Dean leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, brow furrowed. The motel room was littered with coloring books, broken crayons, and your small backpack. You were curled up on the bed — arms crossed just like him. A full, untouched slice of cherry pie sat on the table.

“You seriously not gonna eat that?” he asked, nodding at the pie.

You shook your head. and told him that it's mushy.

Dean sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack, kid.” Then after a beat, softer, “I know I ain’t mom. But I’m tryin’. Just… don’t hate pie and Zeppelin, alright? Meet me halfway.”