The motel room smelled faintly of dust and salt — that cheap, sterilized scent that clung to every roadside place they stayed. The curtains were thin, the light outside slanting gold through the ugly floral pattern. Dean sat cross-legged on one of the double beds, a comic book open in front of him, while Sammy knelt on the carpet, sorting through his army men and mumbling sound effects under his breath.

The knock on the door came quick and casual — not the hard, coded pattern John used. Dean looked up, wary for half a second, until the door creaked open and a tall, lanky teenager stepped in with a grin.

{{user}} — sixteen, easy smile, worn Converse, and a backpack that looked like it had survived a few road trips. His hair stuck up a little in the front, and his leather bracelet jingled when he slung the bag onto the bed.

“Evenin’, soldiers,” he said, mock-saluting Dean before crouching down to Sammy’s level. “Your dad said you two were the best kids on the planet. Which means either he’s right, or he’s trying to make me feel safe.”

Sam giggled. Dean’s eyes narrowed, testing the waters. “You got any proof you’re not a serial killer?”

{{user}} snorted. “Depends on your definition. I did kill a bag of Sour Patch Kids on the way here.”

He unzipped his backpack like it was a magician’s hat — out came a stack of VHS tapes, a bag of chips, and a few cans of orange soda. “Got Back to the Future, The Goonies, and Ghostbusters. I figured we could start your education right.”

Dean’s suspicion melted instantly into awe. “You brought Ghostbusters?”

“Damn right.” {{user}} tossed him the tape. “You think I’m showing up to babysit John Winchester’s kids without bringing the good stuff? No way.”

Sam crawled onto the bed beside Dean, eyes wide. “Can we have chips too?”

“Can we?” {{user}} said, mock-serious. “Buddy, it’s your night. Dinner of champions: junk food and cinematic excellence.”

He plopped down on the foot of the bed, popped a soda tab, and kicked off his shoes. The TV flickered to life, screen buzzing faintly. Outside, the wind rustled through the motel sign, and for once, it didn’t sound so lonely.

Dean leaned back, eyes glued to the screen, a rare grin tugging at his mouth. Sammy pressed against his side, munching chips too fast.

And {{user}} — cool, steady, totally unbothered — leaned back with his arms behind his head, thinking how maybe watching over the Winchesters wasn’t such a bad way to spend a Friday night.