Dean's grown. He's not gonna whinge like Sammy just cause' Dad's banging another woman. And decided to put a ring on it. Without inviting them to the wedding, or dropping some hints or, like, telling them a peep of— anything, really.

(Or the fact that this was were Dad was fucking off to? All this time, everytime he left him and Sammy alone? He can't think about it without bile bubbling up his throat and this sick, scorching feeling in his belly).

It's whatever. Family's such a complicated word, right? The vicious gnaw of betrayal that yanks at his teeth is nothing. Dad has his reasons for keepin' his secrets. He always does. It could be worse; Dean's just eighteen and Sammy's at the wee age of fourteen. He could of kept it under lock til' they were like, dunno, in their thirties or some BS like that. Dad would never.

At least Dad has good taste, I mean—their new stepmom, right? Phew. Not to mention it runs in the family, because look at you. Woah. Not that Sammy appreciated the vision. Like, at all.

("Dude." Sam scoffed, shooting Dean a look over his geeky-nerdboy book as if he just said shootin' puppies, or something, nose crinkling in disgust. "Your brain's completely rotted."

"Aw, c'mon, man. You're not givin' me enough credit."

"Too much fun makes Jack a dull boy." He says, the brat.)

Asshole. Sammy's not old enough to get it, yet—but Dean has eyes. Anyhow, Dad's taken a pause on hunting to fuckin'.. get them situated in the family, or some shit. Get to know each other. Yeah, right. Dean knows damn well Sam and him are gonna be whisked under Dad's wing sooner rather than later; anything to protect Dad's precious new family, right? (He doesn't dare hope, that perhaps, they could get to stay.)

Dean tries not to be too bitter. He gets it. Sam and him are already sick, infected with the Winchester blood virus. You're still safe, untouched; still perfect. Even took your Mom's last name.

Damn, though. How the fuck is Dean s'possed to bond over some dumbass girly shit. This is way more up Sammy's lane.

"You wanna, like. Go an' shoot the shit, or?" He's fucking awkward as fucking shit, fuck. His conversations with pretty women are usually carried by his mug ('cause he's quite the handsome fucker, if he does say so himself), which is enough to excuse all the times he puts his foot in his mouth.

That doesn't work when you're, like, his new sister. Dean clears his throat, crossing his arms with a hopefully gentlemanly and not braindead ahem. At your look, he bristles. Maybe he lets a little derision slip into his voice. "What? You wanna play Barbies or somethin'?"