Sometimes it hits Dean hard, how much he loves Sam.
Harder than too much tequila, harder than Led Zeppelin IV, harder than a salt round. It reminds him of that Stephen King flick where Christopher Walken puts his hand on someone and finds out everything about them, only for him it would be this paralyzing crush of —
Shh, go to bed, Sammy.
The look on Sam’s face when he was just drifting off to sleep while Dean read Goodnight, Moon and how the story wasn’t done until Dean said “Goodnight, Sam.”
This stupid squeaky red thing he played with in the tub, and how he would squeak it at Dean until Dean cracked up.
Making that stupid sunbeam costume for the school play.
Standing up at the school play and whistling like Sam had scored the winning touchdown.
Cereal for dinner and warmed-up Chinese takeout for breakfast. Pop-Tarts and Snickers bars and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Did you have a bad dream? It’s okay, Sammy.
Keeping all the lies straight. Dad’s a salesman, a superhero, a figment of our imagination and he’s coming home soon, you’ll see.
Staying up all night together watching late-night monster movie marathons while Sam hid his face under Dean’s arm.
Pretending to be asleep in the car when Sam checked to see if he was asleep before he laid on him instead of on his pillows, when Dad said they were too old for that sorta thing.
Walking him to school, every day. Rain, snow, black ice on the road, storm warnings or even stupidly-happy sunshine, it didn’t matter.
Narrow sidewalk, wide path… didn’t matter. Like two jungle cats let out of captivity for the first time, all the time, pacing the same motel-sized space around each other for the rest of eternity and not knowing that it was different for most people.
Making Sammy his first gun and almost crying. Why? Why did Sammy have to hunt? Dean could hunt for both of them.
But, man, that gun was fucking perfect. The best gun Dean ever made. With “SW” carved into the grip.
Dean remembered the initials because another hunter tried to make off with it once, and when Dean caught up with him, it took Dad and three other hunters to pull him off.
God if he could carve it into himself.
Don’t say that, that’s stupid.
It’s already carved in, has been for a long time.
When Sam had his first real hunt, his first real hit, Dad said to get him a beer, the way Dean had gotten a beer after his. Dean took him out for a milkshake.
How he didn’t know what “homesick” meant until Sam was gone. Couldn’t’ve told anybody how that felt. How he heard Sam’s voice sometimes when Sam wasn’t there, how he could’ve sworn Sam was squished up against when he was watching a movie by himself. How even when it had been months, it felt like that first night.
That one Springsteen song that talks about someone taking a dull knife and cutting “a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul” and it was about some chick..
But Dean thought, “Sam.”
A six-inch valley doesn’t seem so much these days.
Looking at his profile as he falls asleep, then… now… hell, yesterday and thinking
I’d stay awake to stand guard.
I’d shiver to keep you warm.
I’d starve to keep you fed.
I’d bleed to keep you safe.
I’d kill anyone to spare your life.
I’d die to get you back.
Man, if Dean ever meets someone who can lay psychic hands on him?