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1.
1983
The house was burning.
The house was burning, and John Winchester was telling his eldest son to go, go, go, and Dean took the bundle that was Sam from their father’s outstretched arms and tore his gaze away from the house and the fire and their father. Dean thought he could hear screaming, but he didn’t think about it too hard, because his feet had been breaking into a run before even being told to do so. Dean’s new sneakers, the ones he had gotten for his fourth birthday, kicked up dust and rocks as Dean bounded across the asphalt and reminded himself to breathe even with the bitter smell of smoke filling his nostrils.
Dean held onto Sam like a lifeline, trying to shush his wailing baby brother even as he himself was on the verge of tears, and all Dean knew to do was run as far as he could. He didn’t turn to look back, didn’t try to catch a glimpse of their father running straight into the collapsing wooden structures, didn’t stop to think if he should have gone back and helped their father; he had been given an order, and he was going to obey it.
By the treeline, Dean watched the glow of fire with bated breath, wondering how many people he would see coming out – if any. The thought of losing both of their parents terrified him, but he knew he had to stay strong. He steeled himself and held Sam closer to himself, gently rocking him in his arms, trying to conjure up a melody to hum even as producing any sound at all felt impossible. Sam sniffled, grasping at air with his grabby little hands, and Dean let his eyes fall from the fire to his brother, whose world was nothing but Dean, the crackle of fire, and the distant sound of sirens approaching. Dean did not dare to look at the house, because if he did and saw nothing, no one, he was sure he could no longer keep himself together.
So Dean ran his hand past Sam’s forehead in spite of there not being much hair to push back, and he let his thumb slide over Sam’s soft skin, and he wondered if the skin of their parents was burning in the fire, if–
No.
Dean wondered nothing. If he did, he would want to know what was happening, really happening, and he was all that little Sammy had now. All that he had forever, if the fire left behind two corpses.
Dean adjusted his hold on Sam, pressed his brother closer to himself and wrapped the fabric tighter around Sam so he wouldn’t get cold. Dean glanced at the horizon now that the fire engines and ambulances had stopped in front of the house. The flames went down, and Dean’s breath was punched out of his chest by relief when he saw the silhouette of his father hunched over with a blanket on his shoulders. Dean made his way back. His arms were growing weary, but he would never, ever drop Sammy, would never let any harm come to him.
Their father smiled when he saw them, but his eyes did not.
Dean was old enough to understand what had happened, and he bit back the tears as he handed Sam to their father, who took the baby in his arms and kissed his forehead. Sam was calming down, now, and Dean did all he could to keep himself upright. Their dad took Dean underneath his arm, stroking his hair like their mother had done, and Dean let himself lean against their dad. Sam was no longer crying, but when his hand reached out again, Dean linked their pinky fingers and made a promise.
I’m never going to leave you.
2.
1988
When Sam turned five and their father was out hunting, Dean took Sam to a fair.
Dean knew this wasn’t allowed. Their father had explicitly forbidden them, or rather Dean, from doing anything that could put them at risk – this included leaving the motel room. The farthest they were allowed to go was the vending machine and, in case of emergency, the motel’s reception. Dean had decided that if their father wasn’t going to be here to celebrate Sammy having lived half a decade, it was up to Dean to let his baby brother do something else than mope around in a crappy motel room bored out of his mind. He didn’t even have any real toys with him, and Dean wasn’t going to bother with explaining the rules of poker to him. Dean had grown up too fast, but that didn’t mean Sam had to.
They were farther south than they had ever been, and Dean admitted that he wanted to see the sights as well, though his priority was to entertain his kid brother on his birthday. Their motel was a walking distance from the Florida State Fair, Dean had noted, and he was counting on them not having to pay an admission fee due to their age.
So when Sam seemed to be done with pushing back and forth the broken toy car Dean had spotted on and picked up from the street, Dean piped up. “You wanna do something fun?” Sam looked at him. He blinked, then shrugged, and that was all the affirmation Dean needed. “C’mon, let’s go. I’ll get you a soda on the way out, alright?”
And that was how they ended up at the Florida State Fair, having gotten in relatively hassle-free. Dean had had to ask a stranger to pretend to be their parent for the minute it took them to buy their way in – not because the tickets cost them, but because they had to be accompanied by an adult. The man had hesitated (Dean had been ready to slip him the cash needed for the admission) but when Sam looked up at him through those fluffy bangs of his, the man paid the admission fee pro bono. Dean high-fived Sam once they were in and asked if he wanted cotton candy or a corn dog.
Sam shrugged, and his curious eyes were on the many lights around him, emitting from the carousel and the arcade games, the glow sticks and the neon signs of food vans.
Dean clutched Sam’s hand tightly. He wasn’t going to leave Sam, and he certainly wasn’t going to let go. When Sam pointed wordlessly at the carousel, Dean hopped behind him on an elephant-shaped ride that required a ladder to get on. When Sam pointed to the bouncing castle, Dean agreed to take him, but stayed by his side the entire time.
Sam’s laughter was contagious, and Dean knew he had been right to bring him here. He never tired of seeing his brother happy, even if it sometimes meant seeing their father angry.
Dean thought they were having a good time – and they were, if Sam’s awed smile and amazed gaze was anything to go by – but when Sam’s hand trembled in Dean’s and he let out a startled cry, Dean’s blood ran cold.
Dean crouched to Sam’s level. “Hey,” he said softly, watching as Sam cried nearly silently. It was nothing like Dean’s crying which, on the rare occasion that it happened, was loud and explosive and uncontrollable. “Hey, buddy, are you okay?” Dean wiped at Sam’s cheeks, trying to dry the rolling tears. Sam jerked his head vaguely in two directions at once, and Dean couldn’t tell if he was nodding or shaking his head. Dean followed Sam’s apprehensive gaze to a tall, colorful figure that Dean realized was a clown. “Did–” Dean began, then led Sam to a quieter corner. “Did the clown man scare you?”
Sam sniffled, shrugging in a way that meant Yes.
“Oh,” Dean breathed, relief washing over his unease and steadying his hammering heart. It was nothing dangerous or actually scary that had made Sam jump like that. Now that Dean knew the source of his brother’s tears, he could deal with it better. “Hey, I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” he reassured Sam. “He’s a bit tall, doesn’t realize the size of himself,” he rambled. “But he’s here to try and have fun, just like us, right? Besides–” Dean sat them on a rainbow-colored wooden bench – “I’m willing to bet that one day, you’ll be just as tall as him.” Dean neglected to mention the stilts. “A skyscraper. Like, Empire State Building tall.” Even with glistening eyes, Sam shot him an incredulous look that simultaneously told Dean not to mess with him. Dean laughed lightly. “Oh, yeah. Believe it. And then you won’t have to be scared of anything ever again.” Dean didn’t let his smile falter, though he knew he was lying through his teeth. If Sam got roped into the life their father lived, the life Dean was about to live… Instead of dwelling on his own doubts and fears, Dean simply bumped his shoulder against Sam’s playfully, careful not to accidentally shove him too hard. Dean wondered if he really would be tall in the future.
“Let’s get back, okay?” Dean asked, wrapping his arms sideways around his brother. Sam pressed his head against Dean’s shirt. For the first time today, Sam nodded, clearly expressing what he wanted. Dean felt the movement of Sam’s head against his chest and ruffled his hair. “You’re good,” Dean said then. “You’re good.”
They were back in the motel room before their father. Both of them were asleep by the time their father returned.
3.
1991
The night was stretching out toward the witching hour, and still there was no sign of John.
Dean could feel in his gut that he wasn’t going to be back anytime soon. Sam, on the other hand, was still regularly asking when he would be back. Dean had no answer for him, no guesses; the comings and goings of their father were unpredictable, as were the monsters he so diligently hunted.
Dean could tell that Sam, who was already up way past his bedtime, was getting bored of the Scooby-Doo reruns Dean had been watching for the past hour. “Tired?” he asked Sam, who was only partly following the program. Had their father known that Sam was still up, he would have chastised Dean about it. Bitterly (but always secretly), Dean thought that maybe he should have been here to tuck Sam in himself if it was so important to him to stick to a schedule that he couldn’t even keep.
Sam looked up at him from where he lay. His eyelids were barely open. “A bit.”
Dean sat up on his bed, his hands resting at the edge of it. His feet dangled off the side that faced Sam. An idea occurred to him. “You want me to read to you?”
Sam, with all the seemingly nonchalant attitude of a growing eight-year-old, said, “I’m getting too old for that, Dean.”
As if. “You’re never too old for…” Dean stood up, moved across the room and rummaged through a box of books of which most were lore-related. At the bottom of their messy, miscellaneous collection of books, he found what he was looking for. “The Hobbit!”
Sam made a face. “You’ve read it to me before,” he pointed out. He was right: Dean had, and not just once.
“Yeah, and you love it.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair. “Nerd.” Sam swatted his hand away. “So, what do you say?”
Sam pursed his lips, studying the slightly faded cover and the uneven corners of the book. “Fine,” he relented.
Dean gave him a lopsided smile. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Dean had gotten as far as the morning after the dwarves had been feasting at Bag End when Sam, all hazel eyes and wistful curiosity, asked, “Dad’s not coming back, is he?”
Dean’s heart twisted. “He will,” he swore, wondering if that was an empty promise. “He will.” Dean pushed Sam’s hair aside, taking in his sincere eyes, still unmarred by everything that went on in the world outside. “Get some sleep, Sammy. Tomorrow I’ll tell you what Bilbo gets up to next, okay?”
Sam mumbled a bleary okay and closed his eyes. Dean read on until Sam fell asleep.
4.
1993
The clock had just hit 7:00 AM when Dean’s phone rang.
John glanced at Dean, who glanced at the screen. It read Sam. Dean pressed answer right away. “Hey.” He listened to what Sam was saying over the phone, frowning. “I told you I was going out on a hunt with Dad,” he said. “What’s up with you?” Concern gnawed at his insides. “Yeah– yeah, okay, fine, okay, just– let me talk to Dad. Yeah, bye. Bye.”
“Everything alright?” John asked, not turning his gaze from the road.
“Sam called,” Dean responded. “He says there’s something going on at school, and he asked me if–” Dean hesitated. “He asked me if I could come.”
At this, John’s brow twitched. “Why you?”
Dean swallowed. “He said he knows you won’t be able to make it anyway.”
John grunted, his grip on the steering wheel tightening ever so slightly. Dean watched him. “I need to finish this case,” John said curtly. “I’ll drop you off at the nearest bus station and give you some cash.” Like his kids were just another errand to run, another task to check off the work list, thought Dean. He said nothing. “Take a Greyhound.” For the first time during the conversation, John’s ever-present frown softened. “It’s not a long trip.”
Dean nodded, turning to look at the road.
It wasn’t long before he was sitting on the bus, but it felt like an eternity before he was stepping into one of the classrooms of their school. They had been enrolled there for less than two weeks.
The teacher was a senile man with a persistent squint and wire-framed glasses that rested low on his nose. He peered up at Dean, who had just entered the room. “Are you his legal guardian?” he queried.
“No,” Dean replied to him. “Uh, brother.”
“Less than satisfactory,” the teacher said in a voice resembling an old creaking door, “but it’ll do for now.”
“Is he okay?” Dean asked as he sat on the second chair that was placed in front of the teacher’s desk, briefly touching Sam’s shoulder as a gesture of comfort. The tension in Sam’s posture faded just a little.
“Please, take a seat,” the teacher said dryly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t of much use, for when he looked down again, they fell to their original position. “Dean Winchester?” he seemed to read off a paper.
Dean was looking at Sam when he said, “Yeah.”
“Your brother,” the teacher began very slowly, “made quite a scene in class today.” Sam was very intently studying his evenly tied shoelaces.
“What do you mean, ‘made a scene’?” Dean asked, crossing his arms. “Isn’t he, like, a straight A’s student?”
“Samuel shows academic promise, yes,” the teacher affirmed, and Sam grimaced slightly at the name, “which is why I was quite appalled by his behavior today.”
Dean squinted. “What’d he do?”
“A fellow student grabbed his notebook. Without Samuel’s permission, granted be he that,” the teacher explained, exhaling deeply, “but Samuel’s reaction was rather disproportionate. Irrational, one may say.”
Dean turned to Sam. “What was in the notebook?”
Sam shrugged. Then, very quietly, he said, “Writing.”
Dean immediately realized what was going on. Sam had mentioned his fictional novel where he wrote about the kinds of creatures he still hadn’t properly faced, about aliens and bloodthirsty beasts that would bring about the end of the world. He had an active, if not a little morbid, imagination; though some of the critters he had concocted in that bright young mind of his were a little closer to reality than Dean would have liked them to be.
The teacher sniffed. “What Samuel exhibited was akin to a meltdown. Now, since it is his first instance of misconduct, he will only get a warning for yelling at another student and causing bodily harm.”
Dean’s face twisted in anger and surprise all at once. “‘Misconduct’? You’re talking like a frigging cop, he’s just– he’s ten!” The word ‘different’ had been on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he knew Sam would’ve objected to the word.
“Yes, I am aware of his age, thank you very much,” the teacher said in his creaky voice. “Now, I think it would be best if I let both of you go and you discussed this later on at home when your guardian is present.”
“So that’s it? The kid who stole his property gets nothing but, what, words of reassurance?” Dean wasn’t having it.
“Mr. Winchester–” the teacher said at the same time that Sam said, “Dean–”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean scoffed. “Sammy, we’re going.”
The teacher heaved a sigh. “Here is your notebook, Samuel.” He handed the A5 paperback to Sam, who accepted it with a bashful nod and then bowed his head again before following Dean to the door.
Once they were outdoors and comfortably out of earshot, Dean asked, “‘Bodily harm’? What’s up with that?”
Sam was clutching the notebook to his chest like it was his most prized possession. “I accidentally scratched his arm when I was trying to get my book back,” he said meekly. “Dean, I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone, I promise– please don’t tell Dad–”
“Hey, hey, calm down,” Dean shushed him. “I’m not mad at you, I promise.” He laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We’re cool, all right? But this stays between us. Got it?” Dean wasn’t really scared about what their father might say to him; that wasn’t the main reason he wanted to keep it secret. He was just trying to protect his little brother.
Sam nodded. “Got it.”
Dean sat down on the stony ledge walling the flowerbed next to the entrance. “Now how about you read me some of your magnum opus?”
A tentative smile played at Sam’s lips. “I didn’t know you knew words like that.”
“Quit it,” Dean answered playfully. “I’m the modern-day Poe.” Sam snorted. “C’mon, spill. What have you got?”
Sam pursed his lips, opening the notebook after he had sat down beside Dean. “Um… It’s not great.”
“That’s what all geniuses say,” Dean teased, glad to see that the welling tears in Sam’s eyes had subsided. “Shoot.”
Sam stopped reading only after the sun had gone down.
5.
1995
The sun beat down on them hotly, and the football field was light green and dry.
Sam was striding down the grass, his long legs stomping forward as Dean ran after him. “Hey, wait up!” Dean called, jogging to keep up with Sam’s swift pace. “Sam!” His brother said nothing, just kept walking fast, but it was no use. Dean caught up with him. “Slow down,” he huffed. “Where’s the fire?”
Sam gave him a withering look.
Dean raked a hand through his hair. Sweat gathered at his temples from the heat. “Let’s talk?”
Sam turned around. He exhaled very, very slowly, as though he was conjuring up the patience to deal with Dean and his endless persistence. Dean had to be persistent, because if he wasn’t, Sam might have never brought up what was bothering him. “I don’t want to get into it,” Sam said. “Or I think you don’t want to get into it.”
Dean blinked at him. “Hit me.”
Sam adjusted the strap of his backpack. “You didn’t have to punch him.”
Dean ran his thumb over the cracked skin of his knuckles – he was definitely going to be summoned to the principal’s office once they got word of who had been involved in the fight, but it was as much in the bully’s favor as it was in Dean’s not to snitch to the school. He was a repeat offender, so to say, whereas Dean steered clear of fights. For the most part. Dean’s right shoulder jerked in an approximation of a shrug. “I was just defending your honor,” he said, trying to give Sam a smile, but it faded as soon as it came, as soon as he saw Sam’s troubled expression.
Sam frowned. “Dean, I don’t need you to protect me. I can fend for myself just fine.” He sounded irritated, but more than that, he sounded tired.
Dean began, “He was talking shit to you, Sammy. I couldn’t just let that slide, he–”
“Yeah, he was talking shit to me,” Sam cut him off. “To me, Dean,” he added emphatically. “You don’t have to act like my– like my attack dog that I sic on people the moment they say something mean to me.”
Dean furrowed his brows, outraged that Sam did not seem to care about this nearly as much as Dean did. “He pushed you!” Dean snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation.
“But you didn’t have to push him back!” Sam shouted, raising his voice for the first time. Dean flinched – Sam did not lose his temper often. Dean knew they were making a scene, knew that if their father saw them arguing like this, they’d be put in line before they even managed to open their mouths.
“Sammy–”
“Don’t,” Sam said in a short, clipped tone, “call me that.” He sat down on the bleachers, watching as a group of students practiced for the upcoming matches. Sam retreated further into himself, taking back all his anger and words and closing himself off from everyone else, and Dean didn’t know what to do other than sit down beside him.
“Hey,” Dean said, his brows furrowing with worry. The skin at his knuckles still stung and shone bright red from where he had taken it upon himself to punch Sam’s bully. “You okay?”
“Sure,” Sam said tightly, still not looking at Dean.
Dean knew he was far from it. “Talk to me,” he said softly, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s. “What’s eating you?”
Sam dragged a hand down his face, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if it was a habit he had picked up from Dean. “It’s fine,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m fine.”
Dean frowned at him. “Alright, if I bring you home all mopey and angsty, you know it’s not gonna be you who won’t hear the end of it, right?” he asked, trying for humor or light-heartedness, but he only ended up sounding bitter.
Finally, Sam turned to look at him. “It’s just–” he began, but then clamped his mouth shut. “I don’t know, Dean.” He bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just so lonely.”
“What do you mean?” Dean asked. “You’ve got me.”
Sam smiled sadly. “I feel like I’m never going to fit in anywhere.” He kicked at the side of his left shoe. “I feel like I’m always going to be the outsider, the freak, the odd one out.” Dean’s heart twisted in his chest – he knew it wasn’t easy, knew that life on the road was hardly a stable or ideal environment to grow up in, but Dean hadn’t known how bad Sam had it. Sam swallowed. “And I want to fit in, Dean. I want to feel like a part of something–” His mouth was already taking the form of n and then o, but he stopped himself in time. “Yeah. I just want to fit in.”
“Hey, now,” Dean tried, “you fit in with us.”
Sam glanced at him. “Sure I do.”
“What?” Dean said, confusion and worry gnawing at his composure. “You do. Of course you do.”
“But I’m not like you,” Sam said quietly. His voice was hoarse. “I’m not like Dad.” He wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, and Dean realized with a coiling dread in his stomach that it was to get rid of tears.
“Sam,” Dean said gently. “Hey.” He wrapped an arm around Sam’s shaking shoulders, gingerly, and when Sam did not protest, Dean embraced him with both arms. Sam’s hands clutched at Dean’s side, gripping the fabric of his flannel tightly, and his body trembled as Dean held him. “I’ve got you,” Dean said, forcing himself to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’ve got you, Sammy.”
Sam pressed his face against Dean’s chest like he was hiding from the world.
+1.
1997
Sam was in the process of writing notes on lore when the door opened.
In came Dean, and with him the waft of strong spirits. Sam stared at him as he kicked off his shoes and sauntered, clumsily, closer to the table. “Hey,” Dean drawled in greeting. His gait wobbled as he made his way to Sam.
“Hi.” Sam took in Dean’s demeanor and the distinctly alcohol-tinged condition he was in. “Where were you?”
“A party,” Dean said with a shrug, then put his finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell Dad.” Sam wouldn’t have anyway, but their father was also away for a couple of days, so telling him would have made no difference.
“Right,” Sam drawled, nodding slowly. “Drink some water. There’s a burger for you in the fridge if you want something to fill your stomach with.” He gave Dean a pointed glance. “Other than alcohol, that is.”
Dean wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, took a bite of the hamburger and put it back. The silence that followed was long – long enough that at some point, Sam raised his head and tore his gaze away from the book to check that Dean hadn’t passed out or died.
Dean was leaning against the wall facing the table, staring at Sam.
Sam arched his eyebrows. “What?” he questioned.
“Did I ever tell you how happy I was when you were born?” Dean asked, catching Sam completely off guard.
“What?” Sam repeated, now in surprise rather than query.
“I didn’t really have friends, even when Mom and Dad were comfortably settled down. Before… you know.” Dean shrugged. “There were a few other kids I got to play with from time to time, sure, but no one ever stuck.” Dean took a couple of wobbly steps closer. “And then you came. You were so small, like… I had never seen anyone so tiny. I asked Mom if you could reach the sink, and she said not yet, and in my four-year-old mind I just…” He sniffed. “I remember thinking that you were gonna be my best friend. And you were going to stay and we would never be apart because you’re my baby brother and brothers stick together. And we have. And I’m glad we have.” He huffed a laugh. “You know, I tried to give you my favorite toy car, but you just wouldn’t take it in your teensy hands. I left it on the night stand beside your crib anyway.”
Sam could notice Dean’s eyes losing their focus. “Dean…” He didn’t know what to say in response to this sudden emotional outburst. The backs of his eyes felt like they were being pricked with pins. “You’re drunk.”
Dean shook his head – not to deny, but to dismiss. “Doesn’t matter what I am. Look, all I’m saying is–” He laid a clumsy hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
Sam looked at his brother. “Sure.”
Dean seemed solemn. “I’m serious, Sammy. I don’t know where I’d be if you weren’t here.” He took Sam’s face in his hands, as if he was trying to really drive the point home. His hands were warm and already calloused, but above all, they were familiar. “I love you, little man.”
Sam didn’t know what to say, so he just kept looking Dean in the eye. He wasn’t used to his brother being vulnerable like this, but when Dean pulled him into a sheltering hug, he figured it didn’t really matter.
Sam hugged him back and hoped that that was enough to say what he wanted to: I love you too.