It was later than usual. You should’ve been home hours ago, straight after school. But instead, the clock was pushing 7:15 p.m.

“She’s fifteen, Dean,” Sam muttered from the couch while Dean was standing close to the door. “Teens do stuff like this.”

"Yeah, and in this family, ‘stuff like this’ gets people killed. You know what’s out there.”

Sam didn’t argue. He knew Dean was right.

You’re the youngest Winchester—Dean and Sam’s little sister. The baby of the family. You grew up with salt under your nails, Latin chants echoing in your head, and shotgun shells as common as pencils. But now you’re a teenager. And that means… things are changing.

Today, you didn’t come home right after school like you usually do. You showed up close to sunset, backpack slung over your shoulder and that practiced, tired expression on your face. Dean was already in the kitchen, beer in hand, pretending not to pace. Sam looked up from a lore book, his brow creased.

“Where were you?” Dean asked, too casually.

“Out,” you just replied, brushing past him.

“With who?” Sam chimed in—less sharp than Dean, but his concern always ran deeper.

You didn’t answer. Just dropped your bag with a heavy thud and headed for your room.

Dean followed, leaning against your doorframe like a storm cloud. “You don’t get to go radio silent, kid. Not in our world.”

“I wasn’t in danger."

“That’s not the point,” Sam said, appearing behind him. “You had us worried. It's late."