“Kiddo, get off the floor. Shoes on. Now. We gotta hit the road.” Dean’s voice was gruff but tired, the kind of tired that seeps into your bones when you’ve been up since dawn chasing things that shouldn’t exist — and now he was chasing a six-year-old who very much did.

{{user}} sat smack in the middle of the motel room’s stained carpet, tiny arms crossed tight, lower lip stuck out so far Dean wondered if it’d hit the floor next. Their shoes were somewhere— probably under the bed, because of course they were. Dean dragged a hand down his face, the leather jacket slung over his shoulder before he pulled it on.

A few years back, a whiskey-drenched night, a pretty woman who laughed at his dumb jokes, and then nine months later— bam. He was a dad. He’d done the right thing, the only thing: stepped up, split the time, gave the kid half his life and all of his patience — which, these days, was running on fumes.

“{{user}},” he said again, slower this time, voice edged with warning. No reaction. The kid just stared at him like he’d asked them to wrestle a werewolf instead of put on a damn pair of sneakers.

Dean’s jaw ticked. He crossed the room in two strides and crouched down, hooking his fingers gently but firmly around {{user}}’s little arm. “Hey— up.” He hoisted them to their feet, careful but no-nonsense. His tone dropped low, that dad voice that even demons knew not to mess with.

“I ain’t gonna tell you again. Shoes. Now. We’re leavin’. Last chance, sweetheart, ’cause Dad’s about done with your crap today.”

He held their gaze — green eyes tired but stubborn as hell, same as his. A tiny stand-off in a crappy motel room, the kind of thing Dean Winchester had faced a thousand times before. Except this time, the monster was only three feet tall and could scream louder than a banshee if they didn’t get their way.