Becoming A Winchester

Don't Go Looking Behind Closed Doors

(Y/N)'s POV

As soon as Dean and Sam raced out my office, I swore I could hear a faint crying sound pulling me away from the commotion down the hall. Now, I know what you are going to say: don't be an idiot and go investigate the crying because it very much could be a spirit or something. Yeah well...

My feet carry me to the hallway before I can argue with myself about why I shouldn't go investigate. The boys are down the hall crouched near a body from the looks of it. I take a step back but then a rush of wind pushes me out of my office and into the hallway of people trying to see what the fuss is about where Sam and Dean are looking around. I hear the sound again but notice no one else seems to hear crying of what sounds like a scared child.

My mind tries to reason with me while my body moves me reluctantly down the crowded hallway. I stop to locate the sound better, mentally drowning out all the noise surrounding me. My brain tells my ears to focus as everything around me seems to fade into the background. Ever since the vampires decided I would make an excellent offering to whoever their ultimate Big Bad was, I have used the trauma to help me fine tune my senses back to how I was taught—so to speak. My father use to always tell me "focus, (Y/N), focus."

The pityful cry brings me to the emergency stairs. I push open the door and continue to jog down the stairs until the sound suddenly stops. Standing on the bottom step, I grip ahold of the railing and focus on the quietness in the stairwell. Something did not feel right. My eyes close listening to the emptiness, drowning out the noise from the above floors.

A chill comes over me forcing my eyes to open. I notice my breath easily being seen in front of me. My face scrunches up. "Son of a bitch," I mumbled. When I turn around to survey the area, at the top of the stairs I just came down from is a young boy—pale and creepy. Great.

I swallowed hard and try to sound confident, "Hi, sweetheart. What's wrong?" I make a mental note also that maybe I really do need to seek therapy if I'm concerned over a crying ghost.

The boy continues to sniffle. Observing him, he couldn't have been more than 10 years old. The way he is dressed distracts me. A flannel buttoned up shirt with slacks, so neatly dressed to go along with his bottle cap glasses. He did not give this vibe like other spirits I've encountered with The Winchesters. Then again, maybe I am crazy.

"I'm sorry," the child finally gets out between cries. My stomach sinks at the way his voice cracks with sincere sympathy. "My mommy just misses me. She shouldn't be doing this," he further explained.

Four steps.

Four steps stood between me and this ghost. The cold atmosphere around us and the way time seemed to stand still reminds my brain to get the hell out of Dodge. My warped mind also begins to calculate how to get out of here safely, not stupidly. But then—my curiousity cannot help but to open my mouth.

"Who is your mommy? What is she doing?" The questions come out at a quicker rate than I intended, almost come across demanding. The boy's demeanor becomes more rigid. "Please. I'm not going to hurt you," I said quietly, not sure what the hell I am doing. My nose crinkles as I think of the irony here. I am not afraid of him though.

"I want to go heaven. She won't let me," the boy looks up toward the ceiling with hope. "She misses me. Please...help me."

Two steps.