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dean likes to croon love songs in sammy’s ear as he falls asleep. he wants sam to grow up on love, steeped in love, wants it to be the only thing that matters in sammy’s life. sammy doesn’t need to know about the monsters, the death and fear that constantly surrounds them, threatening to creep around the edges into this quiet moment, the two of them lying in a creaky motel bed. times like these are some of the only times dean lets himself feel safe.
even then he doesn't feel entirely secure. his mind is forever poisoned by the knowledge of the supernatural. dean holds sammy tight against him, rocking him back to sleep. sammy’s nightmares would only get worse if he knew the truth.
so dean sings him a song. he wants to cry with how desperately he wants to protect sam. he wants to scream with how much he loves his baby brother, with how much it hurts to love something that can easily bruise. it's been seven years since he carried sam out of their burning house, and sometimes dean still misses when he was a baby. he was softer then, more loving. but a pure and unconditional love.
the way that sam loves him now makes him uncomfortable. sammy is trying to become dean, and dean doesn’t like it. he knows the rotten core he covers up, doesn’t want it to spread to sam.
so he sings this song to sammy, who squirms under his grasp. “dean! stop,” he complains. it's a song they both know well: their dad plays it in the car during every roadtrip. it's a song that feels both like home and leaving. dean knows all the words. “that’s so embarrassing.”
“i just love you,” dean wants to say. “you’re my little brother, let me love you,” he longs to say. “it kills me that i can’t protect you the way i want to, the way i’m supposed to,” he needs to say. “i wish you would die right now,” he wants to say, “so you never have to worry about the future, and what else is out there. and really, it scares me how much i mean that. i would kill you myself, just to spare you any other kind of pain."
and he does mean it. it makes sense to him. sammy knows dean, better than he knows himself; isn't it better to die at the hand of someone you love, rather than from a strangers? wouldn't it be less scary that way? wouldn't it feel more like love than death?
“fine,” dean replies. he lets go and sammy rolls away, smiling. dean wants to hold his little face, kiss his forehead, tuck him into bed, whisper to sammy that there are angels watching over him—the way his mom used to do for him, the only way he knows to take care of another person.
instead, he musses sammy’s hair, growing too long and getting in his eyes, and tells him to “go to sleep, sammy.”
goodnight, he thinks. he tries to think it hard enough to beam it into sammy’s head.
sammy burrows deeper into the blanket. “goodnight,” he mumbles, muffled by the sheets he pulled up to his nose. did he hear dean’s thoughts? he tries it again. i love you, sammy. do you love me? i don’t want you to be me. just love me. i don’t know what i’ll do if you ever stop loving me. you’re the only one who does.
but sam doesn’t say anything. he can’t hear dean’s thoughts. of course. it’s impossible.