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𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭, 𝟮𝟬𝟬𝟱 𝖭𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺'𝗌 𝖯𝖮𝖵
𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, Sam and I pull on warmer clothes with quick, practiced movements, like we're suiting up for something we promised ourselves we'd never do again. The apartment feels too small for the way Dean's presence fills it—too loud, too sharp. That's why we head downstairs, why we push for the open air, for a place where our words won't bounce off walls and back into our faces.
Dean starts talking before we even hit the stairwell. He tries to barrel right through us the way he always does—momentum first, emotions later. Sam stops him with a single look and a voice that could cut glass.
"You can't just show up in the middle of the night and expect us to drop everything and hit the road with you," Sam says, firm as stone.
My chest tightens. I've spent years building a life where midnight knocks don't mean blood and fire. I step closer to Sam, shoulder almost brushing his, and I keep my voice calm even when it isn't. "I have to agree with Sam on this one."
Dean's face twists, frustration and fear battling for space. "You're not understanding me. Our dads are missing, and I need your help to find them." His eyes lock on mine like that'll do it—like he can drag me back with a name. "Come on, Ness. This is your father we're talking about."
