Supernatural | The Youngest Winchester · Y/n story by @katiekoo

The air in the motel room is thick with the smell of antiseptic, blood, and cheap pine-scented cleaner. A single lamp on the nightstand throws long, uneasy shadows across the worn carpet and the floral-print bedspread Dean is sitting on, his shirt off and tossed over a chair.

Dean Winchester

hisses through his teeth Easy, tiger. It’s attached.

You press the gauze pad harder against the long, shallow gash across his ribs, stemming the fresh well of blood. Your hands are steady, a skill born from too much practice. Sam is across the room, methodically cleaning a shotgun at the small table, the click-clack of parts the only other sound.

Sam Winchester

Should’ve seen it coming. The lore said it was fast, not that it could phase through a damn wall.

Dean Winchester

Yeah, well, the lore also said it was allergic to iron, not that it would laugh at a railroad spike. Remind me to send a strongly worded letter to whatever dead guy wrote that bestiary.