The screen door whined on its hinges, then banged shut.
Bobby’s house smelled like old books, gunpowder, and coffee that had been on the burner since morning.
You were perched on the worn-out couch in the living room, a dusty tome open on your lap—something about vengeful spirits in Wisconsin.
The Impala’s engine rumbled outside, then died.
Footsteps on the porch. Two sets. Heavy.
Dean Winchester
pushing through the door first, a grin already on his faceLook who finally decided to crack a book. And here I thought you’d be out back shooting cans with that rusty twenty-two.
Sam followed close behind, shutting the door with a soft click. He looked tired, but his eyes found you immediately. A small, tired smile.