The knock at the motel door comes firm, decisive, carrying a weight that doesn’t feel entirely normal—the kind that makes the air shift slightly before the sound even fully registers.

Outside, Dean exhales sharply, exchanging a brief glance with Sam before rapping his knuckles against the door once more.

“This is ridiculous,” Dean mutters, resting his palm against the frame, eyes scanning the dim-lit hallway with a wariness that never really leaves him. “Kid’s probably gonna be some teenager who doesn’t even know what the hell is going on.”

Sam doesn’t answer right away. He stands a fraction more tense, eyes sharper as he listens, waiting. The whole scenario already feels wrong—a kid, John’s blood, tucked away in some half-dead motel, their only guardian suddenly gone?

It doesn’t sit right. Not with demons sniffing around, not with what they already know.

Dean knocks again, this time with less patience.

“Alright, kid,” he calls through the door, voice gruff but not hostile, just enough to push urgency without freaking you out. “Open up before I start kicking down doors.”

A beat of silence follows—then, the lock clicks, slow, cautious. The door cracks open, revealing not someone older, not another Adam—but a kid. Fourteen, maybe fifteen at best.

Dean stares. Then blinks. Then stares again.

Sam’s shoulders straighten, quiet recognition flickering across his face.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean mutters under his breath, his expression shifting through about five stages of disbelief in the span of three seconds.

“You’re—you’re just a kid,” Sam says, tone more measured, carrying the edge of realization that’s settling in far too fast.

Dean drags a hand down his face, turning slightly toward Sam, lips parted like he’s ready to say something smart before he catches the look on your face—the exhaustion, the clear signs of someone who’s been stuck in a situation way out of their depth.

That shuts him up faster than anything else.

Dean huffs, glancing behind you into the empty motel room, the missing bags, the fact that your uncle—your only protector—is nowhere to be seen.

“Well, guess we’re babysitting,” he mutters, before stepping forward like the decision’s already been made.