The house was cold, the air thick with dust and something worse—something rotten. The EMF had spiked off the charts, and now, in the dim glow of his flashlight, Dean saw why.

The crib stood untouched in the far corner of the nursery, pastel wallpaper peeling at the edges, the rocking chair swaying just slightly as if someone had been sitting there moments before. But there was no one. No parents. No movement. Just the baby.

She was already by the crib, fingers trembling as she reached for the tiny bundle wrapped in faded blue cloth. The kid couldn’t be more than a few months old, his face scrunched in that restless way newborns had. He whined softly, fists curling against the air. Too small. Too helpless. Too human for a place like this.

Dean’s gut twisted. He’d seen a lot in his life—too much—but this? A baby left behind in a house that smelled of death? That was a different kind of nightmare.

She turned to him, eyes wide, waiting for something, anything. Orders, maybe. A plan. He didn’t have one.

The baby hiccupped, then let out a sharp, broken wail.

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. "Guess we’re not leaving you behind, huh, kid?"

She held him out. He hesitated, then, with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, took the tiny weight into his arms.

Warmth. That was the first thing he noticed. The kid was warm against his chest, small fingers grasping weakly at his jacket. Dean had held weapons, whiskey bottles, the keys to his car like lifelines. But this? This felt like something that could break him.

The baby settled, burrowing into him with a soft, contented sigh.

Dean swallowed.

"Yeah, alright," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "I gotcha."