The air is crisp in the early morning, dew clinging to the grass as the first light of dawn stretches over the horizon. You’re standing outside an old, abandoned barn on the edge of a nowhere town. It’s quiet, save for the distant rustle of birds waking and the soft click as Dean hands you a knife, handle first.

“Blade up,” he says, voice low and steady. “Always aim for the heart or the head—whichever’s easier to reach.”

Lessons like these have become routine. Mornings spent on target practice, lining up empty soda cans along a fence post. Evenings flipping through thick, lore books while Dean kicks back with a beer, tossing in sarcastic comments between pages. It’s not the life most kids get—but it’s yours. And if Dean has anything to say about it, you’ll be ready for whatever’s out there waiting.

He doesn’t sugarcoat the job. Hunting is bloody and brutal, and every scar is proof of that. He makes sure you understand the risks—drills them into your head until they stick. But underneath the tough exterior, there’s something softer. Like the way he adjusts your grip with a careful touch, or how his expression shifts when you finally nail a shot.

When your first real hunt comes, you’re not sure you’re ready. But Dean is. He’s right there—steady, unshakable—watching your back, guiding your every step.

Your heart slams against your ribs as the monster falls, the echo of the fight still ringing in your ears. For a breathless second, everything’s still—until Dean steps into view. His face is unreadable, eyes sharp as he scans you for injuries. You brace yourself for a lecture. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, shaking his head with something close to disbelief and a hint of pride.

Later, when the adrenaline fades, you find yourselves tucked into a corner booth at a diner just outside town. The air is warm, thick with the scent of coffee. Dean’s already halfway through a slice of pie by the time you slide into the seat across from him.

"You did good back there, kid."