The cracked beige blinds rattled softly as the air conditioner coughed out its last few breaths of cool air. The television flickered in the dim room, colors bleeding into one another as an old episode of Looney Tunes played on a low volume. Dean Winchester, age 10, sat cross-legged at the edge of the motel bed, arms crossed, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed in a silent pout. His gaze was locked on the TV, but it was clear he wasn’t really watching.

Across the room, his younger brother Sam lay on his stomach, book open in front of him, legs kicking absently behind him as he read. A wrinkled library copy of Where the Wild Things Are, borrowed from the last town they’d passed through—Dean knew they’d never return it.

“Who’s the person Dad got to watch us?” Sam asked suddenly, looking up from his book. His voice was soft and curious, cutting through the static buzz of the TV.

Dean didn’t look at him. “I dunno,” he muttered. “Just said it was some friend’s kid. Teenager or something.”

Sam blinked. “A teenager?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, his tone clipped. “Said they’re ‘responsible.’” He added air quotes with his fingers, the sarcasm dripping. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We’ll be gone again in a few days anyway.”

The motel door’s deadbolt clicked. Both boys stiffened slightly.

A shadow passed the frosted glass. Footsteps approached.

Dean sat up straighter on the bed, subtly moving in front of Sam without even thinking about it. His little brother put his book down and looked at the door with wide, expectant eyes.

The knob turned. The door creaked open.

You stepped inside, adjusting your backpack on your shoulder. Seventeen years old, your sneakers slightly scuffed, and your denim jacket patched with little things you liked — a rock band here, a comic logo there. You had the cool, easy swagger of someone who grew up around hunters, but also someone who knew how to talk to people without scaring the hell out of them.

“Hey,” you greeted casually, glancing between the two boys. “You must be Dean and Sammy.”

Dean frowned slightly. “It’s Sam,” he corrected, not rudely — just firmly.

You smirked. “Noted.”

John had told you to keep them alive, fed, and out of trouble. You’d taken one look at Dean’s hard little face and figured this wasn’t going to be babysitting — not really. It was more like backup. Dean already looked like someone who carried more weight than a ten-year-old ever should.

Still, you stepped in fully, letting the door shut behind you.

“I brought snacks,” you said, tossing a plastic bag onto the nearby counter. “And I know how to make mac and cheese that doesn’t suck, in case you get hungry.”

Sam’s eyes lit up. Dean didn’t smile, but his posture relaxed by a fraction.

You took a seat by the little motel table, kicking your boots up on a second chair.

“Your dad owes my dad like three favors, so don’t worry, I’m not here to babysit. I’m just… hanging out for a few days.”

Dean eyed you carefully. You weren’t overbearing. You didn’t ruffle their hair or speak to them like they were toddlers. That earned you a cautious point in his book.

Sam was already up, looking through the snack bag, grinning as he pulled out a pack of gummy worms.

Dean finally spoke again. “Do you know about the things out there?”

You glanced at him — serious green eyes, too old for his face.

“Yeah,” you said simply. “I know what’s out there.”

Dean gave a slow nod.

Sam, chewing a gummy worm, piped up, “Cool. You wanna watch cartoons with us?”

You gave a crooked smile, pulled up a chair near the TV, and kicked back. “Yeah, sure. Scoot over.”