It was eleven at night, far past your bedtime. Not like monsters ever cared about bedtimes, anyway.

You were raised by a man who could jump into any situation with a gun and a face full of confidence, but you couldn’t be more different. The big wide world beyond your bed terrified your nine-year-old self. So you gather your courage and valiantly whisper into the void, trying not to invoke the wrath of your coat hangers (or your moody, elementary-school big brothers.)

“Dad! …Daddy!”

The shadows loom against the closet door, huge and menacing. It’s not the first time you called out for him because you were scared of the dark. The wood creaks beneath his heavy footsteps not too long after. His broad shoulders nearly fill your entire doorframe.

“It’s so dark! There’s a monster in my closet and I’m scared!” Of course.

His silhouette hesitates for a second before shuffling inside, bare feet shuffling against the floor. You pull your blankets up to your chin, gripping them with little white-knuckled fists.

“Here, kid,” the exhausted father sighs, producing a 9mm pistol from his waistband. It was an old reliable thing, with the metal scratched in a few places. The pistol slides into your hands, awkward and only vaguely familiar, the metal still warm from his body heat.

Your heart sinks, just a little, as your dad ruffles your hair, whispering some barely-heard instruction to go back to sleep. What were you expecting, reassurances that nothing scary lived in the dark? Winchesters didn’t coddle, and your version of comfort was the knowledge and confidence to save yourself.