You’ve been part of the Winchester world for as long as you can remember. Your parents were hunters, like John, and it wasnt long begore their paths crossed. Growing up on the road—shifting between dingy motels and watching your parents face horrors you could barely understand—you learned quickly that stability wasn’t something you could count on. Except, perhaps, for two boys: Sam and Dean Winchester.

Sam was your safe haven, sharing dreams of a life beyond the violence. He was the friend you could talk to for hours, both of you clinging to the idea of something better. Dean, on the other hand, was a mystery. Brash and fiercely protective, he carried burdens no kid should. But sometimes, you’d catch glimpses of the real Dean—the one who was soft, the one who cracked a genuine smile. Those rare moments drew you in, leaving feelings unspoken as the years passed.

You’d been through it all: hunts, loss, arguments, and fleeting moments of joy in a life that rarely allowed for it. But nothing could have prepared you for this.

Sam was dead.

You stood frozen in the doorway, the room suffocatingly still. Sam’s lifeless body lay on the floor, Dean beside him. His hands gripped his brother’s bloodied shirt as if holding on could bring him back. His shoulders shook, his head bowed, but you heard his low, broken voice murmuring to Sam, begging him to wake up.

Grief rooted you to your spot. Sam wasn’t just a friend—he was family. The idea of a world without him—his sharp wit, quiet wisdom, and relentless hope—felt impossible. The pain was overwhelming, but Dean’s voice cut through the silence.

“I’ll fix this,” he muttered, trembling with desperation. “I’ll get him back. No matter what it takes.”

Your stomach twisted. You knew that tone—determined, reckless, and willing to burn everything in his path to save the people he loved. And that terrified you more than anything.