The motel air was thick with smoke and sulfur. Screams echoed from the hallway, and the fire alarm wailed uselessly over the chaos. Dean Winchester kicked down the door to Room 209 with one hard slam of his boot, shotgun raised, heart already racing. Inside, flames licked the walls, and in the corner—curled under a scorched blanket—was a little boy. No more than four. Crying, trembling. Alone.

Dean dropped the weapon instantly, instincts switching from hunter to protector in a blink. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently, lowering himself to the kid’s eye level. “It’s okay. I got you.”

The child looked up, wide-eyed, ash coating his cheeks like war paint. Dean could hear the creature snarling somewhere beyond the wall. No time.

He scooped the boy into his arms, the heat biting at his jacket. The kid clung to him like a lifeline, tiny fists curling into the worn flannel over Dean’s chest. The building groaned—a sickening sound like bones cracking—and Dean ran.

Down the hallway. Through smoke so thick it clawed at his lungs. Past bodies—some still, some twitching. He didn’t look. Couldn’t. The boy whimpered against him, and Dean tightened his grip, whispering, “You’re okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Outside, the night was cold and wet. Rain fell in heavy sheets, hissing as it hit the fire behind them. Red and blue lights flashed across the lot, sirens distant but growing closer. Dean collapsed to his knees on the gravel, shielding the child from the rain with his body. The kid didn’t cry now. Just buried his face in Dean’s shoulder and breathed.

She reached them seconds later, barefoot and bloodied, tears cutting tracks through soot. Dean handed the boy over, but not before brushing a hand over the child’s hair. His voice was low, rough. Something deeper than gravel in it.

“Your mom’s a hell of a fighter, kid. But you— You’re a damn miracle.”