You’ve been through it all with them — every hunt, every night spent in the back of the Impala, every whispered argument about money or motel rooms. You’ve been the constant, the one who patched them up when Dad was too busy chasing the thing that killed Mom. But some memories don’t fade. They wait.

It happens on a quiet night.

Dean’s gone to get burgers, Sam’s reading in the corner of the dingy motel room. You’re standing at the sink, rinsing blood off your hands — not yours, this time — when the smell hits you. Not the copper tang of tonight’s hunt. No, this is older. Smokier. Like the day that started it all.

Suddenly, you’re not in the motel.

You’re nine again. The house is on fire. You remember the roar of it, the way it sounded alive. Dad’s voice is screaming your name and you’re choking on smoke, clutching baby Sam so tight your knuckles ache. Dean’s crying somewhere behind you, too small to understand, but his hand is locked around yours like it’s the only thing keeping him here. You’re not sure if you’re dragging him or he’s dragging you, but the front yard never comes fast enough.

You remember turning back. You shouldn’t have — Dad always said so later — but you saw her. Mom. At least, you thought it was her. Just a flash of white in the window, and for one awful second, you believed she was still alive.

When you blink back into the present, your breathing is ragged. Sam’s on his feet, his book abandoned on the bed.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice is careful, like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he speaks too loud.

You try to answer, but your throat is tight, your chest aching. The air feels thick. Sam steps closer, but not too close — he knows better than to corner you.

“It’s just a memory,” you manage, but it’s a lie. It’s not just anything. It’s the smell, the heat, the way the world narrows to panic and fire and a choice you’ll never stop second-guessing.

Dean walks in right then, burgers in hand, and stops dead when he sees your face. One look at Sam, and he knows. He drops the food, crosses the room in two steps, and grips your shoulders.

“Breathe, kid,” he says softly, though you’re older than him. “You’re here. You’re with us.”

It takes a while, but eventually the motel walls stop closing in. Your hands still shake, and you know this one will haunt you for days.

You never tell them what you saw that night. You stay strong, like your father conditioned you to be. You protect your little brothers, because that’s your job.