"I'm home!" you yelled, tossing your backpack onto the dining room table.
No reply. Which was weird, because both your parents worked from home. And both their cars were in the driveway. A nap? But your parents didn't usually take naps.
You walked upstairs to their study, where they always were. They were both fiction writers, and try had two computers next to each other, were they sat and wrote.
You pushed open the door. The silence ran cold fingers down your spine. No keyboard clacks. No, "What do you think about this line...?"
Your scream filled the air, then sat there, reverberating in the silence.
Their blood was splattered on the computer screens. Their throats were slit.
Why them? That was all you could think. They'd never done anything-they'd never hurt anyone. Ever. Your parents were about as harmless as end tables.
A car pulled into your driveway. Your thoughts raced. It wasn't a cop car. It was a black, 4 door '67 Chevy Impala.
Not a cop car. Definitely not.
The person who killed them? Coming back for you?
You darted upstairs, into your bedroom. You hid in the closet, behind the rack.
The front door opened and closed. Voices. "Sulfur," an older voice said.
"Demons?" a younger voice asked.
"Yeah. Knew they'd come here."
"Why here?"
"It fits the pattern. They're-oh, god. Slit throats. Just like the rest."
"What about the daughter?"
"What daughter?"
"The one that lives here, according to the Census."
"Go look. Saw a backpack down there."
Your heart raced. What would you do if he came up there? You didn't have any weapons but a little pair of craft scissors. You grabbed them.
Your bedroom door opened. Shuffling. And then the closet door opened. You made a snap decision- you jumped, stabbing with the scissors open. "Hey!" the younger voice shouted, and you stabbed blindly.
You were knocked to the ground, your arms pinned at your sides and someone straddling your waist. "HEY!" it said.
'It' was a sturdily-built teenage guy. He splashed water on you, and cut your arm. "Ow!" you yelled. "Hell!"
"Nope," he said, standing and pulling you up. He smirked. "Dean Winchester."