“This better be important, Winchester, or else.”

“Hey! No need for threats,” Dean says, voice rushed, breathless. “We’ve got a situation out here in South Dakota.”

That makes you sit up. “A case? In Bobby’s backyard? You know he’s right there, right?”

“Yeah, I know where Bobby lives, thanks,” Dean snaps, clearly flustered. “But he’s out of town. He’s doing that… thing with Rufus.”

You blink. “What thing?”

“Doesn’t matter. Point is, we need you. Bad.” By the time you pull into the gravel driveway the next morning, you’re wired on gas station coffee and running on two hours of sleep. You’re expecting claws, blood, maybe a vengeful spirit still clinging to some bones in the attic. What you don’t expect is for the door to fly open and for Dean Winchester to look at you like you are the second coming.

“Thank God,” he breathes. “Get in here. Hurry.” There’s a scream. Dean flinches like he’s in a firefight. “Ignore that. It’s been happening for hours.”

You turn the corner and see Sam kneeling in front of a tiny human. “She doesn’t like the juice,” Sam says, dazed. “We gave her the wrong cup, apparently.”

“What the hell is this?” you ask, staring.

“Okay, so, funny story. The case? Uh… yeah, we solved it. Werewolves. Real bad. Parents didn’t make it. This is their kid.”

“You called me in for a daycare emergency?”

Dean looks at you, dead serious. “I don’t know how to talk to them when they don’t have fully developed vocabularies, okay? She just screams. Or throws things. Or poops with purpose.”

You glance at Sam. He looks like he aged ten years overnight. The toddler throws her cup at Sam’s head. Direct hit. You sigh, stepping forward. “Alright, move over. Let me handle this.” The kid looks up at you, eyes still watery, face red and scrunched in fury. You crouch to her level, slowly. “Hey there, trouble. You like pancakes?” She hiccups mid-sob and blinks.

Dean’s eyes widen. “She stopped screaming.”

“Yeah, that’s called basic human interaction, Dean.”

He gapes. “You’re like… a toddler whisperer.”