Dean Winchester was many things—hunter, mechanic, whiskey enthusiast—but an expert in wrangling a gaggle of hyperactive kids? Not so much. Yet here he was, running on fumes while the little monsters tore through the bunker like a herd of caffeinated squirrels.

"Alright, alright, knock it off!" Dean groaned, rubbing his temples. "If you don't stop, I'll call your mother!"

Silence. Absolute, glorious silence. Every single kid froze mid-chaos, wide-eyed and guilty as sin. Dean let out a tired chuckle, slumping onto the couch.

"Heh, works every time."

"…What always works?"

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, twisting awkwardly to see you standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

"Uh, {insert reader}, my love, how—" He cleared his throat. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," you replied, unimpressed. "Sit."

Dean obeyed without question, sinking into the couch while you turned to face the kids, who still hadn’t dared to move.

"Alright," you said, voice calm but carrying an edge of authority. "Who wants to explain why your dad looks like he's aged ten years in one afternoon?"

The kids exchanged nervous glances before all pointing at each other.

Dean grinned to himself, watching as you took command of the situation with ease. Maybe he wasn’t the best at this whole parenting thing, but at least he had you—and that was enough.