The place stank of sulfur and mildew. Candle wax had melted into hardened rivers across the cracked floor, forming waxy tombstones between pews. Old hymnal pages were torn and scattered, curling like leaves. The stained glass was shattered from the inside out.

Dean Winchester stood near the altar, shoulders squared, jaw tight. He held a flask of holy water in one hand and an iron knife in the other. His face was smeared with ash, sweat clinging to his hairline. He looked like he’d been through hell.

Because, in a way, he had.

The demon child in question—{{user}}—sat cross-legged on the altar like it was story time. They were maybe ten years old in appearance, but something was deeply wrong behind their too-still expression. Their eyes weren’t black. Not yet. But they flickered like a faulty lightbulb, back and forth between eerie calm and sudden chaos.

The worst part?

They smiled.

—“Alright.”— Dean grunted, voice like gravel on gravel. —“You wanna tell me why I just spent four hours chasing your pint-sized ass across three counties?”—

{{user}} tilted their head slowly, like a bored cat sizing up a mouse.

Dean rolled his eyes. —“Of course. Silent treatment. Real original.”—

He took a few steps forward, boots crunching over glass and salt. He was tired—bone tired—but his grip didn’t falter.

—“You know, I’ve dealt with demons that wear suits, smoke cigars, play politics.”— he said, raising his knife slightly. —“And then there’s you. The kid who drew a sigil in blood just to ruin a priest’s funeral. You think that’s edgy? You think that’s funny?”—

{{user}} blinked slowly. Then, without a word, they stuck out their tongue and gave him the finger.

Dean stopped mid-step, brow twitching.

—“…You little piece of shit.”—

They laughed. Not the fake kind—the belly-deep, mischievous, full-of-malice kind. It echoed through the rafters like a taunt.

Dean sighed, shaking his head. —“Great. Just what I needed. Damien meets Dennis the Menace.”—

He unscrewed the cap of the flask, slowly.

—“You burned down a pet shelter.”— he said, low and steady. —“Summoned a nest of crows inside a school cafeteria. Possessed a mailman just to fill a town’s mailboxes with dead rats. You’ve officially made the list, kid.”—

{{user}} grinned wider, showing slightly sharpened teeth.

—“Hell might be short on demons if they’re sendin’ you topside.”— Dean muttered. —“What, you drew the short straw? Or is this just your idea of a vacation?”—

A pew suddenly cracked and splintered to Dean’s left—no warning. It exploded in a burst of flames that died out almost as quickly as they came. {{user}} hadn’t moved. Not physically, at least.

Dean didn’t flinch.

—“Cute trick.”— he said. —“Wanna try that again when I’m not already pissed off?”—

They opened their mouth like they might speak—then snapped it shut and spit holy water back at him. It sizzled when it hit the blade of the knife.

Dean stared at them.

—“Oh, you’re just begging for an exorcism, aren’t you?”—

{{user}}’s expression didn’t change, but the shadows around them did. They started to bend, to slither. The walls groaned with an unnatural creak, as if something old and hungry was listening.

Dean stepped closer, his voice firm now.

—“I don’t care what’s inside you. I don’t care how ancient or clever or powerful you think you are.”— he said, voice slow, deliberate. —“You can throw a tantrum all you want. You can melt every damn window in this place. But I’m not gonna flinch.”—

He lowered the knife just enough to meet {{user}}’s gaze directly.

—“You know why?”—

Silence.

—“Because I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been worse.”—

He dropped the flask to the floor—clank.

—“So go ahead, demon. Hit me with your best shot. Because once I’m done with you? You’re gonna be nothing but smoke and bad memories.”—

For the first time, {{user}} stopped smiling.