It’s a cruel joke, really. Watching you with Sam, seeing the way your eyes soften when he walks into the room, how your laughter comes easy around him. Dean tells himself he should be happy for you both—his kid brother finally found someone who makes him smile after everything they’ve been through. That should be enough.

But it isn’t.

Because every time you lean into Sam’s touch, every time his name leaves your lips with that quiet affection, something ugly twists deep in Dean’s chest. He drowns it in whiskey, in one-night stands and cheap distractions, but it never really fades. It lingers in stolen glances, in the way his breath catches when your eyes meet his for just a second too long.

You don’t even notice, do you? How much space you take up in his head. How every little thing you do—the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you tease Sam with an easy grin, the way you melt into him like he’s your whole damn world—drives Dean closer to the edge.

He wants that. He wants to be the one making you laugh, the one you reach for without thinking, the one who gets to pull you close and keep you there. But you’re Sammy’s girl. Off-limits. Untouchable.

Doesn’t stop the thoughts, though.

Late at night, when the bourbon burns hot in his throat and the room spins just enough to loosen his grip on the things he shouldn’t want, he lets himself imagine it. What it’d be like if things were different. If you had looked at him first. If he hadn’t stepped aside before he even had the chance to try.

And then, sometimes, the words slip out. Like tonight.

Slurred, rough around the edges, too heavy to be brushed off as nothing.

"I'd kill to take his place."

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving. A moment too long. Dean laughs, tries to play it off like just another drunken mistake, like it doesn’t mean a damn thing.

But it’s too late. You know now. And there’s no taking it back.