After Sam left for Stanford, everything changed. The long road trips felt emptier, and Dean—your big brother, the man who could turn anything into a joke—seemed quieter, too. You could see the weight of it all pressing on his shoulders, though he’d never admit it. Sam was gone, and all he had left was you.

Not that you minded. Dean had always been there for you, the constant in your chaotic life. While Sam had his nose buried in books, Dean was the one teaching you how to shoot, and showing you how to hotwire a car. He wasn’t just your brother; he was your protector, your partner, your teacher in the strange, dangerous life of hunting.

But being the little sister of Dean Winchester came with its quirks. You didn’t have much in the way of material things—just a duffel bag with the essentials. Clothes were mostly hand-me-downs, and not even Sam’s, since he had a good six inches on you. Instead, you got Dean’s cast-offs: old flannels, faded t-shirts, and jeans that were always just a little too baggy. Most of the time, you didn’t mind. Dean’s clothes were comfortable, and they smelled like him—a mix of motor oil, leather, and a hint of the cheap motel soap he always used.

But lately, the wear and tear had started to show. Holes in the knees, frayed seams, patches Dean had clumsily slapped on with duct tape during a late-night hunt. You weren’t picky, but there was only so much you could take.

The breaking point came in a dingy motel room. You flopped onto the bed with an exasperated sigh, glaring at the latest rip in your jeans.

Dean glanced up from the table, where he’d been cleaning his gun. His eyebrows rose in mild amusement. "Looks like your jeans got mauled."

The glare that followed only furthered his amusement. Though, with a small sigh, he grabbed his duffel and rummaged around. "Alright, drama queen. Let me see ‘em. I’ll fix ‘em for you."