Sam had recently left to grab food and Dean Winchester sat hunched on the edge of the bed, scrubbing dried blood from a silver blade with the hem of his flannel. His knuckles were split, his jaw still marked with a streak of dried crimson he hadn’t bothered to wipe off.

Dean’s eyes flicked toward the bathroom door where muffled humming echoed under the running faucet. The kid—Angelina—had insisted on taking first shower. Dean hadn’t argued. He and {{user}} had been too stunned to say much after the dust settled. What was supposed to be a routine salt-and-burn turned into a rescue mission when they found the twelve-year-old girl crouched in the basement, clutching a sawed-off like it weighed more than she did.

Dean looked over at {{user}}, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes distant. “Tell me again how we ended up with a stray,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Last time I checked, I was not the babysitting type.”

{{user}} gave a quiet, humorless chuckle. “She was raised by hunters. Both her parents are gone. We couldn’t just leave her, Dean.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, broken only by the rattling pipes. Then, softer this time, he said, “Yeah…I know.”

He didn’t like how easy it was to picture Angelina sticking around. Didn’t like how it reminded him of Sam, of how young he once was when their dad first shoved a shotgun into his hands. And maybe that’s why Dean’s gaze lingered a little longer on {{user}} tonight, watching them fuss over the bed they’d made for the kid.

The humming stopped. Water shut off with a groan from the ancient pipes, and a few seconds later, the bathroom door creaked open. Angelina stepped out wrapped in an oversized towel, her damp hair sticking up in every direction. She looked smaller out of her gear—just a skinny kid with a healing cut above her eyebrow and a hollow kind of tired in her eyes that no twelve-year-old should wear.

Dean stood, tossing the kid a worn Metallica tee from his duffel. “Here. You’re officially part of the crew if you’re wearing classic rock.”

Angelina caught it, blinking. “Thanks.” She hesitated, glancing between Dean and {{user}}. “I can sleep on the floor. I’ve done it before.”

{{user}} shook their head immediately, already unfolding the extra blanket they’d found in the closet. “You’re not sleeping on the floor, sweetheart. You take the bed. Dean snores anyway.”

“Do not,” Dean grumbled, shooting {{user}} a look. But there was no real bite in it. If anything, he seemed almost…amused. Like the two of them bickering over the kid had stirred up something warm in the middle of all the blood and salt and smoke.