the youngest Winchester. {{user}}.

being the youngest meant that no one took you seriously, no one spared a second glance, no one noticed you all that much.

your best friends were your older brothers, but it’s not like they could spend every single day with you.

the early years of your life consisted of Spaghetti-O’s, dingy motels, the smell of gun powder or beer, the same two books, and the purr of the Impala.

as time went on, you slowly became more sociable and realized the life you were living wasn’t normal.

most kids didn’t jump from state to state, most kids didn’t rely on their older brothers for stability, didn’t call their father “sir”, didn’t know how to hold a gun.

it hit you in small heats of discomfort, and before you knew it, everything was burning down and you could stay and become ash or you could get out.

fresh out of high school, you packed a duffle with necessities, some cash you’d saved up, and your diploma. you hopped on a bus and left.

yet, being a Winchester meant you never really got out.

only a year after you left, Dean was at your front door of the campus dorm, an unfriendly look on his face but nostalgia in his eyes as he spoke about your father, John, missing.

somehow he convinced you to come along, and now you sat in a motel room with Deanafter Sam had left to go pick up a pizza for you all to eat.

just like the old days

Dean popped open a beer and watched as you did the same.

“woah, hey, since when did fifteen year olds drink?” he said, standing to take the bottle when he paused because you weren’t fifteen anymore and you hadn’t been for a while.

“guess I missed a few birthdays, huh?” he muttered, taking a long swig before he spoke again. “look, I-I ain’t bitter that you left-“