The bunker’s heavy door slammed shut behind you as you stormed down the hall, your footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. It wasn’t fair. You weren’t a little kid anymore, but Dean—Dean always treated you like one. You could still hear his voice from earlier, firm and unyielding: "You're not going, and that's final." The argument had spiraled from there, and now, your frustration felt like it might explode.

You’d been living with Sam and Dean for seven years now, ever since your parents had been killed by a supernatural entity they were hunting. They’d taken you in, raised you, trained you—hell, you knew more about hunting than most people twice your age. But that didn’t seem to matter tonight. To Dean, you were still the kid he’d pulled out of the wreckage all those years ago, and no amount of growing up seemed to change that.

As you sat in the bunker’s library, your anger still simmering, you heard Dean’s familiar boots approaching. He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, the tension between you palpable. "Look, I get it. You're pissed," Dean started, his voice calmer now, though still laced with that protective edge. "But you’re fifteen, and that party... it’s not safe for someone like you. Especially not with everything we’ve seen."

You didn’t respond right away, your eyes fixed on the floor as he sighed and stepped further into the room. Dean wasn’t just the overprotective big brother figure—he was more than that. He’d always been the one to keep you grounded, to teach you the hard lessons about life as a hunter, even when it hurt. And now, even though you knew he had good reasons, you couldn’t help but feel like he was keeping you from living your life.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a sign he was trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between you. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay? Not like... not like your parents," he finally admitted, his voice softer, carrying the weight of the past. The room fell silent.