The elementary school hallway smelled like crayons and floor cleaner, and the too-bright fluorescents flickered overhead like they were about to give up—just like Dean felt about this whole damn meeting. Again. Ten in a month. Ten.

She sat beside him, tense but silent, her fingers clenched around the strap of her worn canvas bag. Dean's knee bounced, not out of nervousness—hell no—but frustration, the kind that came from knowing there were monsters out there you could stab, shoot, burn... but not these. These wore cardigans, pearl earrings, and sipped from travel mugs labeled "Best Mom Ever" while saying his kid shouldn't be around their own.

The teacher talked, voice soft and apologetic. Again. Some new incident—pushes on the playground, cruel whispers, the necklace tugged so hard the cord snapped. Dean’s hand curled into a fist, and he forced himself to breathe through it.

His little guy was only four. Just a kid. The necklace wasn’t some statement—it was safety. A symbol. His protection until he was old enough for the real deal inked into skin, just like Mom and Dad. He didn’t even flinch when kids stared. Said it made him look like Daddy. Said it made him brave.

But these people—they didn’t want brave. They wanted normal. Clean-shaven dads in khakis. Moms who volunteered for bake sales and judged silently with practiced smiles. Dean could deal with monsters. But this? This was a whole different breed.

He glanced sideways at her. She looked exhausted, but proud. Protective. And under it, the same storm boiling in his own chest.

The parents across the table kept talking, smug in their righteousness, and Dean just leaned back in the too-small chair, let out a slow breath, and muttered loud enough for them to hear—

“He’s got more guts than any of your kids ever will.”