Out in the hall, Dean stalked to the ice machine at the end, doing his best to breathe deep and calm down. The last thing he needed was more looks from Sam everytime Stan jumped.

The last thing he meant to do was keep startling the kid. They'd run into demon victims with fewer bruises and scars than that, and this guy fit in a hand.

He filled up the bucket with ice, wishing the chore took longer. More time to cool his head and think straight. It was hard to do when he was looking at someone so abused. Thirteen. Stan had been thirteen when he was sold off as a pet.

Though it was pointless to rue facts they couldn't change, Dean wished they'd picked up the witch's tail sooner. Gotten Stan out before it went so far. No one deserved to be treated like that. Dean knew werewolves with more humanity in them than Nicholas had displayed. Madison, for one. She'd gone so far as to insist she be put down before anyone else could get hurt, a decision that stung both brothers to this day.

Taking a deep breath, Dean pushed the door of the motel room open and went back in.

Stan was tired. After all the exertion he'd endured over the course of the day, combined with the adrenaline pumping through his body for the past few hours and the food settling in his stomach, most of Stan's major functions were practically begging to shut down. Still he fought against the urge to fall asleep.

For one thing, he hadn't been told he could sleep just yet. For another, he didn't have anywhere to settle down for the night. Plus, if Sam and Dean wanted to keep going with their questions, he had to be ready to oblige them. So he dutifully kept himself awake, sitting where he was left and staying quiet.

Dean entered the room to a subdued atmosphere between the two at- or on- the table. Sam glanced up, but didn't have a smile to send him, or a scowl. Their hunt was a success, but they'd found a new puzzle to solve, and another life to save that had gone unnoticed for so long.

Taking a plastic bag from the kitchenette, the one that was usually placed inside the tub of ice to keep it 'clean,' Dean wrapped up one of the cubes in it, then wrapped that up again inside of a handkerchief to help soften the cold. He placed it next to Stan.

"Use that where it hurts the most," Dean instructed. "We don't have any painkillers your size, and better safe than sorry when it's not life-threatening."

Watching Dean enter and work had captured Stan's attention enough to keep him alert, tilting his head curiously at the ice pack he'd been given. "Thank you," he said, appreciative of the gesture after he was sure he'd upset Dean earlier. These hunters were a strange pair of humans, that much Stan knew for certain.

Scooting closer to the ice pack, Stan hefted it into his lap, letting his arms drape over it to pin it to the front of his chest where the ache was strongest. He absently ran his fingers over the fabric of the handkerchief, and it brought back Stan's fatigue. Dean's was less old than Nicholas' had been, and cleaner, but Stan was used to falling asleep on such soft, albeit thin material.

Stan's shoulders slumped as he gave in, the cold of the ice and the familiarity of the handkerchief tipping him over the edge. He bunched up the material into a cushion for his head, letting it drop as his heavy lids threatened to close for the night.

Dean pulled Sam into the alcove by the bathroom, an attempt to gain some space from Stan so he wouldn't overhear their conversation.

"What are we doing here, Sam?" he demanded. "We're in over our heads. We have no idea how to help him, or what to do."

"We can't just leave him!" Sam shot back defensively. "He's helpless, and we did that. The witch was keeping him alive. What if we get him killed because we saved him?"

Dean groaned. "That's not what I'm saying." He rubbed the bridge between his eyes. "Sam, we need a plan. We're not doing this kid any favors if we don't have a way to help him."

Sam looked back towards the table, his gaze softening. "We look into it," he said, determination edging the words. "He said he doesn't remember much before Nicholas. That means he might just not remember being human. What better way to control someone than putting a memory spell on them? If we can go through his journal, check out some books from the area... maybe we can get him fixed. It's not like we have another case ready. He's our case."

Dean sighed. "Okay, that's a start. I can drop you off at the library with shorty over there while I check to make sure no one's noticed our little raid. If you can find out more about him, maybe where he came from..."

Sam nodded. "I'll check his name, too. See if any kids vanished anywhere close by."

There was still worry in Dean's eyes, and Sam knew what put it there. "We won't let him get hurt again," he assured his older brother. "Anyone that wants to lay a finger on him has to go through both of us."

"Right." Dean turned, heading back into the room. "We'll find a way."

Sam leaned over Stan where he was slumped on the table, hesitantly nudging a tiny shoulder with a finger. "Hey," he said softly. "Ready to get some sleep?" A small smile graced his face. "I think we can find somewhere more comfortable than the table for you."

Stan stirred from his half-sleep at Sam's touch, blinking owlishly up at the hunter as he remembered himself. Where he was now and why. Stifling a yawn, he nodded in response to Sam's question.

"Thanks," he mumbled, managing to rise to his feet while still holding onto the ice pack. His back complained as he did so; that hunched position over the ice pack had put quite a kink in it. Somewhere comfortable to sleep sounded all the more appealing.

It really was kind of Sam and Dean to be so considerate. Stan knew from experience that they really didn't have to, they were certainly big and powerful enough to do what they wanted. Stan was just lucky that they wanted to help.

Seeing that Stan was barely on his feet, Sam swept him into a hand, ice cube and all, as he looked around the room. "Where do you think?" he asked Dean, who was rifling around in the duffel bag.

Dean tossed a black shirt at Sam, who caught it on instinct, not missing a beat. "The nightstand drawer," he suggested. "We can always take the floor, but the kid's too small for a bed, anyway. Might as well use a place where we don't have to worry about him getting underfoot."

Sam winced at Dean's callous way of stating it, but nodded in understanding. "We'll leave the drawer open," he murmured down to Stan, kneeling next to the nightstand. Pulling open the drawer, Sam dropped in the shirt and pulled out the Bible, bunching up the black tee so it would provide some cushioning.

One bright spot in everything: they'd stopped at a laundromat earlier that week, so Dean's shirt was clean.

Once everything was set, Sam lowered his hand into the drawer, hovering it over the shirt. He didn't try forcing Stan, giving the kid a choice. "What do you think?" Sam offered hopefully.

Stan was surprised to find himself perking up at the sight of the makeshift bed. Ordinarily, the setting of the drawer might have raised some concerns for the tiny man, having been shut up in many a drawer in his time with the witch. Nicholas had never laid down a cushion, certainly never one that looked so plush and comfortable. Stan took Sam's promise that they wouldn't close the drawer on him to heart.

"Thank you," said Stan politely as he moved to the edge of Sam's hand, making the drop down to the shirt on his own in his excitement to sleep there. Everything in the little guy seemed to relax the second he touched down, right in his assumption of how comfy the shirt was. It didn't take long for Stan to find a spot for himself and tuck in, using a fold in the shirt as a blanket and cradling the ice pack against his chest.

As soon as his eyes closed, Stan was out like a light.

Sam smiled faintly at the sight, bemused by how quick Stan fell motionless. He stood, then nudged the drawer in with a knuckle so it wasn't leaning so far out from the rest of the nightstand. This way, it was open so Stan wouldn't feel trapped, yet he'd be safe from one of the brothers running into it throughout the night.

After moving the bottlecap of water into the drawer with Stan along with a cherry tomato in case he grew hungry later on, Sam straightened.

"You have to admit, he's taking this better than most people would," he muttered, reaching to turn off the light directly overhead.

Dean scowled. "He was stuck with that witch for so long. He could just be in shock."

Sam sighed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. "We'll have to see how he's doing tomorrow. I'll get his last name and work on tracking down his family."

They were up a bit later, mostly cleaning the blood from their clothes and trying to scrub it from their hands, but soon followed Stan's example. Sam dropped off first, facedown in bed with his arms wrapped around a pillow and his legs sprawled out, taking up the entire queen sized bed. Dean was less dramatic, shutting off the lights then curling up, staring at the open drawer for a bit in the dark. He didn't know what he was waiting for; an escape attempt, maybe, or Stan looking for them.

Nothing happened, and soon enough Dean's heavy eyelids fluttered shut.

A/N:

Sam and Dean continue to try their best to help Stan out..

Next: February 2nd, 2022 at 9PM est

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