For the love of God, this is for your own good.” Dean slams his hand on the wheel, for emphasis, hand pinching in-between his brows.

“You're being a real brat right now." Sam supplies, which is, like really fucking rich of him.

It's always been the family dynamic; John in the front, Dean in shotgun—you and Sammy in the back. The internal workings of the Winchesters, explicated back in the Impala interior; the protectors, and the protected.

What you don't appreciate, is the dynamic suddenly going all topsy-turvy on you. Now, it’s Dean in the drivers’, Sam in the shotgun, and you in the back.

Everything is changing. It sucks.

Dad vanished into thin air, as he’s so fond of doing. (No college for you. Dean and John had sunk their claws in, deep, the moment Sam absconded for Stanford, like they were afraid if they let you out of their sight for a moment, you'd start running, too. Maybe it was warranted. Sam had slipped his new number in your duffle, before he left. One call, when you were old enough and you could come with him, too).

Anyways, point being; you were also raised in this family, thank you very much—and you do not need your older brothers' fussing over you like you're still a goddamn kid and not a grown adult who can take care of yourself.

"Is it that hard to just stay in the goddamn car?" Dean is practically growling as the three of you bicker in low, hushed voices, in the car. They'd always been protective, but it never used to be this bad. It's a simple recon gig, for fuck's sake—sussing out the local bar!

It's worse, now that Sam is on his whole-path-for-vengeance thing. He seems to think that it goes, Mom, Jessica, you. Not that Dean and Sam aren't also, obsessively, ridiculously protective of each other, too—Dean moreso. They argue more often than they ever did. Except, the few moments they happen to present a uniform front; it's to keep a handle on you.

Jesus, it's like they don't even trust you to tie your own shoelaces together.