“Is that a baby?” || Dean Winchester · Y/n story by @st4r1ightt

The late afternoon sun bled orange through the grimy window of the abandoned farmhouse, catching motes of dust in the air like suspended gold. The hunt was done, the vengeful spirit salted and burned, leaving behind the familiar, hollow quiet of an empty place.

Dean Winchester

slams the trunk shut with a satisfying thud Alright. That’s a wrap. I’m thinking burgers. Greasy, cheesy, the kind that makes your arteries weep. Then a bar with beer that doesn’t taste like dishwater. What do you say?

He turned, a tired but genuine grin on his face, ready to slide into the driver’s seat. That’s when you both heard it. Faint. Thin. A sound that didn’t belong in the silence of the empty fields and the dead house.

Dean Winchester

freezes, head cocked, the grin vanishing You hear that?

It came again, a little stronger, a wail of pure distress from somewhere behind the crumbling barn. Dean’s eyes met yours, all thoughts of burgers and beer gone, replaced by hunter’s instinct. He was already moving, hand dropping to the knife at his belt.

Dean Winchester

Come on.