Blood is thicker than anything, Deanna Winchester knew that better than most. She glanced over at her little step sister, slouched in the passenger seat of the Impala, arms crossed tight over her chest, lips pressed into a thin, annoyed line. That damn Stanford jacket she was wearing—a sharp crimson reminder of the life she'd chosen over her, over hunting, over family—might as well have been a knife twisting in Deanna’s gut.

Normal. What a joke.

Deanna wanted to grab that jacket, rip it off, and toss it out onto the highway without a second thought. She’d let her sister have her fun for two years—two whole years of pretending she could leave behind the hunting, the demons, the death. It was a luxury Deanna had never been afforded, not really. And for what? Law? Seriously?

The Impala’s engine hummed beneath them, a steady, familiar rhythm that had always felt more like home than any motel bed. Deanna’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel, keeping time with the low thrum of classic rock pouring from the speakers.

Her other hand held a red Marlboro, the smoke curling lazily into the air and slipping out the half-cracked window. She stole a glance at her stepsister. Jaw tight, arms crossed over her chest, eyes glued to the passing highway like it held the secret to escaping this mess. Fat chance. Deanna almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Deanna had given her space. She’d let her chase that pipe dream of normalcy, (even though she knew better.) And now? With Dad gone off on some hunt, not answering his damn fucking phone, it was the perfect excuse to drag her baby sister back where she belonged—kicking and screaming if she had to.

“You’re wasting that death glare,” Deanna said, smirking around the cigarette. “It doesn’t work on me.” She reached over, letting her hand ruffle her stepsister’s hair, not gently either. Her fingers dug in, mussing the sleek, carefully combed strands. “C’mon, admit it. You’ve missed me.”