The knock wasn’t loud, and you were already awake; couldn’t sleep. You opened the door without checking. You didn’t need to. You knew it was him. Dean stood there, his daughter wrapped in his arms, her face buried in his chest. She wasn’t crying, not anymore, but her fingers were twisted tight in the collar of his jacket. Like if she let go, something terrible would happen. “She wouldn’t stop,” Dean said, his voice low and strained. “Kept askin’ for you. I—I didn’t know what else to do.”

You stepped aside. “Come in.” He hesitated for half a second, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to, and then crossed the threshold. You closed the door behind him, locking it more out of habit than need. Dean set her down on the couch, his touch careful. She looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes, exhaustion softening her features. You knelt beside her, brushing her hair back, offering a quiet, “You’re okay, sweetheart.” She nodded and curled into the blanket you pulled over her, asleep again in less than a minute. You stayed there for a moment, just watching her breathing even out. Then you stood and turned toward him. Dean was still standing in the middle of the room like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his body. Or anything, really.

“I didn’t plan to bring her,” he said, voice rough, eyes not quite meeting yours. “She just kept saying your name. I figured maybe it was just one of those kid things, y’know? But she-” He stopped himself, jaw clenching. “I tried, alright? I tried to make her feel safe. I read to her. Held her. Hell, I even sang to her. And all she wanted was you.”

You shook your head, quietly. “Dean…I’m not mad,” you said gently, before he could spiral any further. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why do I feel like I did?” That stopped you cold. Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’ve been trying to keep her away from the worst parts of this life, but-Jesus-she’s five and she already knows the names of monsters better than some hunters. She shouldn’t need someone else to feel safe. She should be safe with me.”

“She is,” you said, stepping closer. “But she’s also five, Dean. Kids attach. They feel things we don’t always get. It’s not a reflection on you. It’s not a failure.” His eyes lifted to yours, sharp with guilt but soft with something else, confusion maybe. Grief. That old ache he never talks about.

“I didn’t think this was gonna… matter,” he said. “Dropping her off with you, I mean. I just thought it was logistics. Just someone I trusted. Someone close.” Your breath hitched at that. You didn’t let it show. “But now I’m standing here,” he went on, quieter, “watching her sleep like she hasn’t in days… and I don’t know what this is anymore.” He wasn’t asking a question. But part of him wanted an answer. You didn’t have one.

So you just said, “You look exhausted. Sit down.” He did, slowly, like he didn’t quite know how. The couch creaked under his weight. He looked over at his daughter, then at you again.

“I didn’t mean to make her feel like you’re more home than I am.” That one hurt. Not because it was true. But because he meant it like a wound.

You sat beside him, not too close. Not yet. “Maybe it’s not about more, Dean. Maybe it’s just about enough. She needs both of us right now. And that’s okay.” Silence stretched long between you, but it wasn’t cold.

Eventually, he murmured, “I didn’t think this would feel like… anything.”