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Dean's fingers fumbled through the cluttered glove compartment, searching for his wallet. Sam and he had to run to the store, something about Sam not having his fancy-ass salad dressing or something. Dean didn't care. Dean didn't want to ask. But it was something domestic, and Dean was okay with domestic. Variety's good.
Dean's phone started ringing, and he rolled his eyes as Sammy flashed on the screen. He picked it up, cautiously putting it up to his ear. "Sammy?"
Sam's voice crackled through the phone, filled with a mix of annoyance and desperation. "Dean, where are you? We need to go to the store like, right now. I can't find my laptop charger, and I've got research to finish, and—" Sam let out an overdramatic sigh and Dean rolled his eyes. "And I need my salad!"
"Jesus Christ," Dean muttered. "Calm your tits, Samantha, I'm just getting my wallet, and then we can walk to the store,"
Sam hissed through the phone and hung up, but Dean knew that he wasn't mad. Sam was never mad. He may be furious, or annoyed, or even want to go and kill Dean at stake, but never mad.
Dean tugged his wallet from the glove compartment, but as he did so, the sharp edge of what, a knife? hurt the edge of his finger. Dean hissed the retracted his hand as blood seeped from the small wound, the credit cards and money discarded on the floor.
Dean eyed the compartment suspiciously. He swore that if it was fucking caterpillar or something else utterly ridiculous that Castiel wanted to save, he was going to murder the Angel.
But then something shiny caught his eye, nestled in a jumble below old receipts and whatever-the-fuck the Winchester brothers had shoved in there over the years. Dean grabbed it, and his heart froze.
His amulet . . . Sam's gift to him nearly thirty years ago . . . Back when Sam wasn't Sam, but just Sammy. The five-spiked, pointy-edged amulet . . . Sam's Christmas gift he had meant to give to Dad, but figured out Dean was a better father anyway.
Dean swallowed hard, his grip on the amulet tightening. He couldn't believe he'd found it, especially in the mess that was in the glove compartment. He would say it was a miracle, but since he knew Angels existed, he guessed not.
He put it on.
"You'll never ever take it off, right, Dean?" Eight-year-old Sam whispered, tucked protectively in his older brother's arms. "You promise?"
Dean shook his head. "Never ever, kiddo,"
Dean broke that promise. He tossed it into the trash and left.
He just didn't expect Sam to pick it back up.
He sighed and wiped his eyes. He tossed the necklace over his head, and carefully tucked it underneath his shirt.
"Dean!" Dean hissed as he hit his head on the roof of the Impala. "Store, please, now,"
Dean rolled his eyes and looked over at his brother, who was waiting just a few feet away from him. Dean stood up slowly and flashed him his cardless wallet. "Let's ride, little brother,"
Dean watched with careful eyes as Sam looked frantically for his salad dressing. His lips quirked up in a smile, snickering gleefully as his much too-tall brother ducked his head to try and blend in with the old ladies also looking for their salad dressings.
"Dean?" Nine-year-old Sam was sniffling in his bed. Dad had decided that Sammy was way too old for him to be sharing a bed with his elder brother, and now they had separate beds. Evidently, Sam didn't like it. "Dean!"
Dean groaned tiredly, his hands trying to fix his bedhead. "What, Sam?"
Sam sniffled. "De . . . Scary . . . Monsters . . ."
Dean scoffed. "You're too old to have nightmares, Sammy," but nevertheless, he stood up, stretching his arms in his oversized sweatshirt. "Move over, you lump,"
Sam smiled gratefully and moved, but quickly moved back once Dean got settled. His hands gripped the front of Dean's shirt, and Dean hummed at the familiar motion. Sam's other hand went to the amulet, and Dean kissed his forehead.
"Dean!" The elder Winchester rolled his eyes at the near-whining tone of his younger brother. "I can't find my special dressing!"
Dean scoffed. "Oh my God, Sam," but he walked over, smiling bashfully at the old ladies, and began to search as well.
In two hours, the Winchester boys were walking home, the shopping bag slung over Sam's shoulder and a crate of beer in Dean's hands.
" . . . Dean?"
Dean's eyes were carefully watching the TV in front of him, smirking at some vulgar fight scene. Sam was carefully looking away, working on his homework. He was way too old to be paying attention to his younger brother. Sam was just about to turn fourteen, and nobody needed help with 8th-grade homework.
But something felt different this time. Dean turned his head, eyes just as carefully trained on Sam as it was on the TV. "Hit me,"
Sam mumbled, barely looking his way.
Dean raised an eyebrow and lowered the volume. "Sammy?"
Sam's hazel eyes were filled to the brim with tears, and Dean felt a claw gripping at his chest.
"D-Do . . . Do you think I'm stupid, Dean?" Dean's hands gripped the sofa tightly.
"No, of course not, you're not, Sammy, no," Dean's eyes were narrowing, making him look like a possessed cat, like a cat about to take out its prey. "Why are you asking?"
Sam pulled on his hair. "U-Uh . . . My . . . Algebra II teacher . . . Said I'm an idiot . . . And I'm too stupid to be in an 11th-grade class,"
Dean growled and his hands flew to his knife, but after seeing Sam's flinch of fear, he stopped. "Sam, no," he took a deep breath. "You're not stupid, you hear me? You're way too fucking smart. Smarter than . . ." Dean trailed off and smiled warmly. "Smarter than I was at thirteen,"
Sam looked slightly unsure. "Dad says you were really smart at thirteen,"
Dean laughed and stood up, walking over to Sam. "Buddy, I was good at cleaning guns and shooting and killing demons. But I wasn't good at school, and when I was thirteen, I took the normal standard of 8th grade math,"
Sam sniffled and looked up, his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. Dean brushed it away affectionately and kneeled down to hug Sam."
"No chick-flick moments, little brother," but even so, Dean didn't complain as Sam's head rested against his shoulder and his fingers clutched the amulet.
Dean turned to Sam. "Hey, no research when you get home, alright?" At Sam's bitchface, he continued, "Because it's late, Sammy, please . . ."
Sam scoffed. "Dean, really. It's only 11:30." He glanced disinterestedly at his phone. "And 'sides, I need to,"
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Need to?" He laughed quietly, hefting the beer in his hands. "Sammy, you know that article inside and out. Your brain can't possibly learn more,"
Perhaps that wasn't the smartest thing to say, Dean thought in hindsight, as Sam shuddered and looked away.
"I-- I'm not stupid, Dean," Sam mumbled quietly. Especially with that haircut, he looked exactly like a kicked puppy.
Dean's hand went to grasp Sam's thin shoulders. He squeezed firmly and looked at him. "I know, Sam," he laughed. You're the smartest.
When they finally got to the Bunker, Dean turned on the TV, browsing through Netflix. Sam, at his pleading, was sitting on Dean's bed, reading a book. Dean watched out of the corner of his eye as Sam's nimble fingers browsed through the lore book.
"Sammy, wanna watch a Hallmark movie?"
Sam looked up, his classic bitchface confused. "What the fuck?"
Dean waved his hand and shook his hair out. "Guess not. Horror it is!" Sam shuddered and Dean safely took great joy in that.
The amulet slipped out of his shirt, and Dean hastily tried to put it back in. Sam looked at him curiously.
"Dean?"
He took an attempt at being innocent. "Yeah?"
"W-What . . . What was that?"
Dean laughed and sat up. "Nothin', kiddo,"
"Sammy!" Dean shouted desperately. "Please, Dad didn't mean it, I---" I can't lose you!
Sam wasn't listening. In fact, Sam never listened to Dean anymore. It hurt, hurt so much because Dean had always thought that even adult Sam would still have a hero complex about Dean. But really, Sam hadn't listened to him at all. Dean thought it was because Sam was studying for the SATs or whatever you were supposed to take in 11th grade, but it didn't stop in Senior year. In fact, Sammy just kept getting angrier and angrier.
Dean was just grateful that most of the anger was aimed at Dad.
He tried to block out his most unpleasant memories, but somehow he knew that this one was never going to be blocked out. He remembered every word, all the 'I hate yous', 'never come back's, 'fuck off', 'don't fucking call me'.
"Sam!" Sam stopped for a second and turned towards Dean, eyes filled with rage. Dean took a step back, his hands finding the amulet and clutching it as if it were his lifeline.
Sam seethed. "I want to go to college, Dean, and nothing you can say will stop me!" Sam laughed manically. "All I fucking want is a normal life, a life where I don't have to fucking shoot demons from Hell every other goddamn day!" He murmured brokenly. "Is that too much to ask?"
Yes, Dean had wanted to say. It was way too much for Sam to ask for. No way would his Sammy would ever leave him. It couldn't happen, how could Dean protect him if he was in Stanford? How--
"Okay, Sammy," Dean said softly, trying to keep away the tears. "Y-You . . . I . . . I'll drive you, okay?"
Sam scoffed. "It's like twelve minutes from here. I'll take a taxi,"
Dean fixed him with a look and Sam scowled back.
Safe to say, Sam got into the car.
Dean took a deep breath, trying to keep those last twelve minutes in his mind. Sam was leaving him, Sam was leaving him, Sammy was leaving . . .
He didn't let the tears fall.
Sam got out and Dean looked up at the huge-looking college. Dean quietly handed him his duffle back and Sam shot him an appraising glance.
"Weird that you're not screaming your head off," he said, looking proud. Dean wanted to wipe that stupid smile off his face.
Dean carefully looked away. "I won't dictate your life, Sam,"
Sam set down his bag on top of the Impala. He suddenly hugged Dean tight, setting his head on top of his. Dean held him, and even though Sammy was way taller, his hands still found the amulet, clutching it tightly.
And just as quickly as it started, it ended. Dean's mind went into a haze, trying to remember. Did he ruffle Sam's hair, did he say 'I love you'? Did he . . . Did he say he'll call?
Dean didn't remember.
All Dean could remember was falling onto the pavement hours after Sammy had gone inside, clutching his head and sobbing his heart out. He remembered his bloodshot eyes, the cold stare he'd give his father, and anger in his veins. The pain was agonizing, it felt like a fire was burning through his head and in his chest, and he worried that he'd have a heart attack right on the pavement. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks. He clutched the amulet, Sammy would come back, Sammy would come back.
Sam never came back.
Sam looked at him, setting his book down. "Dean?"
Dean kept his voice light. "Sammy, honestly nothing, I swear,"
He thought Sam would leave, but of course, Sammy never left things as they were.
Sam flung himself at Dean, and Dean yelped, startled. They fought as Sam restrained him, pulling at the amulet. He stopped and stared.
"Sammy?" Dean asked cautiously. "Look, man, I,"
Sam's eyes filled with tears and he hugged Dean. Dean groaned, uncomfortable, but set his arm against Sam's back.
Neither brother said a word, but Dean was okay with that. He was okay with breathing in the scent of Sam's shampoo, he was okay with Sam's head laying on his chest, his hand holding his as tightly as he could, and he definitely was okay with Sam's admittedly larger fingers gripping the amulet.
Dean hummed.
Sam sighed.
The elder's fingers ruffled Sam's hair.
Sam mumbled, his lips moving against Dean's shirt. "Love you too,"