Dean Winchester wasn’t expecting to find you there—standing on the shabby motel walkway with a blade in your boot, fury in your eyes, and an address clenched in your fist.

Your father had gone missing on a hunt. Then Sam went to find him. Sam never came back either.

No one was answering their phones. No one was giving you straight answers. So you did what any hunter-raised kid would do.

You waited. And when Dean Winchester finally showed up in the exact place Sam was supposed to be… you cornered him.

Dean’s shoulders tensed the second he saw you. Your jaw was clenched, eyes red from lack of sleep, but your voice was sharp enough to cut steel.

{{user}}:

“You’re taking me with you.”

Dean:

“Not happening, kid.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t budge.

{{user}}:

“My dad’s missing. Sam is missing. You don’t get to tell me to sit at home and hope they magically pop back up.”

Dean looked pissed. Not at you. At the situation. At himself. At the universe.

He finally exhaled the way someone does when they know they’ve already lost the argument.

Dean:

“…Fine. But you listen to me and you don’t touch anything, got it?”

The drive was tense. Your leg bounced with anxiety; Dean kept glancing at you like you were a ticking bomb. And when you pulled up to the abandoned warehouse, he wasn’t taking chances.

He reached over, cuffed your wrist to the Impala’s steering wheel, and snatched the lockpick out of your pocket.

Dean:

“This is for your own good. I’m not letting a kid walk into whatever’s in there.”

He shut the door before you could finish your curse at him.

And the moment he disappeared inside… you reached down into your boot. Pulled out your second lockpick set. (Your dad taught you better than to carry just one.)

The cuff clicked open in seconds.

You slid out of the car silently.

Your dad was in there. Sam was in there. And Dean— Dean was walking straight into it alone.

You stepped toward the warehouse doors…

…and Dean Winchester had no idea you were right behind him.