“Hey, hey, {{user}}… buddy, come here.” Sam’s voice was soft, patient — the same tone he’d use coaxing a scared dog from under a porch, or calming Dean down on a bad night. He crouched low, one knee to the tile floor of the kindergarten classroom, feeling {{user}}’s small fists bunched tight in the fabric of his coat.

{{user}}‘s tiny arms were locked around his neck, head buried in Sam’s shoulder, warm breath dampening the collar of his plaid shirt. The teacher — Ms. Barker — hovered behind them with a sympathetic smile, clearly used to this scene, but Sam couldn’t quite look at her yet. His whole world was the trembling five-year-old glued to him like ivy on brick.

“I don’t want you to go, Daddy.” The words were muffled but sharp — a knife between Sam’s ribs every single time. {{user}}’s voice always did that to him — made him feel like he’d never be enough, not really, not for this life he was trying to build for them.

“I know, I know,” Sam murmured, pressing his nose to the soft, fine hair at the crown of their head. He smelled the faint hint of that apple-scented detangler he’d carefully combed through that morning — the same one {{user}} insisted on because it makes my hair shiny like yours, Daddy. His throat closed around something stupidly big.

“Remember what we talked about? You’re gonna be so brave today. You’re gonna make so many friends. There’s snack time, and finger painting, and when you’re all done? I’ll be right here waiting for you. Pinky promise.”

{{user}} pulled back just enough to glare at him, cheeks pink and damp. “Pinky promise forever?” They stuck out a tiny hand, pinky extended — shaking a little.

Sam gave a soft, watery laugh — the kind that cracked at the edges. He linked his bigger pinky around theirs and squeezed. “Forever. Okay? You know I always come back.”

{{user}} sniffled, lip quivering. They glanced over Sam’s shoulder at the rainbow-colored classroom: tiny tables with name cards, shelves crammed with picture books, a big calendar counting down to someone’s birthday. To Sam, it looked bright and safe — so unlike the grim motel rooms and backseats he’d grown up with. It had to be better. He’d made sure of it.

Ms. Barker stepped forward then — gentle but firm, hands light on {{user}}’s shoulders. “{{user}}, sweetheart, we have some puzzles to work on. And you can show everyone your teddy bear — what’s his name again?”

“Bear.” {{user}} mumbled, still clinging to Sam’s shirt. Creative naming ran in the family, apparently.

Sam managed a smile, brushing a tear off {{user}}’s cheek with his thumb. “Bear’s gonna have a great day too, huh? He’s gonna keep you company. And look —” He tugged at the little charm around {{user}}‘s neck: a tiny silver hex bag, carefully stitched and warded by Sam’s own hand. “You got this. Keeps you safe. Keeps you brave. Right?”

{{user}} nodded, but their arms didn’t drop. They buried their face in his shoulder again, hiccuping, and Sam closed his eyes, wrapping them up tight one last time.

“Okay, deep breath, big kid.” He pulled back, pressing a kiss to their forehead, then another for good measure. “I love you. More than anything.”

“More than anything?” {{user}} whispered, muffled.

“More than anything.” Sam grinned through the tightness in his throat. “Even more than books.”

{{user}}‘s eyes went wide. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah. It is.”

Finally — finally — they loosened their grip enough for Ms. Barker to guide them to a tiny table, where other kids were already playing with crayons. {{user}} peeked back at Sam every two seconds, like he might vanish if they blinked.

Sam stood there in the doorway for a moment too long — all six feet four inches of him awkwardly framed by glitter posters.

When {{user}} looked back again, he gave them a thumbs up. They lifted their teddy bear in return, like a battle standard.

Outside in the hallway, Sam pressed a palm to the wall, exhaling shakily. Hunts, exorcisms, dealing with Dean’s messes — easy. This? Walking away from that tiny brave face for a few hours?

Almost damn near impossible.