Two Brothers

[katleept]

Title: Two Brothers
Author: Kat Lee
Dedicated To: Happy Birthday, julieshadow! Remember, just like our favorite brothers, you're not alone in this world, my dear; you'll always have those of us who care about you. <3 May this year be the best yet!
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Pairing: Wee!Chesters Dean and Sam
Rating: PG-13/T
Warning(s): None
Word Count: 2,640
Date Written: 8 November 2016
Summary:
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to Kripke, not the author, and are used without permission.





He stops in the doorway, a cold, fearful dread filling him. He's never felt like this before. He knows monsters are real. He knows his father fights them. But he never thought he'd see what lays before him now. "S-Sammy -- " For all his strength and courage, Dean's voice still breaks as he edges slowly into the bathroom, calling his little brother's name.

Already, he thanks God he came in when he did, but he knows he has to play this carefully. His mind whirls as he wonders what brought this on. He knows they don't have the best living arrangements. It's not easy being constantly shuffled back and forth, never getting to stay in one place for long, but he's never let it get to him like this. Of course, he is older, and he feeds his own frustrations by slipping out and playing video games. Too often, the enemies he sees on the screens aren't there at all, and it's his father's face instead.

But if their father caused this . . . NO! Dean thinks, forcefully pushing his anger aside. His father would not have caused this. They don't have the best dad in the world, but the old man does care about them, and especially about Sammy. He'd never knowingly do anything to lead to this, not when he's constantly riding Dean to protect his little brother.

Dean clears his throat and tries to calm his mind as he edges further into the bathroom. "Sammy?" he calls again. Sammy finally looks up at him, and relief washes over Dean. His baby brother hasn't done anything yet. Their dad doesn't really have to tell him to protect Sammy, Dean knows in this moment. He'd protect him any way. He's his little brother after all, and sometimes their father's gone so much that he feels like Sammy is all he has in this bitch of a world.

And he almost lost him tonight. A few more minutes, and he might have been alone for good. He forces down the lump in his throat and holds out his hand. "Whatcha got there?" he asks in a voice that he makes to make sound far calmer than he feels. He knows exactly what Sammy has, exactly what he was about to try to do, because he's been pretty close to it before himself. It's only been Sammy's presence in his life that's kept him from doing exactly what his little brother was about to do.

Dean kneels before his kid brother, his hand still outstretched. "Gimme the knife, Sammy," he orders but does so softly.

"Dean -- " Sammy starts. "I -- I wasn't -- I didn't -- "

Dean nods. "And that's exactly why I'm glad I'm here now. It's okay, though. I promise it's okay." Is he trying to reassure Sammy, he wonders, hand outstretched and empty, or himself? "Just gimme the knife."

"You're not gonna tell Dad, are you?"

There's a note of a whimper in Sammy's voice that rips even more at Dean's heart. "Not if you gimme the knife now, Sammy," Dean assures in a hurry. He wants that damn knife in his hand now, but simply yanking it out of Sammy's grasp will only help this time. It won't help the next time these feelings come around. "And tell me what happened to bring this on." Damn, he sounds like their old man! But if that's what it takes . . . "Sammy," he orders, sounding stern like their father.

Sammy finally places the kitchen knife Dean had used to cut the roast they had left over from Uncle Bobby's into his brother's hand. Dean's fingers wrap quickly around the handle of the blade, the wood feeling hard and reassuring against his palm. He wants to throw the knife far away from them, wrap Sammy in his arms, and hold him tight. He wants to cry. But he knows neither of those things are going to do what needs to be done.

Instead he nods, just like his father does when he's pretending to listen to his worries, but unlike their father, he really is listening. "Now tell me, Sammy. What happened?"

"I'm the reason." Sammy's voice is so small and soft that Dean almost doesn't hear him. If he hadn't been training his ears to catch the smallest sound that might warn him of danger, he wouldn't understand him, but he does.

"You're the reason for what, Sammy?" he asks carefully, laying the knife down behind him and inching forward toward his little brother. He's the reason he doesn't go stark raving mad. He's the reason he puts up with their old man and all his stupid rules. He's the reason he doesn't simply hit the road one of these lonesome nights and keep going until he ends up somewhere where John will never find him. He's the reason he's willing to live in this world, as mixed up, bad, and painful as it is.

"For all this," comes the timid answer for which Dean has been waiting.

"For all what?" he asks, frowning and not understanding though he's trying his best.

"For all this!" Sammy repeats. "For Daddy being gone. For Momma being . . . being dead." A wail escapes his tiny frame. Tears start pouring again from his already red and swollen eyes.

Dean pounces across the small space still separating them and wraps his arms tightly around his little brother. His arms aren't as strong as he'd like them to be yet, even though he has been training them also by lifting the heaviest things he can find in this stinky, motel rooms wherein their father leaves them so often. But they'll always be strong enough to hold his baby brother, or so he believes.

Sammy doesn't try to fight him this time. He just cries, weeps, and howls. For a while, Dean just holds him and rocks him gently like their mother used to rock him when he'd had a nightmare. He misses her so much, but he knows the truth of what happened. He knows why she's not here with them now. He knows the real reason why she's dead, and he knows damn well it isn't Sammy's fault.

He lets his little brother cry for a while until, finally, his shaking stops. Then he cups his sorrowful face in his hands and lifts his gaze. He looks directly into his red and tearful eyes and says in his best strong "Dad" voice, "No, it's not."

"Yes, it is." Sammy whimpers and bites his trembling, bottom lip to keep from crying aloud again.

"No," Dean repeats calmly, "it's not. Momma died. You know that. But it wasn't your fault. It had nothing to do with you." He can't tell him it was a Demon who killed their mother, but he can tell him that much at least.

"But even if that's true," Sammy argues, "Dad still doesn't stay, because he doesn't want to look at me."

Actually, Dean thinks angrily, he doesn't want to look at me, but like before, he pushes those thoughts away. He tenderly strokes the tears from Sammy's face as he tells him firmly, "That's not true, too."

"Then why does he stay away," Sammy asks, "all the time? And don't tell me it's 'cause of his job. There are plenty of Dads out there who have jobs and still come home at night. And more, too, who work at night but are still there for their family." His bottom lip trembles again. More tears spill from his eyes. Dean catches them right away but is slower trying to figure out how to explain their father. "Daddy's never home."

And then, at last, Dean knows what he has to say. He can't tell him the truth -- not the whole truth --, but he can tell him part of the truth. "Our dad's messed up," he admits. "He misses Mom too much. That's why he works as hard and long as he does. He manages to forget her some, I think, when he's working so much. But it's not because of you, Sammy, and she's not gone because of you. She's gone because of that fire."

He watches as Sammy's sad, little face screws up with thought. He can almost see the wheels turning in the kid's mind as he thinks about what he told him. Finally, he says quietly, and still sadly, "So he keeps working all these hours because it makes him forget Mom?"

"Yeah." Dean nods decisively. "That's it."

"He's wrong."

Despite everything, Dean breaks into a grin at the way Sammy says those two, little words. "Yeah," he agrees readily and with another nod, "but what makes you think that?"

"He's wrong to forget Momma. I don't wanna do that. Ever."

"Me, neither," Dean agrees, shifting his position and pulling Sammy closer into his arms, "and I don't want to catch you ever thinking it's your fault again. You hear me?" Damn, he does sound like dad! For all his faults, their old man would never want them to hurt like this!

Sammy nods as Dean mulls over what's happened. "What made you think like that any way?" he asks after a moment. "That it was your fault? You know Mom died in a fire, and you were way too little to do anything about it." Even as he says the words, though, he doesn't realize, and won't realize for years yet to come, that he also was too little to stop what had happened.

"That's what Paul said."

"Who's Paul?" Dean demands, bristling, but he already knows. He knows Sammy gets picked on at every new school until he manages to scare the crap out of the other kids in warning not to mess with his little brother. They've only had a couple of days at their latest school. His teachers were already convinced he was trouble before he ever stepped foot in the damn place and have all been watching him far too closely to give him a chance to get to Sammy's class yet. That changes tomorrow. He's kicking Paul's ass, and if he ends up expelled again, as he probably will, and beaten again when their father finally shows back up, as he will if he's expelled, he really doesn't care. He's going to teach that jerk to never open his mouth again. Maybe he can even hit him hard enough so that the kid actually can't open his mouth ever again.

While all this has been running through Dean's mind, Sammy's been telling him about Paul. Dean's barely heard his little brother's comments on the other kid. They don't matter. He already knows what kind of a jerk Paul is. He's been knowing his type ever since they started moving around so much, but tomorrow, the whole school's going to learn that there's a bigger bully than Paul and they're going to learn not to mess with the new guy's brother ever.

"You know he was wrong, though, right?" Dean asks, refocusing on his little brother's face.

"I . . . I guess."

"No guessing," Dean tells him. "He was wrong. Paul doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't know us. You know that. We've only been here three days. He doesn't know us from those characters you watch on your cartoons."

"Huh?"

"He doesn't know us, Sammy. That's the point. He doesn't know us. He doesn't know what happened to our parents." Or that I'm so gonna kick his ass tomorrow. When he's done with him tomorrow, Paul will never say anything ugly to another kid ever again.

"He doesn't know how much Momma loved you or Dad does, -- "

"They love you too."

Sammy's little interjection doesn't cause Dean to miss a beat. He knows their mother loved him, but he also know the old man doesn't much care about him other than to make sure he's still living so he can take care of his baby brother, but that is his place in life. Dad wants him to do it and will beat him if he lets him down, but that doesn't really matter. Sammy's all he's got left in this life, and nobody's going to mess with him. Nobody's going to hurt him ever again like he was hurt today.

" -- and he doesn't know you have a big brother," he finishes, "who loves you very much. I don't ever want you having thoughts like that again, Sammy, okay? Dad's not here most of the time, but it's not because he doesn't love you. He does, and I love you too. Since he's not around, it's you and me against the world. You got that?"

Sammy nods.

"Good," Dean continues, "'cause I need you, kiddo." He hugs him tightly again. "I need you," he whispers against his shaggy brown hair, tears finally pricking his own eyes. "I love you, and I don't want anything happening to you ever. Especially not at your own hand. Promise me that."

"Promise you what?" Sammy asks in confusion, squirming a little as Dean hugs him a bit too hard.

"Promise me no matter what, you'll never hurt yourself. Promise me if you have any questions about Mom or Dad or whatever, you'll ask me. Promise me you won't ever let the jerks like Paul win."

"I promise," Sammy readily vows. A long moment stretches between the brothers with the boys just sitting there in the bathroom floor holding to each other. Finally, Sammy asks, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"What does Dad do for a living?"

"That's not important."

"You said to ask you whatever I wanna know."

"That's what I wanna know."

"He fights, Sammy," Dean says after a long moment. "He fights against everything that's not right. He fights against jerks like Paul. He fights to forget about what happened to Mom and the thoughts he has because of it like the thoughts you had earlier and like I sometimes get, and he fights to make sure it doesn't happen to anybody else's mother or anybody else period."

"So he's like a fireman?"

Dean cracks a smile through the tears still shining in his eyes. "Nah. He's way better than a fireman."

"What is he?"

"They don't have a name for it," Dean tells him softly but then has another realization. "I do. He's our dad, and he misses us, and he loves us, and he wouldn't want you doing what you were going to do." And maybe, just maybe, he deserves a little more respect than what Dean's been giving him.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How did you know what I was going to do?"

He squeezes him hard. "Because I'm your brother, Sammy." Because I've had the same thoughts, is what he doesn't say as he adds aloud, "And I love you. But if you ever try that again, I will totally kick your ass."

"Ooo! You said a bad word!"

Dean breaks up laughing. He laughs so hard that he almost chokes on the glob of tears still in his throat. He wipes his tears away, then cleans Sammy's face. "Come on. Let's go to bed." He takes him by the hand and leads him to the single bed in the motel room, but tonight, he doesn't move away. Tonight, he doesn't leave Sammy by himself and go his own way, not to the TV or outside where the video games and possible violence awaits. He lays right down beside him, holds him tight, gives in to just a few, silent tears, and quietly thanks whatever power is looking out for them that he was there in time for his brother and one of only two friends he really has. And as his eyes grow heavy from his sorrow and exhaustion too, he thanks Him one more time for his brother and continues holding tightly to him always.

The End