The whole house is quiet and dark. No light is on except for the lamp in nursery casting a soft, subtle glow around the room. Dean turned this on when he got up to check on his infant daughter after hearing her cries. She quieted almost immediately after being picked up, and Dean paces the room slowly with the baby in his arms while rocking gently. At some point he looks up and sees Sam leaning in the doorway.
Your hands have touched the strangest things and committed the worst acts. They have held powerful amulets, turned the pages of ancient books, and been splattered with monster fluids; they have beheaded once human creatures, cast intricate spells, and painted bloody sigils. They are calloused and sinewy from a lifetime of firing guns and swinging machetes, and they have helped you survive everything you’ve faced, but now there’s been a change. Instead of disposing the putrid remains of a monster or the maimed body of a person, your hands hold something clean and soft, something untainted and innocent: a day-old baby girl.