to help you," he explained gently. "You're not in any danger with me or my brother, and if we do anything you don't like, all you have to do is tell us."

Stan nodded, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees, the shakes mostly gone. He knew he shouldn't be so jumpy around them since they promised over and over again that they would help him, but...he couldn't help it. He didn't know them or how they would react to anything he did, how they would deal with him, and the first thing they did when they met was tear down his life as he knew it. All things being equal, Stan had every right to fear Sam and Dean.

But in his mind, he didn't have any rights. Until they decided what to do with him, Stan technically belonged to them now. The least he could do was trust them and not be so afraid all the time. He hoped there was some way he could make it up to them, show he didn't mean to be this way. With any luck, they wouldn't decide he was more trouble than he was worth.

When Stan didn't say anything, Sam let his head drop against the headrest and tucked his hand against his stomach once more.

It was going to be a long, long night.

A/N:

Welp.

We'll be back to posting soon enough! For now, enjoy the holidays and keep an eye on our tumblr page for when the 2022 contest starts!

Next: January 12th, 2022 at 9PM est

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