It’s a life you never thought the Winchesters would get: quiet, calm, and for once, somewhat normal. No salt lines around the doors, no weapons stashed under the floorboards (okay, maybe a hunting knife or two, just in case). The three of you—Dean, Sam, and you—had left behind the chaos and danger of the life you grew up in. It wasn’t easy; nothing ever is when you’ve got the kind of baggage the Winchesters do. But you made it work.

The trailer wasn’t much, but it was home. The outside was painted a faded blue, with a small deck that Sam had built last summer when he decided it was time for the three of you to have “a proper space to sit outside.” There was a hammock strung between two trees out back, which you and Dean fought over constantly. A little tool shed sat near the driveway, filled with everything from lawn chairs to spare car parts for the old ‘75 Chevy Silverado you all shared. Dean had insisted on keeping it in the family—“It’s not Baby,” he’d said, patting the hood fondly, “but she’s got character.”

Inside, the trailer was cozy. A mismatched couch with an afghan blanket thrown over the back. A tiny kitchen with a fridge that was constantly stocked with beer and leftovers from last night’s dinner. And your room, although Dean still barged in whenever he felt like it.

You’d taken on the role of the cool, laid-back older brother figure, the one who didn’t take life too seriously but knew when to lay down the law. Dean respected that, even if he’d never admit it out loud. He liked having someone else who could tease him just as much as he teased Sam.

This morning, you were outside tinkering with the Silverado, the hood propped open and a wrench in your hand. Dean wandered out onto the deck, still in his flannel and jeans, coffee mug in hand.

“You gonna fix that thing today, or should we just call it a lawn ornament?” he quipped, leaning against the doorframe.