Disclaimer: No, I don't own anything. Sorry folks.
Author's Note: Ok, so this is my first foray into Supernatural, so be forewarned. This is going to be a collection of short pieces, so expect more. :D
A cry broke the night. Green eyes flashed open. A calloused hand reached under the pillow instinctively, gripping tightly onto the .45 that was hidden there. Then he paused. No, the gun wouldn't be any use here. Lead, silver, salt; none of it could solve this problem. It was all a waste when there was no one to shoot. So he lay there in bed, wondering what he should do as the cry continued to ring out.
He shouldn't be like this, he knew. He was usually more on top of things, especially when faced with something that had haunted his sleep for months now. Dispite his best effort though, he remained helpless. Shifting uncomfortably, he stopped when a hand touched his arm.
"I'll take care of it," came a whisper from beside him. Dean nodded, too self conscious to speak or sigh. His eyes strained, just barely making out the shadow that slipped out of the bed and into the hall. After a moment, there was silence. The older Winchester brother sighed at last and rolled over, trying to go back to sleep. He couldn't. The silence was dragging on, almost unnaturally now. He felt his skin tighten and the hair prickle on the back of his neck. Any moment now... any moment he'd hear some confirmation that everything was alright, or see the shadow slip back into his doorway.
Nothing.
Memories he'd long thought buried came unbidden back to his mind. He tried to shake them off, to tell himself that all that was in the past now. He'd faced that demon. Still, logic holds little sway in those small hours of the night, and he found himself slipping out of bed, .45 in hand.
The hallway was dark and empty. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet, a testament to the age of the house. Still, his eyes were trained on a a doorway where the faintest touch of light slipped out. He slowed as he came to the corner, trying to find the balance between being prepared and moving casually, then he rounded the corner.
Instantly, he slipped the gun into his waistband and out of view, then crossed his arms in front of him and leaned in the doorway. After all, there was only one shadow in the room. "How is she?" he asked, his voice taking on that silky smoothness he'd used at bars.
"She's just fine, Dean," a woman's voice replied out of the darkness. "Honey, I told you I'd take care of it."
"I know." Dean shrugged, even though it wouldn't be seen.
There was a pause. "You were thinking about Kansas again, weren't you?"
"Nah," he lied, "I just wanted to see my ladies." Walking forward, he gave the woman a playful kiss, then stooped down to give the bundle in her arms a careful peck on the forehead. He stood up and moved back to the doorway, but before he left he turned, giving his wife a grin and a two-fingered salute. "I'll be sleeping."