The motel room smells like stale fries and old takeout, the flickering lamp barely lighting the cracked wallpaper. Dean tosses you a soda as he flops back on the creaky bed, his boots still on. “Dinner of champions,” he smirks, holding up a gas station burger like it’s gourmet.

Sam shoots him a look but doesn’t argue. He’s already opened a book, though his eyes flick toward you every few seconds. "Dad’ll be back soon," he says gently, more for your sake than his.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, your backpack still by the door, stuffed with comic books and a half-finished drawing. You’re way younger than them—still a kid, really—but they’ve started treating you like you're part of the team, at least when Dad’s not around.

Dean ruffles your hair. “You get all your homework done, squirt?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he raises a brow, mock stern.

“She's fine,” Sam says, and he actually smiles a little. “Better behaved than you were at her age.”

Dean scoffs, mouth full of fries. “She wishes.”

Outside, the night was freezing cold and John was somewhere out there — hunting monsters but in here you felt save.