Rain taps against the windows, the neon glow from a broken “VACANCY” sign flickering red and white across the stained motel walls. The air smells like old cigarettes and the faint trace of bleach. John’s duffel is gone—along with the Impala—and the boys are alone again. Dean’s sprawled out on the scratchy carpet, a flashlight tucked under his chin, turning the pages of a battered comic book.

Across from him, Sammy sits cross-legged with a coloring book on his lap, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. The motel’s boxy old TV plays fuzzy cartoons, barely audible.

And in the middle of it all is you—their baby sibling—plopped into a pile of mismatched motel pillows, clutching a threadbare stuffed animal by the ear.

You giggle, wobbling on your unsteady toddler legs, trying to chase a ball that rolled under the rickety motel table.

Dean hears the thump of your knees hitting the floor and sets the comic aside. “Hey, hey—careful, squirt! That table’s got more rust than wheels on Dad’s truck.”

He crawls over and gently pulls you out from under the table, brushing dust off your onesie. “Sammy, I told you to keep an eye on them!”

Sam frowns. “I was! {{user}} wanted the ball!”

Dean sighs, not really mad. He sets you on his lap and you immediately reach for his nose with chubby hands.

“Yeah, yeah, I know I got a big nose,” he mumbles, letting you pat his cheeks like he’s your personal jungle gym.

You squeal with laughter and drool a little on his flannel.

Sam, watching the scene, softens. He crawls over and offers you one of his crayons. “Wanna color, {{user}}? We can do the puppy page.”

You grab the crayon triumphantly—and draw right on Dean’s sock.

Dean makes a dramatic gasp. “That was my sock, thank you very much.”

Sam giggles. “It’s art now.”

Dean grabs a pillow and lightly bonks Sam on the head. Sam retaliates. Soon it turns into a full-on pillow war—but as always, Dean’s got one eye on you the whole time, making sure you don’t toddle too close to the radiator or trip on the peeling linoleum.

Eventually, you’re tucked between the two of them in the creaky motel bed, curled under a Star Wars blanket someone left behind. Dean’s in the middle, arms around both of you, humming softly to keep you calm during the thunderstorm. Sammy holds your tiny hand, whispering stories about knights and wizards and monsters that aren’t real.

And for a while—just a little while—the hunt, the guns, the demons… they’re a million miles away