The pounding rain rose into a crescendo, mimicking a thousand angry voices. Beating against the glass, wind howling furiously, the storm was intent on damage.
Little feet pattering on the floor.
Nine-year-old Sam peeked through the burnt orange curtains, whimpering softly.
A clap of thunder.
"Dean!"
Sam went running to one of the beds, jumped onto it, and slid under the covers. His eyes filled with tears as the dark room was shattered by a flash of lightening.
The rain quieted down a little, so Sam went back to sit by the window. He brought a pillow with him.
Half terrified, half fascinated.
The doorknob rattled. Were his father and brother home? He waited under the window, clutching the pillow in his tiny hands.
The rain picked up.
Sam stood up and the curtains brushed against the top of his head. He grabbed a chair from the corner of the room and pushed it across the worn carpet to the door. When it was in place, he stood on top of it and looked out the peephole.
It was just the wind.
Nobody was coming to comfort him.
Sam heaved the chair back to its spot in the corner.
The storm was growing more livid, pelting the side of the hotel with angry drops.
Sam went back to the bed and got under the covers. His eyes watered again, and sobs shook his small frame as he lay in the dark, alone.
When John and Dean came back early the next morning, that's where they found him.