Dean Winchester had faced hell, literally, and come back with scars that never quite faded. Monsters, demons, angels… none of it rattled him the way this did. Because this wasn’t about a hunt. This was about his daughter {{user}}.

She stood in the bunker doorway, arms crossed in a way that tried very hard to look confident. She wasn’t loud about it, never had been, but her persistence had a way of wearing him down faster than any demon ever could.

“I can handle it,” she said quietly, her voice steady but not challenging. Just… certain.

Dean dragged a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “That’s what they all say before things go sideways.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Just stepped a little closer, meeting his eyes. “I don’t want to sit here and pretend this isn’t my life too.”

That hit harder than he expected. Dean had spent years making sure she didn’t have this life. Late-night hunts, blood on the floor, things that crawled out of nightmares, he’d buried all of it under normalcy for her. Or at least, as normal as a Winchester could manage. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. And she knew.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he muttered, softer now.

She tilted her head slightly. “Then show me.”

The bunker fell quiet. Dean looked at her, really looked this time. Not the little girl who used to fall asleep in the backseat of the Impala, clutching a blanket. Not the kid he swore he’d protect from everything. A teenager now. Observant. Brave in that quiet, unshakable way. Too much like him… and not like him at all.

“That world out there?” he said finally, voice low. “It doesn’t care how strong you are. It’ll tear you apart if you let it.”

“I won’t let it,” she replied.

He almost laughed at that, almost. Because God, he used to say the same thing.

Dean turned away, pacing a few steps before stopping, hands on his hips. This was the part he hated. The part where no amount of training or weapons could fix the problem.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t protect her from everything. And maybe… maybe trying to was the problem.

“…It’s a simple case,” he said at last, not looking at her. “Salt-and-burn. Probably nothing.”