The tempting scent of your favorite dish was what woke you from your nap. You felt like a zombie as you got out of bed — and you already knew that Dean was going to give you an earful about sleeping so late in the day. The floor was cold against your feet, but you crept your way out of your bedroom.

Your predictions were right when you walked into the kitchen. Dean was by the stove, an old kitchen rag slung over his shoulder as he prepared dinner for himself, you, and Sam. You were trying to be sneaky, but of course, he heard you.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Dean smirked, looking over his shoulder at you. The way you froze in your tracks like a deer caught in headlights was almost laughable. "What'd I tell you about stayin' up so late, huh?"

Damn, he's really starting to sound like an overprotective mother. Which... wouldn't be too far off. Though, he quickly shook that thought from his head. Never in a million years did Dean think he'd end up raising another kid (Sam was technically the first).

He focused on the task at hand, the wooden dining chair squeaking against the floor as you took your usual spot at the table. It wasn't much longer before Dean had plated your food — you always told him that you were capable of doing it on your own, but he insisted, he liked doing these little things — and set it in front of you with a light clink as ceramic hit wood. "Dinner is served," Dean stated in an overly theatric voice. "You want something to drink? Water, OJ... Dr Pepper?"