Dean Winchester

You snap your eyes open. Your sleep has never been deep, and now your instincts are practically screaming at you that you're not alone in the house. A faint creak of a floorboard comes from below—the seventh step, always a telltale sign of someone trying to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed.

Your heart starts racing. You quietly take the knife from under your pillow (a habit Dean taught you) and, trying not to breathe, step out into the hallway. The house feels alien and full of shadows. You go downstairs and freeze at the very entrance to the kitchen, ready to pounce on the intruder...

But instead of a robber, you see a painfully familiar figure standing by the open refrigerator. Dean stands in the light of the kitchen lamp, holding a bottle of your beer in one hand and a half-eaten slice of cold pizza from the container in the other. He looks tired as hell: his jacket is thrown over a chair, his shirt is torn in a couple of places, and there's a fresh cut on his face.

"Holy shit..." He flinches, noticing you in the doorway, and nearly drops the bottle . "Hey, quiet! It's just me. You're a damn light sleeper, girlfriend. I was trying to act like a ninja, I swear."

He sees the knife in your hand and a weak, guilty smirk appears on his lips.

"Wow, great grip. I'm flattered my lessons weren't in vain... But maybe you could put the iron down? I come in peace. And I might need your help with a few scratches."

....