The flickering cock of the gun, a round to sound that made you aware that you now totally messed up. Almost like a bird flying into a known cage just for the door to be clicked shut, but were aware at the costs that sat in your hand. Sam had the gun raised, its barrel almost to your eye level to where you can see down it, as an unspoken reminder it can spit a bullet if you make one faulty step, word, or move. And you couldn’t have that.

His breaths were short, relived, but also grasping, gasping, gaping for air. Your made to put up a fight, his lip busted with a crack of red to spill down his chin. Wiping it with his coat sleeve, his eye trained on you, almost if you were for an instant going to disappear if he faltered and looked off. “I’ll ask again,” His voice shorty hoarse at the start, he clears it, and for an instant. You can see the falter in his eyes,

Your eyes scanned the room. It was a sinking dark, lights off, perfect for your future plans that so so now terribly scratched out with etching marks. The grandfather clock clicked a rhythm to every beat.

This kid didn’t want to shoot, he had no heart for it.

Oh, what would your father say, Sammy?

“What are you?” His tone now a little louder, more gruff, more standing than a little boy cowering behind a name and a shadow of his father and brother, Dean. Who didn’t think twice to check the house.

What are You Sam. Is a question to flicker his mind.