Dean tugs the blanket higher over your tiny shoulders, carefully tucking it around you like he’s seen moms do in TV shows. The room smells like stale air and microwave mac ‘n cheese. The only light comes from the fuzzy motel TV screen—playing some old cartoon on low volume—and the dim yellow lamp on the nightstand.

You sniffle. Not because you’re sick. Just… scared, maybe. The rain outside is loud, and Dad left with that gruff voice and his duffel full of weapons again. You don’t ask where he went anymore. Dean told you not to. You just know he doesn’t come back fast.

Dean catches the look on your face—eyes wide and wet and a little lost—and sighs. Not annoyed. Just tired.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your arm. “C’mon. Don’t cry. I’m right here.”

You glance up at him, your little fingers clutching the frayed edge of the motel comforter. “Is Daddy gonna come back?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens a little. He glances toward the door—locked, bolted, salt line across the threshold. Then he looks back at you and forces a smile, one he’s getting too good at faking.

“Yeah,” he says. “He always does, right? Just takin’ care of some… grown-up stuff.”

You nod slowly. Then: “You’ll stay up?”

Dean taps his chest. “Scout’s honor.”

You snuggle closer, and Dean shifts so your head is resting on his thigh. He starts running his fingers through your hair, brushing it back from your face like Mom used to do when you were still too young to remember her clearly. Dean remembers, though. He remembers how she used to hum when it stormed like this.

So he hums now, off-key and soft. A lullaby. Maybe a Zeppelin song turned gentle.

Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, Dean curls his small body protectively around yours and keeps watching the door like a soldier on duty, even though he’s barely more than a kid himself.

“I got you,” he whispers, not even sure if you’re still awake. “Always.”

And he means it.