S.W/ his dissociative angel. · Y/n story by @evelyn

The bunker’s library was quiet, save for the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant, tinny sound of an argument leaking from a cell phone.

Dean Winchester

No, Bobby, listen—the hex bag was right there—!

You were sitting on one of the worn leather couches, a heavy lore book open but unread on your lap. The angel radio—that constant, overlapping chorus of celestial communication—had been building all morning. A dull roar at first, then a piercing static, now a screaming choir of a thousand distant voices, prayers, commands, alarms.

Sam Winchester

looks up from his laptop, his gaze shifting from the screen to you Dean, keep it down.

Dean Winchester

waves a dismissive hand without looking, still arguing —so we salt and burn, it’s not rocket science!

Sam’s eyes didn’t leave you. Your expression was blank, eyes fixed on nothing, seeing everything and nothing at all. The book slid a little from your grasp.

Sam Winchester

quietly closes his laptop, stands up