“Yeah, see? Knew it,” Dean said with a crooked, satisfied grin, leaning back a little to take in the sight of you swimming in one of his flannels. He’d rolled the sleeves up for you, the fabric hanging loose over your shoulders like it had been made to fit, even if it clearly wasn’t. “Looks good on you. Course it does. They’re my clothes.”

His voice had that teasing lilt, but there was warmth behind it—protective, proud. With just the two of you in the motel room, it felt quieter than it used to. Ever since Sam left for Stanford, it had been just you and Dean against the world. No backup. No safety net.

And honestly? Dean liked it that way. You were basically a miniature version of him anyway—same taste in music, same sarcasm, same “grab life by the throat” attitude he pretended came naturally.

“Alright,” he said, turning toward the duffel on the bed and digging through it with that methodical urgency of his, clothes and weapons all jumbled together. “Let’s see if we can’t find you a pair of jeans that don’t look like you stole ’em from a scarecrow.” He tossed you a smirk over his shoulder. “Can’t have my kid sibling looking like a charity case.”

It was half-joke, half-truth. You were all he had left right now—and he wasn’t about to let you walk into the world unprepared.