{{user}}. John’s youngest. Boy, was your relationship something interesting. Some days, he was proud as hell of you, and others, you were even more difficult to deal with than Sam. Today was one of the latter.

You were sick. The cap of the decongestant bottle loomed impossibly large in front of you, an eerie shade of blue that reminded you uncomfortably of laundry detergent. It’s been thirty minutes and you still refuse to take it, despite the constant coughing and malaise that you insisted you were having. And to think that your father was kind enough to take the Impala to the gas station and pick up some medicines…

John was rapidly losing his patience as he continues to stand in the bathroom with your stubborn ass. He was on the verge of raising his voice, quite frankly, all while your brothers were trying hard not to laugh. Your father pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. And you think you’ve finally won, until—

“Dean, hold them.”

Your leather-jacket clad older brother happily obliges, scooping you up from under the armpits and holding your back against his chest. Uh-oh.