The door creaked open, and {{user}} kicked off her boots with a tired sigh. The weight of her schoolbooks pulled on one shoulder, but the sound of muffled laughter tugged her forward.

In the motel room’s dim light, Dean—ten years old and already too serious for his age—was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, a deck of playing cards spread out between him and Sammy. Sam’s six-year-old grin was all gaps and baby teeth, his little hands clumsy as he tried to stack the cards into a leaning tower.

“Hey, monsters,” {{user}} said softly, leaning her hip against the table. Her voice wasn’t sharp like John’s; it had that teasing lilt that made Dean’s shoulders unclench a little.

Dean glanced up. “You’re late.” He tried to sound scolding, but it came out more like relief.

“Had to grab dinner.” {{user}} tossed a greasy paper bag onto the table. “Don’t tell your dad, but I splurged. Burgers. Fries. And—” she fished out a milkshake cup, setting it in front of Sam like it was treasure—“strawberry for the little guy.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “For me?”

“Don’t get used to it, squirt,” {{user}} said, ruffling his mop of brown hair before collapsing onto the bed. “I’m not running a five-star restaurant here.”

Dean was already divvying up the food with a precision far beyond his years, like it was his sworn duty. {{user}} watched him for a moment, her chest tightening. Ten years old, and he acted more like the parent than either of the adults who were supposed to be here.

“Thanks, Auntie,” he muttered, sliding her fries across the bedspread toward her.

She bit her lip. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Sixteen and barely holding herself together with late homework, part-time shifts, and the ache of missing parents who weren’t coming back. And John—her big brother—always gone on some “job” that he never explained, leaving two kids in a crappy motel for her to keep alive.

{{user}} swallowed, forcing a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. You two still gotta brush your teeth tonight. No milkshake sugar bugs eating up Sammy’s teeth on my watch.”

Sam groaned, already shoving fries into his mouth. “But—”

“No buts,” {{user}} said, smirking. “I’m meaner than your dad when it comes to bedtime rules.”

Dean smirked back, shaking his head like he didn’t believe her. But when {{user}} caught his eyes, she saw it—the gratitude, quiet and heavy.

She tousled his hair. “Eat up, champ. You’ve got guard duty over your brother tomorrow while I hit class.”

Dean straightened a little, like the words meant something real. Sam slurped his milkshake happily. And {{user}}, stretched out on the motel bed with her fries, let herself breathe. For a night, at least, they were just a messed-up little family holding each other together.