hii, I love your writing!! if you’re up for it could you do an older sister!winchester where she’s usually been the one looking out for the boys but she gets hurt and they have to look after her? maybe they realize they’ve been a bit neglectful. you do hurt/comfort so well <3
Dean Winchester x older sister!reader
Sam Winchester x older sister!reader
Summary: As the eldest in the family, you hate having the boys take care of you. You'd always say 'I'm fine' and that you could take care of yourself. This time they insist on taking care of you.
Warnings: Description of getting hurt/blood/nightmares
You sat cross-legged on the edge of the furthest bed, methodically cleaning your weapons while your brothers pored over research for the next hunt. The rhythm was soothing: disassemble, clean, oil, reassemble. You'd done it so many times you could probably do it in your sleep.
Dean was sprawled in the worn armchair near the window with a beer sweating in his hand, flipping through John's journal with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserved for pie or classic cars. Sam occupied the other chair, laptop balanced on his knees, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. His fingers moved across the keyboard in that rapid-fire way that meant he was deep in research mode, chasing down some thread that only he could see.
This was normal. This was every night, every hunt, every town.
The TV murmured in the background—some late-night talk show neither of them was watching. Dean's beer bottle clinked against the wooden arm of the chair as he set it down. Outside, a car alarm went off and then fell silent. Inside, the only sounds were Sam's typing, the rustle of journal pages, and the soft click of your weapons.
"I'm thinking we hit the road by six," Dean said without looking up, his finger tracing something in the journal. "Get to Duluth before the next victim turns up. The pattern suggests it'll happen again in the next forty-eight hours."
"Works for me," Sam muttered, still typing. His brow was furrowed in that way that meant he was reading something disturbing. "I'm just trying to figure out if we're dealing with a straightforward nest or if there's something else going on. Some of these kills don't fit the typical vampire MO."
You set down the cloth you'd been using, your hands stilling on the newly cleaned gun. "Did either of you eat today?"
Dean waved his beer in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Liquid dinner. Counts as barley and hops. Practically a salad."
"Dean." Your voice had that particular tone to it—the one that had been making him squirm since he was four years old.
"I had a burger at lunch. Relax." He finally glanced at you over the top of the journal, that trademark smirk in place, all cocky confidence and bravado. "You're not Mom."
The words hit exactly where they always did—that hollow space in your chest you'd learned to ignore years ago, the one that opened up when you were eight years old and everything changed. "No," you said quietly, carefully setting your gun down on the bedspread. "But someone has to make sure you two don't kill yourselves through sheer stupidity before a monster gets the chance."
Sam looked up then, his expression softening in that puppy-dog way of his. His hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it back absently. "We're fine. You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." You went back to cleaning your gun, not looking at either of them. "Doesn't mean I won't."
The conversation died there, as it always did. They never pushed back too hard, never told you to stop. They just... accepted it. Accepted that you'd always be there to patch them up, to watch their backs, to make sure they had clean clothes and food and someone who gave a damn whether they lived or died. Accepted that you'd sacrifice your own needs for theirs without a second thought.
You'd been doing it since Sam was in diapers and Dean was still young enough to think Dad hung the moon. Since you were the one staying up all night with a feverish toddler while John was on a hunt. Since you were the one teaching Dean how to make mac and cheese because someone had to feed Sam while you were out to help John sometimes.
Someone had to be the constant. Someone had to hold the family together when everything else was falling apart.
Dean went back to the journal, his jaw working slightly as he read. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he held himself. He'd been carrying the weight of the world since he was four years old, since Dad put Sammy in his arms and told him to run. You'd been carrying it longer. You'd been carrying it since before Mom died and Dad checked out emotionally, leaving you to raise two boys while you were still a child yourself.
"There's leftover pizza in the mini-fridge," you said after a moment. "It's not great, but it's something. Sam, you need to eat too. When's the last time you had a real meal?"
Sam's fingers paused on the keyboard. "I... breakfast, I think?"
"It's almost midnight. Eat the pizza."
"Eat it anyway." You started reassembling your gun, the pieces clicking together with practiced ease. "You get cranky when your blood sugar drops, and we've got a long drive tomorrow."
"I don't get cranky," Sam protested, but he was already closing the laptop and standing up, unfolding that ridiculous height of his. When had your baby brother gotten so tall? When had he stopped being the kid you had to lift to reach the top shelf?
Dean snorted. "Dude, you absolutely get cranky. Remember that rugaru hunt in Wisconsin? You almost bit my head off because we didn't stop for lunch."
"That was different. We were in the middle of nowhere and you refused to—"
"Just eat the damn pizza, Sammy."
You watched them bicker as Sam retrieved the pizza box from the mini-fridge and Dean abandoned the journal long enough to grab a slice. This, too, was normal. The gentle teasing, the sibling dynamics that had been carved in stone over decades of hunting and surviving together.
But underneath it, you could see the cracks. The exhaustion neither of them would admit to. The nightmares Dean pretended he didn't have. The way Sam's hands shook sometimes when he thought no one was looking.
You saw it all because you'd made it your job to see it. To know when Dean was drinking too much or when Sam was spiraling into research obsession to avoid dealing with his feelings. To be the one who remembered to get the oil changed in the Impala and to stock up on rock salt and to call Bobby every few weeks because family meant something, even if it was chosen family.
"We should get some sleep," you said once they'd finished eating. "Early start tomorrow."
"Mother hen," Dean teased, but there was affection in it. He stood, stretching, his back popping audibly. "I'm gonna grab a shower first. Some of us were doing the actual grunt work on that poltergeist case while others were sitting pretty in the library."
"Research is grunt work," Sam protested. "Without me, you wouldn't have known about the significance of the—"
"Yeah, yeah, you're very smart. We're all very impressed." Dean ruffled Sam's hair as he passed, dodging the halfhearted swat Sam aimed at him.
You smiled despite yourself, watching them. This was why you did it. Why you kept doing it, hunt after hunt, town after town. Because they were your brothers, and you loved them more than anything in the world, and someone had to keep them alive.
Even if it meant you never took care of yourself. Even if it meant ignoring your own exhaustion, your own pain, your own needs.
It was worth it. They were worth it.
Dean disappeared into the bathroom, and soon you heard the shower running. Sam settled back in his chair with the laptop, already lost in research again. You finished cleaning your weapons and moved on to checking your bag, making sure you had everything you'd need for Duluth. Extra clothes for all three of you because Dean always forgot to pack enough and Sam inevitably destroyed at least one shirt per hunt. First aid supplies because you always needed first aid supplies. Protein bars and water bottles because sometimes there wasn't time to stop for food.
"You should sleep," Sam said without looking up from his screen. "You're always telling us to rest, but you never do."
"I will. Just want to make sure we're ready for tomorrow."
"We're always ready. You make sure of that." Now he did look up, his expression unreadable in the blue light. "You know you don't have to do everything, right? Dean and I, we're adults. We can take care of ourselves."
You zipped up your bag. "I know that."
"Do you?" He closed the laptop, giving you his full attention. "Because sometimes it feels like you think if you stop for even a second, everything will fall apart."
The observation was too close to home. You turned away, busying yourself with organizing the weapons bag. "Get some sleep, Sam. We've got a long day tomorrow."
He sighed, that particular long-suffering sound that meant he knew you were deflecting but he was going to let it go. For now. "Okay. But we're talking about this eventually."
"Sure," you said, knowing you'd find a way to avoid it. You always did.
Dean emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later in his usual sleeping attire—boxer shorts and a t-shirt. He grabbed one of the beds without ceremony, flopping down with a groan. "Shower's all yours. And please don't be like Sam, and use all the hot water again, I swear to God—"
"That was one time," Sam protested.
"Three times. I counted."
You let them bicker while you went to go take your shower. By the time you emerged, clean and ready for bed, both of your brothers were settled in their respective beds. Dean was already snoring softly, one arm flung over his face. Sam was scrolling through something on his phone.
You climbed into your own bed—the one furthest from the door because Dean insisted on being between you and any potential threats—and turned off the lamp.
In the darkness, you could hear Dean's breathing, Sam shifting slightly in his bed. The sounds of your family, alive and safe.
Tomorrow, you'd do it all over again. Watch over them, protect them, make sure they had everything they needed.
It was what you did. It was who you were.
The weight of it settled over you like a familiar blanket, heavy and smothering and somehow comforting in its consistency.
You closed your eyes and slept.
The warehouse was supposed to be empty.
That's what the research said. That's what Sam's carefully cross-referenced police reports and witness statements indicated. That's what the locals had told you when you'd questioned them, flashing fake FBI badges and sympathetic smiles. The nest was small—three vampires, maybe four. A manageable hunt. You'd handled worse.
The warehouse loomed before you in the fading twilight, all broken windows and rusted metal siding. It had been a manufacturing plant once, back when Duluth's economy was booming. Now it was just another corpse of industrial America, left to rot on the edges of town where no one looked too closely.
"I don't like this," you said, checking your machete one more time. The blade was sharp enough to shave with, which was exactly how you liked it. "Something feels off."
"Your spidey sense tingling?" Dean asked, pulling his own machete from the trunk of the Impala. The setting sun caught the blade, making it flash red-gold.
"Maybe. I don't know. Just... be careful in there."
Sam closed the trunk, his machete already in hand and a flashlight in the other. His face was set in determined lines, his jaw tight. "We're always careful."
That wasn't true and all three of you knew it, but you didn't argue. Instead, you approached the warehouse together, moving in the formation you'd perfected over years of hunting: Dean on point because he was the best in a fight, you in the middle because you had the tactical mind, Sam bringing up the rear because his height gave him a better vantage point.
The front door was chained shut but rusted through. Dean made short work of it with a pair of bolt cutters, and the chain fell away with a clatter that sounded impossibly loud in the quiet evening.
"So much for stealth," Sam muttered.
"Yeah, because vampires are known for their excellent hearing," Dean shot back. "Oh wait."
You pushed the door open, and the smell hit you immediately. Death and decay and something underneath it, something sweet and rotten that made your stomach turn. Old blood. Lots of it.
"Definitely the right place," you whispered, clicking on your flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a vast open space filled with debris and old machinery. Shadows lurked everywhere, deep and impenetrable.
Dean moved forward cautiously, his machete at the ready. You followed, your senses on high alert. Every nerve was screaming that something was wrong, but you couldn't put your finger on what.
Then you stepped through the door fully, and you heard it. Not four bodies moving in the darkness. Not even a dozen.
Dozens. The rustling of fabric, the whisper of movement, the soft breathing of too many vampires to count.
"It's a trap!" you shouted, but even as the words left your mouth, the doors were slamming shut behind you. Metal shrieked against metal, and you heard the heavy thunk of bars sliding into place.
They'd been waiting for you.
What happened next was chaos. Pure, bloody chaos.
The vampires came at you from all directions, emerging from the shadows like nightmares. Their eyes reflected your flashlight beams, dozens of points of light in the darkness. You dropped the flashlight and brought up your machete just in time to block the first attack, the blade catching a vampire's arm and severing it cleanly.
Blood sprayed, hot and foul-smelling. The vampire screamed, a sound that was more animal than human, and you followed through with a horizontal slash that took its head off. It dropped, and two more immediately took its place.
You fought like you always did—with everything you had, with every ounce of skill and experience earned through years of hunting. Your machete sang through the air, a deadly extension of your arm. You didn't think, just moved, muscle memory taking over. Block, slash, spin, strike. Stay light on your feet. Keep moving. Never let them surround you.
Somewhere to your left, you could hear Dean roaring, his voice full of rage and adrenaline. To your right, Sam's war cry echoed through the warehouse. The three of you moved like parts of a machine, covering each other's blind spots, working in the synchronicity that only came from a lifetime of hunting together.
You took down three vampires in quick succession, your arms burning with effort. Then four. Five. But they kept coming, an endless wave of fangs and claws and inhuman strength.
Your lungs burned. Sweat poured down your face, stinging your eyes. You were getting tired, your swings getting slower, less precise. How many had you killed? Ten? Fifteen? And still they kept coming.
You risked a glance at your brothers. Dean was a whirlwind of violence, his face splattered with blood, his machete moving so fast it was almost a blur. But even he was slowing down, his breathing labored.
Sam was holding his own, using his height and reach to his advantage, but you could see the exhaustion setting in. You could see the moment his attention locked on two vampires in front of him, see him preparing for their attack.
You could also see the third vampire coming up behind him, moving with predatory silence, claws extended and ready to tear through Sam's back.
Time seemed to slow down. You saw it all with crystal clarity: the vampire's trajectory, the angle of its attack, the exact moment it would reach Sam. You saw Sam, oblivious, all his focus on the threat in front of him. You saw the way this would end—Sam on the ground, bleeding out, while you and Dean were too far away to help.
You didn't think. Didn't hesitate. Didn't consider the consequences or your own safety or what would happen after. You just moved.
You threw yourself between Sam and the attacking vampire, your own machete coming up but not fast enough, not nearly fast enough. The vampire's claws raked across your side like knives, tearing through your shirt and the flesh beneath. You felt your ribs crack under the impact, felt something inside you break and shift in a way that was fundamentally wrong.
The pain was white-hot and all-consuming, stealing your breath and your vision. You hit the concrete floor hard enough to rattle your teeth, your machete skittering out of reach across the blood-slick floor. Your hand reached for it instinctively, but your body wouldn't cooperate. Nothing worked right. Everything was pain and the wet warmth of blood spreading across your side.
You tried to breathe and couldn't. Tried again and felt something in your chest shift, felt a strange bubbling sensation that you recognized from a hunt three years ago when Dean had taken a werewolf's claws to the chest.
Punctured lung. Maybe two.
The vampire loomed over you, its face twisted into a gross smile. Its fangs were extended, its eyes black and hungry. This was it. This was how it ended. After all these years, all these hunts, all these times you'd cheated death—this was the one that would finally claim you.
You'd saved Sam, though. That was something. That was everything.
The vampire lunged down toward your throat, and you closed your eyes, not wanting to see death coming.
But then there was a flash of silver and a wet, meaty sound, and suddenly the vampire's head was rolling across the floor, its body collapsing beside you.
Dean. Dean was there, his face a mask of fury and fear, his machete still raised. "SAM! GET HER OUT OF HERE!"
You tried to protest, tried to tell them you could still fight, but when you tried to breathe, something inside you shifted wrong and all that came out was a wet, rattling gasp. Blood bubbled up in your throat, coppery and thick.
Sam's face appeared above you, and you'd never seen him look like that before—white with panic, his eyes wide and terrified, his hands shaking as they reached for you. "Oh God. Oh God, no—"
"M'fine," you managed, though the taste of copper flooded your mouth. Speaking made something in your chest pull and tear, and you couldn't stop the whimper that escaped. "Help Dean—"
"Dean can handle it. Can you stand?" But even as he asked, you both knew the answer. His hands were already sliding under you, careful of your injuries but urgent.
You couldn't. You absolutely couldn't. But you'd be damned if you'd say it out loud, if you'd admit that kind of weakness when Dean was still fighting, still surrounded, still in danger.
Sam didn't wait for an answer. He hauled you up, taking all of your weight, one arm around your back and the other under your knees. The movement sent fresh agony lancing through your side, and you couldn't stop the scream that tore from your throat. It came out as more of a wet gurgle, blood spraying from your lips.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam was chanting as he half-ran, half-stumbled toward a side exit, holding you against his chest. Each step jolted something inside you, and you could feel consciousness slipping away, could feel your body starting to shut down.
Behind you, you heard the sounds of Dean's continued fight—grunts and curses and the wet sound of his blade finding homes, the thud of bodies hitting the floor. You heard him shouting something, maybe your name, maybe Sam's, you couldn't tell anymore.
"Dean," you tried to say, but it came out as barely a whisper. "Don't leave—"
"He'll be fine," Sam said, and you'd never heard his voice shake like that before, never heard him sound so young and scared. "He'll be right behind us. Just hold on, okay? Please hold on."
You wanted to tell him you would. Wanted to reassure him the way you'd been doing since he was six years old and afraid of the dark. But the darkness was creeping in now, black spots dancing across your vision, and you were so tired. So, so tired.
The last thing you saw before Sam pushed through the door was your other younger brother, surrounded by bodies, covered in blood, still fighting like the warrior he'd been trained to be since he was a child.
Just like always, you thought as the darkness crept in around the edges of your vision, as your eyes fluttered closed despite your best efforts to keep them open. Always the hero. Always protecting everyone.
Then everything went black, and you knew nothing at all.
You woke up to the sound of arguing.
"—should've been more careful! We should've had better intel! I should've—" Sam's voice was ragged, hoarse in a way that suggested he'd been shouting or crying or both.
"You think I don't know that? You think I'm not—" Dean's voice cracked, and there was a long pause filled with something that sounded like a choked-off sob. "She threw herself in front of you, Sam. She didn't even hesitate. She just—Christ, there was so much blood."
"I know. I know." Sam's voice broke too. "I should've seen him coming, I should've been paying attention. If I had just—"
"Then whose fault is it?" Sam demanded, and you'd never heard him sound so angry, so broken. "She's lying in that bed right now because I wasn't watching my six. Because I was careless. Because—"
"Both of you need to stop."
Your voice came out as barely a whisper, rough and painful, like you'd swallowed broken glass. But it cut through their argument like a knife, bringing immediate silence.
Immediately, two faces appeared in your line of sight—Sam on one side of the bed, Dean on the other, both looking haggard and exhausted. Dean's eyes were rimmed with red, his face drawn and pale under the blood stains he hadn't bothered to wash off yet. Sam looked even worse, if that was possible. His hair was a mess, his shirt torn and bloody, and his eyes were swollen like he'd been crying.
"Hey," Dean said, his voice gentler than you'd heard it in years, in decades maybe. His hand found yours on the bed, gripping it like a lifeline. "Welcome back."
You took inventory of yourself. You were in a bed—not a hospital bed, thank God, but something softer. A clinic maybe, or a safe house. The room was dim, curtains drawn against what looked like daylight outside. Your torso was wrapped in bandages tight enough to restrict your breathing even further. Every breath hurt, a sharp stabbing pain in your ribs that radiated down your side.
But you were alive. That was something.
"How bad?" you asked, though you could already guess. You'd had enough injuries over the years to know what a serious one felt like.
"Bad enough." Sam's jaw was tight, and he wouldn't quite meet your eyes. "Three broken ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding. The clinic patched you up but you're going to be down for a while. The doctor said—" His voice cracked again, and he had to pause, swallowing hard. "He said if we'd gotten you here fifteen minutes later, you wouldn't have made it."
The weight of that hung in the air between you. Fifteen minutes. The difference between life and death, measured in minutes.
"How long what?" Dean's thumb was rubbing circles on the back of your hand, probably without him even realizing it. A gesture of comfort that was so unlike him it made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with your injuries.
"How long have I been out?"
"Two days," Sam said quietly. "They had to do surgery to fix the internal bleeding and reinflate your lung. You've been unconscious since we got here."
Two days. You'd lost two days. "The nest—"
"Is over," Dean interrupted firmly. His green eyes were hard, determined. "We torched it. Every last one of them. It's done."
"We should move on to the next case. There was that thing in Montana—"
"There is no next case." Dean's hand tightened on yours, not painfully but with absolute conviction. "Not for a while. We're staying put until you're healed."
You stared at him, trying to make sense of the words. Dean Winchester, who'd hunted with a dislocated shoulder and broken fingers and a concussion that had him seeing double, was suggesting they stay put? "You can't be serious."
"Dead serious." He crossed his arms, falling into that stubborn stance you'd seen a thousand times. But his eyes betrayed him, still too shiny, still full of fear that hadn't quite faded. "You almost died. You think we're just gonna slap a bandaid on you and keep going like nothing happened?"
"People are dying out there—"
"And they'll keep dying whether we're hunting or not," Sam said quietly, but with steel underneath the softness. "But we're not losing you. Not for this. Not for anything. Do you understand me? We're not losing you."
There was something in his voice—something raw and honest and absolutely terrified that you weren't used to hearing from Sam. From either of them. They were the ones who charged into danger, who took the risks, who needed protecting. Not you. Never you.
You looked between your brothers, really seeing them for the first time in a while. When had Dean gotten those lines around his eyes, those streaks of gray just starting at his temples? When had Sam's face become so drawn, so tired, worn down by years of hunting and loss and trauma? When had they stopped being the boys you'd raised and become these haunted, exhausted men?
When had you stopped noticing?
"I've been taking care of you since you were kids," you said softly, your throat tight with emotions you didn't want to name. "I don't know how to... not do that."
Dean pulled up a chair and sat down heavily, like his legs couldn't hold him anymore. He didn't let go of your hand. "Yeah, well. Maybe it's time you let us return the favor."
"Yes, we do." Sam moved his chair closer, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Do you have any idea what it was like? Carrying you out of there, feeling your blood soaking through my shirt, hearing you struggle to breathe? Do you know what it was like to not know if you were going to make it?"
You didn't have an answer for that. Couldn't imagine what it must have been like because you'd always been the one doing the worrying, the one staying up at night listening to them breathe, the one checking that they were okay.
"You saved my life," Sam continued, his voice thick. "You threw yourself in front of a vampire for me without even thinking about it. And all I could think while I was running for the car was that I couldn't remember the last time I told you thank you. For anything. For all the times you've saved us, patched us up, kept us going when we wanted to quit."
"You don't need to thank me for that. You're my brothers. It's what family does."
"Exactly," Dean said firmly. "It's what family does. Which means you let us take care of you now. No arguments. No trying to soldier through it. No pushing yourself before you're ready. Got it?"
You wanted to argue. Every instinct was screaming at you to push back, to insist you were fine, to get up and prove you could still do your job. But your body had other ideas. Just the thought of moving made everything hurt worse, and you could feel exhaustion pulling at you again despite having been unconscious for two days.
"Okay," you whispered, and watched both of them sag with relief. "Okay."
The first few days were the hardest.
You weren't used to being the one in bed, weren't used to being the one who needed help. Every instinct screamed at you to get up, to push through the pain, to take care of your brothers the way you always had. The way you were supposed to.
But your body had other ideas.
Simple things became monumental tasks. Sitting up made your ribs scream in protest. Getting to the bathroom required help that made you want to cry from sheer frustration. Eating made you nauseous, partly from the pain medication and partly from the way your body was trying to heal itself from catastrophic damage.
And through it all, Sam and Dean were there.
Dean cooked—actual food, not just burgers and takeout. The first morning you were coherent enough to eat, he appeared with a bowl of soup that smelled like childhood, like safety, like home. You stared at it, something in your chest squeezing tight.
"Mom's recipe. Yeah." Dean set it down on the little table they'd moved next to your bed, not meeting your eyes. His ears were slightly red, like he was embarrassed. "I, uh. I remembered you used to make it when Sam or I got sick. Figured maybe you'd want some."
You didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded. Dean helped you sit up, carefully arranging pillows behind you to support your injured ribs, his hands surprisingly gentle. When you finally tasted the soup, it was perfect. Exactly the way Mom used to make it, exactly the way you'd been making it for your brothers for years.
"Where did you learn this?" you asked when you could speak without your voice shaking.
He shrugged, busying himself with adjusting your blankets. "Mom taught me. Before... everything. I was only four, but I remember standing on a chair in the kitchen, helping her stir the pot. She told me it was special soup, that it had love in it." His voice went rough. "After she died, that memory kind of faded. But a few years back, I was going through some of Dad's things and I found an old recipe card in Mom's handwriting. Taught myself how to make it again."
"Did you ever make it for Sam?"
"No." He finally looked at you, and there was guilt written all over his face. "Was always too busy hunting. Too busy surviving. Too busy being pissed off at Dad or worried about Sam or dealing with whatever apocalypse was coming next." His throat worked as he swallowed. "I'm starting to realize I've been too busy for a lot of things."
You didn't know what to say to that, so you just ate your soup while Dean watched, making sure you finished most of it. When you were done, he took the bowl and squeezed your shoulder gently before leaving to clean up.
Sam handled the practical stuff with the same methodical efficiency he brought to research. He kept track of your medications—and you had several, including antibiotics, pain management, and something to prevent blood clots. He set alarms on his phone so he'd remember when you needed your next dose. He changed your bandages twice a day, his face set in careful concentration, his hands steady even though you could see the fear in his eyes every time he saw the angry red lines of your stitches.
"You should've seen how much they had to stitch up," he said one afternoon while changing your dressing. He was trying for casual but missing by a mile. "The doctor said the claws came within an inch of nicking your liver. An inch."
"But they didn't," you pointed out, trying not to wince as he cleaned the wounds. The antiseptic stung like hell.
"Yeah. This time." He finished bandaging you up and sat back, his expression troubled. "What about next time? What about the hunt after that? You're not invincible, even though you act like it."
"None of us are invincible, Sam. That's not exactly news."
"No, but we act like we are. Like we can just keep pushing and pushing and nothing will ever catch up with us." He started putting away the medical supplies, his movements jerky and agitated. "We've been taking advantage of you. Of how much you give, how much you sacrifice. And I didn't even realize it until I thought I was going to lose you."
The vulnerability in his voice made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with broken ribs. "You haven't been taking advantage—"
"Yes, we have." He turned to face you fully, his jaw set. "When's the last time you slept a full night? When's the last time you did something for yourself instead of for us? When's the last time we made you feel like you mattered, not because of what you do but because of who you are?"
You opened your mouth and then closed it, because you didn't have an answer. Couldn't remember the last time you'd done anything just for yourself. Couldn't remember the last time you'd felt like you mattered beyond your utility.
Sam saw it on your face and his expression crumpled. "That's what I thought."
They moved the laptop into your room so you could at least help with research, even if you couldn't hunt. You expected them to bring you cases, to ask for your expertise the way they always did.
Instead, Dean brought you a stack of books from the local library. "Sam said you used to like these," he said, setting down three well-worn paperbacks. They were romance novels—the kind you used to read when the boys were asleep and you had a few precious minutes to yourself. You hadn't read one in years.
"Where did these come from?"
"Library in town. The librarian was really helpful once I told her I was looking for something for my sister." He ducked his head, looking almost shy. "Thought maybe you could use something that wasn't about monsters for once."
After he left, you picked up the first book and ran your fingers over the cover. Such a small thing. Such a thoughtful thing. When was the last time someone had done something like this for you?
You started reading and lost yourself in a world that had nothing to do with hunting, where the biggest dangers were misunderstandings and the happily-ever-afters were guaranteed. It was escapism in its purest form, and you devoured it.
Sam brought you tea—not coffee, but actual tea in flavors you didn't even know he knew you liked. Chamomile for bedtime. Green tea with honey in the mornings. He'd clearly done research, figured out what would help with healing and pain management beyond just the medications.
"The chamomile helps with inflammation," he explained, setting a steaming mug on your bedside table. "And it'll help you sleep better. The pain meds can make your sleep cycle wonky."
"Since when do you know about herbal tea?"
He gave you a small smile. "Since I spent two days thinking I was going to lose my big sister and decided I should probably learn how to take care of the people I love."
The casual way he said it—the people I love—made your throat tight.
And slowly, painfully, you started to let them. Started to accept the care they were offering instead of deflecting or insisting you were fine. It went against every instinct you'd honed over thirty-plus years, but you tried.
Because the alternative was watching them hurt, watching them shoulder guilt that wasn't theirs to carry.
Dean took over all the cooking, and you discovered he was actually good at it when he bothered to try. He made chicken soup from scratch, grilled cheese that was perfectly crispy, even attempted a lasagna that was only slightly burned on the edges. He'd appear at mealtimes with a plate and that determined look on his face that meant he wasn't leaving until you ate.
"You're worse than I ever was," you complained one afternoon, but you ate the sandwich he'd made anyway.
"Yeah, well. Now you know how we felt." He settled into the chair next to your bed, his own sandwich in hand. "It's annoying as hell, isn't it? Having someone constantly hovering?"
"Good. Maybe you'll remember that next time you try to go full mother hen on us." But his tone was gentle, affectionate even. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. "You know, I was thinking about that time Sam had pneumonia. Remember? He was like, seven?"
"I remember. You were eleven. Dad was on a hunt and couldn't come back."
"You stayed up for three days straight taking care of him. Wouldn't let him out of your sight. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and finding you asleep in a chair next to his bed, and you'd wake up every time he coughed." Dean's jaw worked. "I remember thinking you were the strongest person in the world. That nothing could ever hurt you because you were just... you. Invincible."
"Let me finish." He set down his sandwich, his green eyes serious. "I spent so many years believing that. Believing you'd always be okay, always be there, always be the one holding us together. And I never stopped to think about what that cost you. Never asked if you were okay, if you needed anything, if the weight was too much." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry for taking you for granted."
Your vision blurred with tears. "You didn't—"
"Yes, I did. We both did. And we're going to do better. I'm going to do better." He reached out and took your hand. "You're not just the person who takes care of us. You're our sister. Our big sister. And you deserve to be taken care of too."
You couldn't speak past the lump in your throat, so you just squeezed his hand and let the tears fall.
The nightmares started on day five.
You'd been doing well—or as well as could be expected. The pain was manageable with medication. Your lung was healing. You could sit up without wanting to scream. Progress.
But at night, your subconscious had other ideas.
You dreamed about the warehouse. About the vampire's claws tearing through your flesh. About the moment you realized you were going to die. But worse than that, you dreamed about variations. About Sam dying because you weren't fast enough. About Dean being overwhelmed. About both of them dead on the warehouse floor while you watched, unable to move, unable to help.
You woke up gasping, pain lancing through your ribs as your body instinctively tried to curl into itself. The room was dark, and for a moment you couldn't remember where you were, couldn't separate dream from reality.
"Hey, hey. You're okay. You're safe."
A lamp clicked on, and Sam was there, materializing from the chair in the corner where you hadn't even realized he'd been sitting. His hair was mussed from sleep, and he was wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt.
"Sam?" Your voice came out shaky, breathless. "What are you—"
"Dean and I have been taking turns. Sleeping in here." He moved to sit on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you. "In case you needed anything during the night."
"You don't have to do that."
"Yeah, we do." He reached for the water glass on your bedside table and handed it to you. Your hands were shaking too badly to hold it steady, so he helped, one hand supporting yours. "Nightmares?"
There was no point in lying. "Yeah."
You took a sip of water, buying yourself time. The cool liquid soothed your raw throat. "It's stupid."
"It's not stupid if it's bothering you."
You set the water down and closed your eyes. "I keep seeing you die. Both of you. Different ways, but always... always because I wasn't fast enough or strong enough or good enough to save you."
Sam was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I have those dreams too. About you and Dean. Have had them since I was a kid."
"Really. I used to crawl into bed with you when they got bad. Do you remember?" He smiled slightly. "You'd let me stay, and you'd tell me stories until I fell back asleep. Made-up ones about a world where we weren't hunters, where we were just normal kids doing normal things."
You did remember. A small Sam in Batman pajamas, his face tear-stained, clutching a stuffed animal he'd tried to pretend he was too old for. You'd made up elaborate stories about the three of you living in a real house, going to regular school, having regular problems.
"I remember," you whispered.
"Well, I can't tell stories worth a damn, but I can stay. If you want." He looked uncertain, vulnerable in a way that reminded you of that little boy. "I know you're used to doing everything yourself, but you don't have to be alone. Not with this."
You wanted to say no. Wanted to insist you were fine, that you didn't need someone babysitting you. But the nightmare was still too close, your heart still racing, and the truth was you didn't want to be alone.
"Okay," you said quietly.
Sam's face softened with relief. He adjusted the pillows behind you, making sure you were comfortable, and then settled back in the chair. He picked up a book from the floor—one of the romance novels Dean had brought you—and opened it.
"Reading to you. Like you used to read to me." He found his place in the book, his expression determined. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes. Chapter seven. 'The ballroom was magnificent, all glittering chandeliers and—'"
"Sam, you don't have to—"
"I know. But I want to." He looked up at you, his eyes soft. "Let me do this. Please."
So you did. You lay back and closed your eyes and let your baby brother read you a romance novel in his deep, soothing voice. He read until your breathing evened out, until the tension bled from your shoulders, until you felt yourself drifting.
The last thing you heard before sleep claimed you was Sam's voice, steady and sure, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.
It was late, almost two in the morning about a week and a half into your recovery. You'd woken up from another nightmare—the vampire again, always the vampire—but this time, when you opened your eyes, it was Dean in the chair.
He wasn't asleep. He was just sitting there in the dim light of the lamp they kept on low, his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
His head snapped up, and you saw the tracks of tears on his face before he quickly wiped them away. "Hey. You okay?"
"Bad dream. I'm fine now." You shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable. The pain was less these days, more of a constant ache than the sharp agony it had been. "Are you?"
He let out a long breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. "I can't stop seeing it. It's been almost two weeks yet it keeps replaying. You on that warehouse floor. All that blood. The way you looked at me, like you were saying goodbye." His voice broke. "I thought you were dead. For about thirty seconds, after Sam got you outside and I finished off the last of those bloodsuckers, I came out and saw you in his arms and you were so still and there was so much blood, and I thought—"
He couldn't finish. Just sat there with his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking.
You'd seen Dean cry before. Not often—he was too much like John, too determined to be strong, to never show weakness. But you'd seen it. When Sam went to Stanford. When Dad died. When Sam died, and died again, and almost died a dozen other times.
But this was different. This was Dean breaking open, all the fear and guilt and grief he'd been holding in pouring out.
"Come here," you said softly.
He looked up, his eyes red. "You're hurt, I don't want to—"
"Dean, get your ass over here and hug your sister."
A wet laugh escaped him, and he stood up and carefully, so carefully, sat on the edge of your bed. You opened your arms and he leaned in, letting you hold him the way you used to when he was small and the weight of the world got too heavy.
"I'm okay," you murmured, one hand stroking his hair. "I'm right here. I'm okay."
"You almost weren't." His voice was muffled against your shoulder. "And I realized I never told you. Never said what you mean to me. What you've always meant."
"Dean, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." He pulled back enough to look at you, and his face was raw, open in a way you rarely saw. "You raised me. Not Dad—you. You were the one who made sure I did my homework and brushed my teeth and knew how to cook something other than cereal. You were the one who came to my school plays when Dad was on a hunt. You were the one who taught me how to tie a tie and how to talk to girls and how to be a decent human being despite everything."
"You would have been fine without me—"
"No, I wouldn't have. I'd be dead, or in jail, or just... lost." He took your hand, gripping it tight. "You kept me human when everything else was trying to make me into nothing but a weapon. You kept Sam innocent as long as possible. You held this family together with duct tape and sheer force of will, and we never even said thank you."
Your eyes were burning, tears threatening to spill over. "You're my brothers. I love you. I'd do anything for you."
"I know. That's the problem. You'll do anything for us, including die, and you don't even think twice about it." He squeezed your hand. "But we love you too. So damn much. And I need you to understand that your life matters just as much as ours. You're not just the person who takes care of us. You're not expendable. You're not less important because you're always the one sacrificing."
"Yeah, you do. I can see it in the way you threw yourself at that vampire. The way you never think about yourself, never consider that we might need you to stick around more than we need another save." His jaw was tight. "You're the best of us. You always have been. And I'm gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know that. Making sure you understand that you matter. Not because of what you do for us, but because you're you, and we don't want to imagine a world without you in it."
You couldn't hold it back anymore. The tears came, and with them, something else—a release of pressure you hadn't even known you'd been carrying. All the years of putting yourself last, of believing your worth was tied to your usefulness, of thinking you were only as valuable as what you could provide.
Dean held you while you cried, while you finally let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserved to be cared for too.
"I was so scared," you admitted when you could speak again. "Not of dying, but of leaving you two alone. Of not being there when you needed me."
"We'll always need you," Dean said firmly. "But not like this. Not at the cost of yourself. We need you alive and happy and knowing that you're loved. Okay?"
You nodded against his shoulder. "Okay."
You stayed like that for a while, just holding each other in the quiet darkness. Two people who'd been through hell and back, who'd lost so much, who'd survived when they shouldn't have.
Eventually, Dean pulled back and gave you that crooked smile that made him look ten years younger. "Now get some sleep. And that's an order."
"Since when do you give me orders?"
"Since right now. I'm pulling rank as an older brother."
"You're not even older than me. You're older than Sam."
"Still counts." He stood up and started to move back to the chair, but you caught his hand.
"Stay," you said. "Please. Just... I don't want to be alone."
His expression softened. "Yeah. Okay."
He settled back on the edge of the bed, his hand still in yours, and started telling you a story. Not about hunting, not about monsters, but about a memory you'd almost forgotten—a time when you were kids, before Mom died, when the four of you had gone to the beach and Sam had tried to eat sand and Dean had built an elaborate castle that got destroyed by the tide.
You drifted off to the sound of his voice, feeling safer than you had in years.
Six weeks later, you stood in front of the mirror in the motel bathroom and examined yourself critically.
The stitches had been removed a week ago, leaving angry red scars across your ribs that would probably fade to white eventually. The bruising was mostly gone. You could breathe deeply without pain. Your strength had returned gradually through the careful exercise routine Sam had researched and supervised.
You were healed. Or as healed as you were going to get.
There was a hunt—a simple salt-and-burn in Nebraska. A ghost terrorizing a family, standard haunting. Dean had brought it up hesitantly at breakfast, watching you carefully for your reaction.
"If you're not ready—" Sam had started.
"I'm ready," you'd said, and meant it.
But now, standing here about to go on your first hunt since the warehouse, you felt the nerves flutter in your stomach. What if you froze up? What if the nightmares had been a warning and you weren't as okay as you thought?
What if you got one of them killed because you weren't good enough anymore?
A knock on the door interrupted your spiraling thoughts. "You almost ready?" Dean called. "We should hit the road in ten if we want to make it before dark."
You took a deep breath—full and deep, no pain—and opened the door.
Dean was standing there in his usual hunting gear, but his eyes were different. Softer. More attentive. "You sure about this?"
"Are you asking because you don't think I can handle it, or because you're worried?"
"Both." He didn't look away, didn't try to hide it. "I know you're healed. But I also know that first hunt back after a major injury can mess with your head."
It was such a Dean thing to say—honest and protective and aware in a way he wouldn't have been before. They'd both changed over the past six weeks. Had both made an effort to be more present, more communicative, more aware of what you needed instead of just what they needed.
"I'm nervous," you admitted. "But I'm ready. I promise."
He studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But we're doing this smart. You hang back unless absolutely necessary. Sam and I take point. And if at any point you need to tap out—"
"I'll tell you." You grabbed your jacket and weapons bag. "I promise. No more playing hero."
"Says the woman who literally threw herself at a vampire." But he was smiling, that fond exasperated smile that meant he was proud of you and annoyed with you in equal measure.
Sam was waiting by the Impala, his own gear already loaded. He looked up as you and Dean emerged from the motel room, and you saw the same concern in his eyes that had been in Dean's.
"Stop looking at me like I'm made of glass," you said, but there was no heat in it. "I'm fine. I can do this."
"We know you can," Sam said. "We just want to make sure you don't have to."
The drive to Nebraska was different than it would have been before. Dean didn't just commandeer the radio—he asked what you wanted to listen to. Sam didn't bury himself in research—he engaged in actual conversation, asking how you were feeling, telling stories about things that had happened while you were recovering.
They were trying. Really trying. And it meant everything.
The hunt itself was textbook. The ghost was a woman who'd been murdered by her husband in the 1950s and buried in the backyard. You found the bones, Sam salted them, Dean lit the match, and the ghost went up in flames.
Simple. Clean. No complications.
But when you were standing in that backyard, when you saw the ghost appear and rush toward the family you were protecting, you felt it. That split-second of hesitation, that flash of fear.
Then Dean was there, stepping smoothly between you and the ghost, his shotgun loaded with rock salt. "Stay back," he said calmly, and fired.
Sam was on your other side, his presence solid and reassuring. Together, the three of you worked as a unit, protecting each other, watching each other's backs.
When it was over, when the bones were burning and the family was safe and you were walking back to the Impala, Dean threw his arm around your shoulders.
"Good work," he said, and there was pride in his voice.
"You were here. You had our backs. That's everything." Sam came up on your other side, and suddenly you were walking between them, flanked by your brothers, protected and protecting in equal measure.
It felt right. Felt like maybe things were going to be okay.
That night, back at a motel in some forgettable town, the three of you settled into your familiar routine. But it was different now, better. Dean brought back food—real food from an actual restaurant, not just fast food. Sam set up the laptop but included you in the research instead of just presenting you with conclusions.
And when you started to automatically check their weapons, started to fall back into that caretaker role, Dean gently took the gun from your hands.
"We got it," he said. "Why don't you relax? Read one of those books. Sam and I can handle cleanup."
You wanted to argue, but Sam was already nodding, already taking his own weapon to clean. They had it handled. They didn't need you to do it.
They just needed you to be there.
So you picked up the book you'd been reading—the third in a series Dean had been quietly bringing you—and settled on your bed. And you read while your brothers moved around the room, their presence comforting and solid.
At some point, Dean brought you a beer without being asked. Sam tossed you a blanket when he noticed you'd pulled your feet up. Small gestures, but they meant the world.
"Thank you," you said softly.
"For what?" Dean asked, looking up from the journal he was updating.
"For this. For taking care of me. For..." You struggled to find the words. "For making me feel like I matter."
Sam closed his laptop and came to sit on the edge of your bed. Dean abandoned the journal and joined him. Your brothers, flanking you, their expressions serious and full of love.
"You do matter," Sam said firmly. "More than you know."
"We love you," Dean added. "Not because of what you do for us. Just because you're you. Our big sister. The person who's been keeping us together since we were kids. The best person we know."
Your eyes burned with tears—happy tears this time. "I love you guys too. So much."
"We know," Sam said, and there was that gentle smile that reminded you why you'd dedicated your life to protecting these men. "But now it's time to let us love you back. Deal?"
Dean grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels. "What do you want to watch?"
It was such a small question, but it represented such a huge shift. He was asking what you wanted. Considering your preferences. Including you in the decision instead of just making it for you.
"Dealer's choice," you said, but you were smiling.
"Nope. Your turn to pick." He handed you the remote. "And before you try to give it back, remember that Sam and I have already agreed that you get final say on TV for the next month. Non-negotiable."
"Yeah, but you love us anyway."
You did. God, you really did.
You picked some random movie—a romantic comedy that you knew neither of them would normally choose but both would sit through because it was your pick. And as the opening credits rolled, Sam grabbed the blanket and stretched it across all three of you, and Dean settled in with his beer, and you sat between them feeling more at home than you had in years.
This was family. Not just the protecting and the hunting and the saving. But this—the quiet moments, the care given and received, the knowledge that you were loved not for what you did but for who you were.
You'd spent so long being the one who held everything together that you'd forgotten what it felt like to be held.
But your brothers were showing you. Day by day, moment by moment, they were showing you that you didn't have to carry the weight alone anymore.
And finally, finally, you were learning to let them.
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