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Sam Winchester was never the most understanding child. Ever since he started walking, he longed to have a normal life, with normal friends and a normal school and a normal family. Once he found out the truth about monsters, he realized how far away his dream seemed and that he was just clawing at nothing, an endless void that swallowed Sam whole. He knew what to expect when he asked his father if they could stay in this town, or if he could finish out the school year in Denver. But, despite all that, he kept his shaggy little head held high and kept marching forward.
Now, on the contrary, Dean Winchester knew that a, “normal life,” didn’t exist when your mom was murdered by a strange demon with yellow eyes and your dad went batshit crazy to kill every last monster on this God-forsaken earth. He knew that. He just thought he wouldn’t have to clarify that to his kid brother, Sam. That kid’s got a brain like no other, and an apple pie life seemed like just another goal to reach for him, and when he sets his mind on doing something, he freaking does it.
To be honest, that scared Dean. Even though Sammy’s only ten, he seems to want to live in every town they visit, despite the Wendigo hiding around the corner of the playground, or the Rougarou creeping in the alley next to the pub. Dean has had to explain more than a few times that the family business is more important than any one school, town, or person they see. And, every time, Sammy argues with Dad about how unfair it is that he has to move around and he can’t make friends. Dean used to try and back him up, but he has since learned that Sam and Dad have a rocky relationship and he should get used to it.
Sam and Dean have always been inseparable. His father didn’t even have to tell him the Golden Rule, “Watch out for Sammy.” It was an instinct, as a baby might cry or babble endlessly. Sam’s life will always infinitely more important than Dean’s, no matter what the little squirt had to say about it. Dean had to be strong for Sam, even when he’s at his breaking point. In fact, there was only one time Dean could recall in which he snapped in front of his kid brother, the dam of emotions he’s built crumbling, and boy, was this memory a bad one.
He could clearly remember the motel room, with its shabby, peeling walls and stained brown carpet. A window was wide open next to the bed, and he could recall the breeze rustling the curtains and how the view outside was that of a shit convenient store. Sammy had been sick for the past few days, and Dad had to get him out of the crowded Impala before he blew chunks. While Dean was perfectly content to cruise around in the car for days, he brother was turning green and needed his rest, and he always came first. And so, Dad dropped them off at the nearest motel he could find and left to get food, and fifteen year old Dean was left to care for Sam. Not that he minded.
Dean half-carried Sam to the single bed that was placed next to the bathroom door. Dean sent a silent thank you to whatever human had placed the bed in that spot as he laid his brother on the mattress, despite the slurred protests.
“De, ‘m fine,” Sam grumbled, his brown eyes squinting at Dean pleadingly. The older boy responded by pulling the thin, stained sheets over the sick kid, half expecting Sam to struggle. The boy seemed to always try to reassure Dean that he was fine, that he could walk by himself, that he could feed himself, and whatever else he was feeling ‘well enough to do’. Dean normally knew when to call bullshit, but there were multiple times when he had written off one of Sam’s diseases as something less severe due to his little brother’s acting, and those occasions never ended well for the kid.
Sam seemed drained, and instead of arguing he sunk into the bed, sniffling miserably. “I’m gonna sleep,” he murmured, and Dean wondered if the words were meant for himself or his brother. The ten year old’s eyes fell shut, and he almost immediately succumbed to the fatigue of being sick. With a sigh, Dean dragged a wooden chair away from the kitchen and set it next to Sam’s bed, careful not to make any loud, sudden noises. He then snatched a stained, pine-green pillow from the couch and laid it on the chair before settling on top of it, crossing his arms. He leaned back, listening to Sam’s raspy breathing, his green eyes never once leaving Sam’s face. It was the most relaxed he had seen the kid all day, and Dean found the slightest bit of relief in that fact. Sammy got sick often and Dean knew he shouldn’t be too worried, but it was rare that he got as delirious and clueless as he was now.
Dean didn’t realize until ten minutes later how tiring that car ride had been, and despite his silent protests, he began to drift into the world of sleep.
Of course, this memory wouldn’t have been horrific unless some sort of monster intervened.
And that’s exactly what happened.
Dean must’ve only been out for five minutes before he was awakened by a rough shove to the ground, landing on his stomach as the rickety chair was yanked from beneath him. His eyes opened with a shock, and he didn’t waste any time before he tried to scramble to his feet, only for his hair to be grabbed and painfully yanked backwards, forcing his head into an uncomfortable position. His arms were seized behind his back, and as he flailed uselessly, he could see Sammy thrashing on the bed, grunting in pain and confusion as a burly man dragged him to the ground by his leg. “Hey, hey! The kid is helpless to fight back!” Dean shouted, his voice trembling with anger as the sick Sam used whatever energy was left to try and squirm out of his captor’s iron grip. Even if the struggling was useless against the man, who Dean could now see was wearing a skii mask, you had to give it Sam.
Though sick, the younger Winchester could still fight like a wildcat, and Dean was mildly surprised when Sam caught the man’s mask with a slender hand and ripped it off, revealing a large, ugly face with a disfigured nose and a bald, shiny head. His beady, black eyes, which reminded Dean of a pig’s, where glaring bullets into his kid brother. The hand that was pulling Dean’s head released his brown hair, and the older kid lost sight of his brother as his forehead hit the floor. Turning his head so that he was laying on his freckled cheek, he racked his brain for a plan, any freaking idea of how to escape this situation.
Dean struggled under the grip of the man, willing at least one arm to free itself, but to no avail. And that’s when the plan popped into his brain.
Dean thrashed violently under the iron grip on his arms and back, and he was glad that Sammy was too sick to see what was happening or fully understand it. “Cut it out, kid! The less ya struggle, the easier it’ll be to load ya into our car,” the man holding him snapped, his yellowed teeth flashing as he moved into Dean’s sight for just a second. It’s now or never.
With one final kick, the older Winchester fell completely limp, every muscle melting into the disgusting carpet. He forced his face to relax, and since he was aware that that man holding him down was watching him, his eyes fluttered shut, and that’s how they stayed, even when he felt the man climb off of his back. “Uh, Petie? This one’s a little, um…” The man who had been perched on him trailed off, his gruff voice echoing off the motel walls. The man with the pig eyes, who was called Petie, pulled Sammy off of the bed with a thump on the wood floors, from what Dean could hear. “Dean? Getta way fr’m him!” Sam shouted, his slurred words hitting Dean in the gut, and the older brother did all in his power to not show any visible reaction to his brother’s desperate words. “Oh, shuddup, you… you…” Petie paused, seemingly racking his brain for an appropriate insult. “Shrimp!” While Dean didn’t appreciate people making fun or talking badly of Sammy, he knew that the kid had no clue what his attacker was saying to him, due to both his concern for only Dean and his feverish state.
Dean slit his eyes open just in time to see his own captor hurry over to Petie, his movements similar to that of a rat scurrying between chipped, run-down motel walls, a scene which the Winchester brothers had witnessed many times. Both of the criminals were hovering over the lump of brown hair that Dean was proud to call his little brother. Sam refused to cry, his bottom lip trembling from the effort. Dean understood exactly why his brother didn’t sob, like most kids his age would have done, and the older Winchester was rooting for him. Sammy didn’t want to give the huge men standing over him the satisfaction of seeing him cry, and Dean knew that even when he was half out of his mind with sickness, the kid’s stubbornness was still a part of him that was so ingrained into him that it was an instinctual response to almost any situation.
Sammy’s wide, brown eyes flickered over to him, their gazes locking for a second. Confusion flashed in Dean’s brother’s eyes, who was probably surprised to see that Dean was not, in fact, passed out on the floor. Unfortunately for the Winchesters, nothing, even the simple act of making eye contact, ever went the way they brother’s wanted.
Petie, who was the more observant of the two, followed Sam’s confused gaze to Dean, who was too busy trying to read Sammy’s emotions to notice the masked man’s wandering eyes. “Hey, Charlie! Did ya even check to see if the big one’s out? Or did ya’ just leave ‘im there?” Charlie’s head snapped up from Sammy’s face, his black mask still wrapped tightly around his face. Well, the ugly bastard’s seen me. It’s now or never. Dean tensed up as footsteps approached, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as adrenaline coursed through him. Everything was focused on one thing; Sammy. And as Charlie approached him, the footsteps sending vibrations through the ground, he heard Sammy cry out, the sound ripping into Dean, and then the older Winchester heard nothing from the kid. Dean snapped.
He pounced onto Charlie, his hand snatching the skii mask from his face. Petie shouted something in the background, but Dean was too focused on the meaty man who was blocking him from one of the only things in life that mattered to make any sense of the words. Dean raked his nails down the side of his attacker’s clammy, fat cheek, and if Dean had cared enough, he would have realized how similar the two creeps looked. The same crooked nose, the same build, but their eyes were different. Where Petie’s looked like pig eyes, Charlie’s looked cold, hard, and relentless. These guys may be dull, but that didn’t take away anything from their viciousness.
Charlie stumbled backwards, his meaty hands flying up to cover the bloody lines trailed down his face. Dean smiled smugly, the knowledge that the marks would scar giving him satisfaction. “Oh, you little shit!” Charlie growled, his voice laced with pure malice. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you and the useless piece of meat you call your brother! If my brother was like that thing Petie’s takin care of, I would sell him! At least make ‘im somewhat useful!” Dean let out an inhuman snarl, but the sound didn’t do him much good, because next thing he knew, the very chair he had been perched on ten minutes ago hit him square in the face. Dean fell backwards, his head colliding with the wall on the way down.
Spots danced across his vision, and Dean could feel his eyelids drooping despite the older Winchester’s silent protests. But there was something keeping him awake, and that was his only duty in the world, who he couldn’t even look at. Two loud bangs echoed around the motel room, and Dean jerked back into a state of awareness. Ignoring his dizziness, he forced himself to look at the scene before him.
Dad was standing over two large bodies, and Dean nearly collapsed, even more so than he already was, in relief. He almost gave his dad a smirk before he saw the small, shaking frame the appeared to be his brother in his father’s arms. “Sammy!” Dean shouted, launching to his feet, the pain of being knocked nearly unconscious by a wooden chair forgotten. He knelt next to his dad, pushing Sammy’s hair out of his face in an attempt to sooth him. His brother looked so lifeless that Dean would have checked his pulse if not for the small noise that came out of him. “De?” he whimpered, and if not for the circumstances, the older Winchester would have felt bad for his dad, who was cradling Sam. But Dad seemed to know exactly what the best course of action was and let Dean take Sammy from him. “Hey, hey. You’re okay now, you’re fine. It’s not that bad,” Dean soothed, and soon enough, the older Winchester felt tears running down his cheeks. Tears of sadness, tears of joy, tears of frustration? Dean guessed he would never find out which one they were. Thankfully, Dad decided to not acknowledge them, his eyes trained on only Sammy, concern and affection lining his gaze.
Of course, Dad had patched them up later that night, and the family never talked about it again, except for Sam’s inquisitive questions, which the rest of the Winchester’s never answered. Sam was too delirious to remember most of what happened, even the part where Dean had cried over him, and Dean thanked whatever higher power there was that his brother had been saved from such a traumatic experience haunting his memories.
Dean knew that his family would never have an apple pie life. Not when your mom was murdered by a strange demon with yellow eyes. But that didn’t stop Dean from sharing an unbreakable bond with his family. Sure, they had their ups and downs, but, no matter what path they went down, they looked out for each other.
Sam might never stop trying for that apple pie life, but that didn’t stop Dean from making the shitty life they had the best he could make it for his little brother. His family. His reason to keep going.
Sammy.