Fics like golden eyes, tiny hands

“Whatcha doin’, bud?” Dean asks, abandoning the conversation to look at the Nephil on his lap. “Fixing it,” Jack says, screwing up his tiny face in concentration. Dean looks at Sam, who has an eyebrow raised, then back at the kid. “Fixing what, buddy?” Dean asks, but then Jack’s eyes glow gold and the room gets dark. “Jack?” “I’m fixing it!” Jack says, palms still pressed to Dean’s cheeks, and a shape starts to take form beside the table, at first something formless and grey, but it goes white as it eases into a silhouette.

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