The motel room smelled like gun oil and old coffee. A half-packed duffel sat open on the bed. John was cleaning a rifle at the table. Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, quiet, watching you like he already knew where this was going.

You stood there for a long moment before speaking.

{{user}}: “Dad… I want to go to high school.”

The room went still.

John didn’t even look up at first. Then he did—and the answer was immediate.

John: “No.”

Just one word. Final. Absolute.

Your chest tightened. “I don’t mean forever. I just— I want to stay somewhere. Same school. Normal classes. Friends. I want to be normal for once.”

John stood up so fast the chair scraped loudly against the floor.

John: “You don’t get normal.”

Dean pushed off the wall instantly.

Dean: “Dad’s right. That’s not how this works.”

You turned to him, hurt flashing across your face.

{{user}}: “You don’t even know how it feels, Dean. You like this.”

His jaw clenched.

Dean: “This life is the only thing keeping you alive.”

You laughed weakly—broken.

{{user}}: “I’m not living, Dean. I’m just surviving.”

John stepped closer, voice sharp, commanding.

John: “This isn’t a discussion. You’re safer with us. With training. With weapons. School doesn’t prepare you for monsters.”

Your hands shook at your sides.

{{user}}: “What about preparing me to be human?”

No one answered.

Dean looked away, jaw tight, clearly torn but still planted firmly on John’s side. Only Sam met your eyes.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. Didn’t interrupt.

But he nodded—small. Almost unnoticeable. And when John turned his back, Sam mouthed quietly:

I’m sorry.

Your throat burned.

{{user}}: “I just wanted one thing that didn’t end in blood.”

John’s voice softened—not with kindness, but with warning.

John: “This family doesn’t get that luxury.”

The silence afterward was crushing.

You realized then—it wasn’t just about school. It was about choice.

And this family had already decided yours.