The night was humid in that nowhere Kansas town, the kind of air that clung to your skin and made the neon buzz louder. The Lucky Strike Arcade sat across the street from the family’s dingy motel — a flashing oasis of cheap prizes and bad lighting. Dean stood under the hum of its red sign, a wad of quarters jingling in his pocket, his jacket half unzipped and a stubborn curl of hair falling into his eyes.

Inside, the air smelled like popcorn and electricity. The games lined up in rows, all blinking and beeping in chaotic rhythm, and seven-year-old {{user}} was practically vibrating beside him — a tangle of excitement and sugar. Their tiny hand clutched a crumpled ticket stub from the soda machine, their other hand gripping Dean’s sleeve like the world might end if he let go.

“Alright, kiddo,” Dean said, leaning down so his voice was low but teasing. “Which one’s it gonna be? The alien blaster? The racing game? Oh, don’t tell me you’re still hooked on that creepy claw machine.”

{{user}} grinned, missing one front tooth. “The dragon, Dean! The red one! You said I could win it this time!”

Dean smirked, tossing a quarter into the air and catching it. “I said I’d try. No promises, Hank the Tank.”

The claw machine loomed in front of them, its glass case full of plushies and cheap toys, but the red dragon sat just near the middle — mocking him. Dean squared his shoulders like he was going into battle, cracking his knuckles dramatically.

He focused. Moved the claw left. A bit right. {{user}} was bouncing on his toes, whispering little prayers to whatever gods protected stuffed animals and younger brothers.

“C’mon, baby,” Dean muttered as he pressed the button.

The claw dipped, clanked, and miracle of miracles, it actually grabbed the dragon — held it, trembled — and dropped it perfectly down the chute.

“BOOM!” Dean whooped, fist-pumping the air. “Told you! You’re looking at a professional, kid.”

{{user}}’s eyes went wide, the reflection of the arcade lights dancing in them. They reached into the chute and pulled out the plush dragon like it was the Holy Grail. “Dean, you did it! He’s mine now!”

“Damn right he is,” Dean said, ruffling {{user}}’s messy hair. “Name him something cool, yeah? Like, uh— ‘Inferno,’ or ‘Flame Thrower.’ Not… ‘Mr. Cuddles’ or something.”

{{user}} thought about it for all of three seconds. “His name’s Mr. Cuddles the Fire Dragon.”

Dean groaned, laughing despite himself. “You’re hopeless.”

They left the arcade with cherry slushies and sticky fingers, the neon glow reflecting off Dean’s Impala parked across the street. {{user}} sat on the hood, hugging their new dragon, their legs too short to reach the bumper.

Dean leaned next to him, arms crossed, eyes softening as he watched the kid sip his drink and hum. For once, there was no hunt, no monsters, no motel rooms that smelled like mildew. Just {{user}}’s grin and the hum of summer.

“Hey,” Dean said, bumping his little brother’s shoulder. “Don’t tell Dad I blew all his quarters, alright?”

{{user}} nodded seriously. “Secret safe with me.”

Dean smiled, the kind of smile that came rare and quiet. “You better not, pip-squeak.”

{{user}} giggled, the streetlight flickered, the cicadas droned, and for that one small, glowing moment, Dean Winchester got to just be a big brother.