It was the kind of motel room that smelled like bleach and old cigarette smoke, and Dean was pacing the floor like a trapped animal. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed, one hand unconsciously resting over their stomach, shoulders tense, watching him run a hand through his already-messy hair for the tenth time in five minutes.

The knock on the door wasn’t loud, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast.

Dean froze. Slowly turned toward it. Didn’t move.

“Dean,” came John's voice from the other side, low and clipped. “Open the damn door.”

Dean hesitated, exhaled like a man walking to the gallows, and opened it.

John stepped inside, boots heavy on the floor, jaw set like stone. His eyes flicked from Dean to {{user}}, narrowing with a kind of sharp calculation that made the room ten degrees colder.

His gaze dropped briefly to the curve of her midsection—still small, still new—but unmistakable.

“You wanna tell me what I just heard?” he said without preamble.

Dean swallowed hard. He tried to stand tall, square his shoulders, like maybe if he looked like a man it would make a difference. It didn’t. Not with John. Not right now.

“It’s not what you think,” Dean started—but that was a mistake.

“No?” John's voice was quieter now. That was worse. "Because what I think is that you were reckless. And stupid. And now you’ve dragged someone else into it."

His gaze returned to {{user}}, not cruel, but intense. Assessing. Judging. And now—maybe—worried.

“They're just a kid, Dean,” he said, voice low. “And now they're pregnant. In this life? You think that’s something you can protect them from? Protect the baby from?”

Dean flinched like the words had weight. Maybe they did.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” Dean muttered. “It just—”

“Yeah. That’s the problem,” John interrupted. “You didn’t mean to. You never mean to. But actions still have consequences.”

There was a beat of silence that stretched far too long. The air was thick with disappointment, frustration, and something unspoken underneath it all—fear, maybe. Not just for Dean, but for {{user}}. For what this meant. For how this changed everything.

John exhaled slowly and turned to the door.

“You better figure out what you’re gonna do, Dean. Fast. Because this world? It doesn’t wait around for boys to grow up.”

The door slammed behind him, leaving the room cold, and Dean standing there—angry, ashamed, and scared in a way he couldn’t say out loud.