The four walls around you are yellowed and ugly, but at least the shelter is worth the price this time. Early morning exhaustion presses your limbs against the lumpy mattress that you were lucky to have to yourself. Peeling open your eyes, you can see your little brothers, eight and four, fast asleep in the next bed over. Your own flesh and blood, who you were helping to raise, who you would protect with your life. They always looked like angels.

There was a glimpse of something like satisfaction when your father left you at the ass-crack of dawn, to hold down the fort during his latest trip. He knew you would.

His old marine dog tags feel light and cold around your neck, as they have for years. You hadn’t even asked for them, just took them from a bag of his belongings one day, but John never found it within himself to protest. What he thought was a cute gesture felt like a responsibility and a comfort at the same time. You know better than your brothers just how cruelly your parents can be wrenched away. One of you will inherit the impala someday, and Dean’s already eyeing his jacket. But you, you wear the necklace by your heart like a protective talisman.