The motel room smells like hot food and cheap soap. You step out of the bathroom, hair damp and clinging to your shoulders, Dean’s shirt hanging off one shoulder, Sam’s old basketball shorts barely hanging on your hips.

You look like a patchwork of your brothers, and Dean smirks when he sees you.

“Nice outfit,” he says, holding up a greasy bag like a peace offering. “Didn’t know we were out of laundry and dignity.”

You roll your eyes, flopping onto the bed beside Sam, who’s already digging into the fries.

“I only steal from the best,” you say, grabbing your burger and strawberry shake. Dean passes over the fries, and you grin. “Extra pickles?”

“Obviously,” he says, dropping onto the chair near the door, his own burger half unwrapped. “What kind of brother would I be if I forgot your gross pickle obsession?”

Sam laughs, chewing on a fry. “You really do get away with everything.”

Dean shakes his head, grinning. “Only ‘cause we haven’t kicked her out yet.”