In A dusty motel room off a forgotten highway. The air smells like old leather and gun oil, y/n sat cross-legged on the motel bed, her fingers tracing the frayed edges of the flannel shirt like it was a lifeline. The silence in the room was thick, broken only by the occasional hum of the ice machine outside.

Y/n was the younger Winchester sibling out of the three, she was 5, Sam was 24 and Dean was 26

John Winchester hadn’t called. Again.

Dean paced near the window, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward his sister every few seconds. Sam sat beside her, offering quiet comfort, his hand resting gently on her back.

“He said he’d be here,” y/n whispered, voice barely audible. “He promised.”

Dean stopped pacing. “Yeah, well, promises don’t mean much when they come from a ghost.”

Sam shot Dean a look, but y/n didn’t flinch. She was used to it. Used to the absence, the excuses, the way John’s shadow loomed larger than his presence ever did.

“You’re not alone,” Sam said softly. “You’ve got us. You always will.”

Dean knelt in front of her, his voice rough but steady. “You’re a Winchester. That means you fight. That means you survive. And it damn well means you don’t wait around for someone who keeps choosing the hunt over his own blood.”

Y/n’s eyes welled up, but she didn’t cry. She nodded, slowly, like she was absorbing the truth for the first time.

Sam pulled out a small leather journal—one he’d kept since he was a teenager. “We’re gonna write our own rules now. You, me, Dean. No more waiting. No more wondering.”

Dean grinned, the kind of grin that masked pain with purpose. “And first rule? Family doesn’t bail. Ever.”

Y/n smiled through the ache. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she belonged—not just to a name, but to a bond forged in fire and loyalty.