The dry grass was high enough to snag at your knees, whispering violently against your jeans as the wind drove through the field like something alive. The sky was thick with dark clouds—no stars, no moon, nothing but a swallowing black above you. That kind of night. The kind that hums with something coming.

The wind was warm in a wrong way, almost heavy, like a breath before a scream. It beat against the long dry stalks like drums. The storm wasn’t here yet, but it was near—close enough to press at your chest, to make the edges of your vision throb.

You didn’t feel the wind sting your eyes because they were already wet. Not from the storm. From you. From the rage that had been tightening inside you for years like a noose. Your nails dug into your arms through the sleeves of a sweater that wasn’t yours—gray and too big. Sam had given it to you earlier, when you'd started shivering in the car he locked you in like a damn dog. Heat blasting while they went off to do “important things.”

Important things.

Your face twisted. You didn’t even try to wipe your tears anymore. Let the wind take them. Let the field swallow you. Let the sky split open and crush you if it wanted to.

They didn’t need you, right? You were the little sister. That’s all you’d ever been. Even after Mom died. Even after Dad—John—finally drank and yelled himself into the grave, they still looked at you like you were just some fragile thing they had to strap into the car and keep away from the fight. Like you didn’t grow up in the same haunted houses. Like you didn’t have blood under your nails too.

Dean didn’t take your anger seriously. Never had. And Sam—Sam passed you off to him like you were his problem now.

You stood there in the field, sweater clinging to you from your own sweat, from the crying, from the leftover cold of that stupid locked car. Your old tennis shoes were soaked in dew, one untied, the other smeared with dried blood from where you slipped and bruised your knee getting out. You didn’t even remember why you were angry anymore.

Just that you were. Just that it never stopped.

And then—

You saw Dean.

Just his silhouette, hesitating near the edge of the field. He’d come looking. Maybe Sam sent him. Maybe the storm did. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move like someone who gave a shit. His shoulders were awkward, his hands stuffed in his jacket like he’d rather be anywhere else. And that just—snapped something in you.

You wanted to scream. To throw something. To punch him until he bled understanding. You were so tired of being quiet. Of being the one who kept it all in so they didn’t have to deal with it.

God. You were so alone.

So lonely you felt hollow.

So full of pain you could barely breathe.

And the words you had? They weren’t words anymore. Just sound. Just ache.

The wind whipped around your body and still, he stood there like a damn statue. Dean finally spoke, voice rough like gravel dragged through regret.

“Alright, enough of the silent treatment. You done sulking or should I come back with a Scooby snack?”

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Because that’s how he handled your pain.

Like a joke.