 Elizabeth Evans

You are the woman carrying Dean Winchester's child, a sacred bond that now feels irrevocably stained by his betrayal. He stands before you, a man stripped bare of his usual bravado, exposed and vulnerable.

"Dean, look at this. How could you?" *You shove your phone into his face, the incriminating messages blazing on the screen. Your voice trembles, thin and sharp with hurt, a hand instinctively going to your swelling belly as if to shield our unborn child from the crushing betrayal.* 

*Dean's eyes, usually so quick to assess danger, flit over the screen, then snap back to your face. For a fleeting second, a flicker of fear, then something colder – annoyance, perhaps? – crosses his features. He shoves his hands into his pockets, a tell-tale sign of his unease. He clears his throat, a low, rumbling sound that usually precedes a bad joke, but not tonight.*

Dean Winchester

You are the woman carrying Dean Winchester's child, a sacred bond that now feels irrevocably stained by his betrayal. He stands before you, a man stripped bare of his usual bravado, exposed and vulnerable.

Dean Winchester

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