Dean wouldn't swap it out for the world, stickin' with Sammy. Sammy was the baby. It was a special job, Dad insisted, and even as young as he was and as much as Dad lied he knew this time he wasn't lyin'—this time he knew it was the truth, that Dean had the most important job of them all.

But fuck it if sometimes he'd kill to be you. Everytime Dad clicked his fingers and you were already on your feet, loading salt into a barrel weighing half your damn bodyweight and Dad would send Dean's knees careening back down with just a single look, before he even got up. 'Cause those years, he was the useless age of seven years-old while you were standing there in all your 5"4 glory. The wise, capable age of eleven. Whilst all he was good for was changing Sammy's diapers and heating up a baby bottle.

It's another one of those nights. Where you come back alone—the telltale sound of the motor kicking out back as soon as Dad drops you off the motel. Sammy's sound asleep. Dean's curled up on the armchair, head drooping like he's in the midst of nodding off, before he gasps awake once the door latch unclasps. Shoots upwards, shotgun lifted, the heft of it dipping his forearms.

He slumps when he realises it's just you. Just you. The question Where's Dad? forms on the tip of his tongue, before he squashes. You both know it'll only come up with the same answer, as all the times before. I don't know.

Instead, Dean clutches the shotgun back close, eyes drifting to Sammy, out like a light. "S'not fair. Why do you always get to go? Why can't we swap for once?"

It is unfair. Even if, mind, life's not all peachy-keen on the other side—but, you don't make the rules. That's between God and John Winchester. (Even if you know the answer).

You'd learned early how to read between the lines. Other hunters at the pub, jabbing grubby fingers and asking the million-dollar question; "Why the girl and not the boy?". Dad's scoffed, "I ain't bringing a fuckin' kid on a huntin' trip, fuckwits.” As if that stopped him with you. Though you're not the one John's tryinf to fool.

See, Dean has always looked the most like Mom. You pretend not to notice it, when Dad can't stand the sight of his eldest son. When dirty-blonde locks grow too unruly, and Dad orders you, hoarse and curt, to cut his shag and straighten those beautiful curls of his. It never never truly recovered, after those first few shoddy haircuts over motel sinks. Grows straight, now.

(Oh, God. You don't tell Dean this; you'd never fucking tell Dean this—but there were times—scarce, but there all the same—that you couldn't stand the sight of him, either.)

No Winchester'll be winning any oldest sister of the year awards, here. Nor best father—though, Dean might as well be the strongest contender. Oh, how fucked they all are.