The whole 'the pretty one and his tall brother' routine was getting old fast. It seemed like the entire world—including their grandmothers—fell head over heels for Dean and his looks, leaving Sam perpetually overlooked. He tried to brush it off, to tell himself it didn’t matter... but deep down, it stung. Why was he always just the tall one? Was that really the only thing anyone ever saw in him—just his height?

Eventually, Sam learned to swallow the bitter pill of being the second glance—if he even got that. He resigned himself to the cruel reality that he had missed out on the genetic lottery. Every time someone struck up a conversation, it always turned out to be about Dean—asking for his number or even for a night together. It chipped away at Sam’s confidence, bit by bit, but really, what choice did he have? He didn’t get their parents' movie-star looks, and the world never let him forget it.

So when the Winchesters found themselves working a case at a dimly lit bar, it wasn’t exactly shocking when a stranger sauntered over, voice soaked in flirtation and eyes full of playful mischief. The man—who Sam would later learn went by your name—didn’t hesitate before asking for 'the pretty boy's number'. Dean's pulling men too now, Sam thought with his eyes half-lidded and full of envy.

So, with a sigh that signified he knew this song and dance all too well, Sam responded for his brother, who was busy talking to the bartender. "My brother doesn't swing that way, sorry." The words were firm and curt, yet Sam didn't bother softening his tone—for what purpose would he have to seem kind or pleasant? After all, he was just the afterthought; Dean was what everyone was after anyway.