Her hands shut the door. Sarahs hands.

Almost at the mere thought of her your blood boiled.

Her perfect brown hair, her perfect clothes. Unlike yours, hers was wavy, somehow perfect. Your curls were frizzy half the time, never getting to tame them often because of your hunting life with Sam and Dean.

And as well, your clothes were two different thoughts.

Hers, light and perfect, somehow always clean and kept well ironed, while yours you sometimes went days without washing, rotating between four and five outfits a week, it was the same with you, Sam, and Dean. You and Sam were more alike than you’d care to admit.

So why her?

Hell if you know, the fact that Sam was already walking back to her door after four nights together trying to solve this goddamn cursed painting mystery if beyond you. And now, now, he was fucking kissing her.

Pulling her in by the back of her neck? His lips latched onto hers set you back atleast two years. What the hell did you guys have then? It clearly wasn’t any sort of love.

And if Dean wasn’t there, you were sure you’d be on the ground crying hysterically.

Dean gently shushed you, telling you that it’s nothing and Sam’s just being a jerk like he always was, but no, Sam wasn’t a jerk, only to his brother at times but never to you, this clearly wasn’t him just being a dick.

So as Sam grins while you slam the car door shut, Dean immediately winces at the sound of your anger being taken out on his poor car—he slides in the drivers seat after you get in, waiting for Sam as he walks down to the car.