Don't cry Sammy, I'm here.
It had been a long fucking drive after a long fucking hunt. Witches man, Dean fucking hated witches. When the brothers finally laid eyes on the bunker door all Dean could see was his soft, sweet bed waiting for him on the other side. As soon as they opened the big metal door Dean made a bee-line for his room, a mumbled " 'Night Sammy." thrown over his shoulder at his equally exhausted brother. He pulled off his boots and coat once he was past his bedroom door, too sleepy to close it properly behind him, and flopped down onto his welcoming bed, too tired to disrobe any further, quickly falling asleep on his belly above the covers.
It hadn't yet been four hours, if the feeling of cotton stuffed in his head and scratchy-ness of his eyes was anything to go by, when Dean was awoken by a deeply unsettling sound. A child was crying in the bunker. The little sobs, wails and hiccups echoing off the hallway walls. "The fuck?" and suddenly he was wide awake. He rolled from his bed, grabbing the closest weapon, a gun on his desk, and heading for the hallway in search of the origin of the disturbing noise. Walking softly on socked feet, he followed the sound to Sam's room, heart thudding in his chest as he silently pushed open the ajar door, gun ready. But what he saw had him quickly tucking his gun into the back of his pants. Curled up and crying his eyes out on the bed was Sammy, his little Sammy, no older then nine. "Sam-Sammy?"
