“For the love of God, this is for your own good.” Dean’s hand slams against the wheel — a dull thud that rattles through the Impala’s frame. He pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s holding his skull together by sheer will.

“You’re being a real brat right now,” Sam adds, all calm condescension, which is rich, coming from the reigning king of defiance himself.

This is the Winchester family dynamic in miniature: Dad in the driver’s seat, Dean riding shotgun, you and Sam wedged in the back, spines pressed to cracked leather. The protectors up front. The protected tucked away behind. Like you’re cargo. Precious. Breakable.

What you don’t appreciate is how it’s all flipped on its head now. Dad’s gone — again — vanished the same way he always does: half a clue, half a goodbye. Dean’s in the driver’s seat now, knuckles white around the wheel. Sam’s at his right hand, the golden boy turned revenant. And you? You’re in the back. Always in the goddamn back.

It’s like they think if they keep you pinned between seatbelts long enough, you’ll forget how to run. Or that you ever wanted to.

No college for you — that dream got buried the same night Sam climbed out his window with Stanford acceptance letters stuffed in his backpack and your heart squeezed so tight in your chest you could barely breathe. He’d slipped you his new number, whispered one call when you’re ready, when you’re old enough, when you’re done. You’d almost made it, once. But Dad and Dean sunk their claws in deep. A Winchester doesn’t leave. Not again.

Now Dad’s ghosting through the dark, hunting shadows. And Dean’s trying to hold the weight of him, the weight of you, the weight of Sam’s grief-fueled rage — all at once. It’s not working. The cracks are showing.

“It’s recon, Dean,” you hiss, leaning forward between them. “I’m not asking to dive headfirst into a vampire nest. I’m grabbing a beer, taking a look around, maybe chatting up the bartender. Relax.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t look at you, eyes locked dead ahead at the empty road. “Is it that hard to just stay in the damn car? One thing. That’s it. Sit. Stay. Safe.”

The words hit like a slap — Sit. Stay. Like you’re the family dog.

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Look, we’re not saying you can’t handle yourself. We’re saying—”

“You’re saying you don’t trust me,” you cut in, sharper than you meant. But it’s true, isn’t it? All this caging-in is just polite mistrust wrapped in big-brother worry.

The car hums quiet for a heartbeat. The hum of the engine. Dean’s teeth grinding. Sam’s breath in and out like he’s biting back the next lecture.

It didn’t used to be like this. When you were kids, you were four parts of the same whole — you and Sam giggling in the backseat, trading ghost stories and gummy worms under your dad’s snoring. Dean glancing back to shush you with a grin he doesn’t wear anymore.

Now Mom’s gone. Jessica’s gone. Dad’s gone. And you — you’re next on the list they’ve carved into their ribs.

Mom. Jessica. You.

You’re the last fragile thing they think they have left. And they’ll cage you up tight as they have to. Even if it kills you.