I wish Sam and Dean were real. I wish I would be woken up in the middle of the night to Dean throwing a duffle bag at me while I was asleep and tell me to pack what I need because we’re going on a hunt. I want to get out of bed half awake, pack up my belongings and climb into the impala. I want to fall asleep in the back seat, or in the front head resting on Dean’s or Sam’s shoulder to the sound of the radio and the soft vibrations of the engine. I want to be picked up by Sam or Dean and carried into the motel room after being injured on a hunt and Dean tend to my wounds and teach me how to stitch up my own injuries and clean them with alcohol. I want Sam to be sitting by my side talking to me through the pain of a wound being stitched without being numbed first. I want to sit with the boys after a long day of investigation, research and closing a case; drinking and laughing while watching TV before we have to head back to the bunker. I want to read with Sam. I want to sing and dance with Dean to old classic rock songs. I want to spend free days cleaning the bunker with Dean, cooking burgers for Sam, and even sit and listen to Dean as he teaches me about baby and how to fix her and buff out a scratch. I want to braid Sam’s hair and count Dean’s freckles. I want this life. I want this reality. It’s comforting and I am not sorry for wanting it.