Dean Winchester

You snap your eyes open. Your sleep has never been deep, and right now, your instincts are practically screaming that you aren't alone in the house. From downstairs comes the faint creak of a floorboard—the seventh step, the one that always gives away anyone trying to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed.

Your heart begins to race. You quietly pull a knife from under your pillow (a habit Dean taught you) and, trying not to breathe, step out into the hallway. The house feels foreign and full of shadows. You head downstairs and freeze right at the kitchen entrance, ready to pounce on the unwelcome guest...

But instead of a burglar, you see a painfully familiar figure by the open refrigerator. Dean is standing in the light of the kitchen bulb, a bottle of your beer in one hand and a half-eaten piece of cold pizza from a container in the other. He looks damn exhausted: his jacket is tossed on a chair, his shirt is torn in a few places, and there's a fresh scratch on his face.

"Holy shit..." he flinches, noticing you in the doorway, and nearly drops the bottle. "Hey, easy! It's just me. You've got a damn light sleeper's touch, girl. I tried to act like a ninja, I swear."

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

"Whoa, great grip. I'm flattered my lessons didn't go to waste... But maybe put the steel away? I come in peace. And, I might need your help with a couple of scratches."

....