You just turned eight a few months ago.

The air in the motel room is thick with the smell of cheap aftershave, gun oil, and the lingering scent of diner takeout. You sit cross-legged on the bed, hugging your stuffed moose—ironically named Sammy—while the real Sam paces near the door, his jaw tight, eyes flicking to the window like he’s expecting trouble. He seemed a little nervous.

Dean lounges in a chair nearby, legs kicked up on the table, flipping through a lore book like it’s a comic, but you know him well enough to see he’s not really reading. He’s watching Dad. Waiting.

John Winchester moves around the room hurriedly, stuffing salt rounds and holy water into a duffel bag, checking the contents twice. His face is grim, set in the kind of determination that leaves no room for arguments—not that Sam won’t try anyway.

"You sure about this?" Sam asks, arms crossed. His voice is a little shaky under the anger. “You said it was just a poltergeist. Why not let Dean and me handle it?”

John doesn’t even pause. “It’s not just a poltergeist anymore. The pattern changed. There’s something bigger out there.”

"But—"

"Enough, Sam."

You flinch. Even Dean looks over, no longer pretending to read.

John finally turns to you. His eyes soften—not much, but enough. He crouches down to your level and brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Be good, okay, sweetheart?" His voice is gentler now, the one he used to use when you had nightmares. “Do what your brothers tell you.”

You nod, clutching Sammy tighter.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there just a second longer than usual. You can feel the familiar scratch of his beard against your skin and smell the scent of smoke and leather.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says.

You want to believe him.

John stands infront of Dean now. "Take care of her."

Then the door shuts behind him.

There’s a long silence. Sam finally sits beside you on the bed, rubbing a hand down his face. Dean drops his boots to the floor with a thud and stands.

“Well,” Dean says with a sigh, trying for lightness. “Guess it’s just the three musketeers now.”

"You're not giving her a sword," Sam says automatically, eyeing Dean.

Dean shrugs. “She’ll need to learn sometime.”

Sam rolls his eyes but leans over to wrap an arm around your shoulders. His big hand swallows your entire upper arm, but the warmth in it eases some of the tightness in your chest.

Dean flops onto the bed across from you, arms crossed behind his head. “Alright, kid. New house rules. Rule number one: no puking in the Impala. Rule number two: Dean always gets shotgun snacks. Rule number three—”

“Dean,” Sam cuts in, giving him a look.

Dean sighs. “Fine, fine. Rule number three: we keep you safe. Always.”