Title: "Lay Down Your Burdens (Or Five Times Dean Almost Dropped the Ball)"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Dean, Sam
Spoiler: "Croatoan"
Length: one-shot
Summary: Dean's the big brother and it's his job to keep Sammy safe.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but I enjoy making them suffer.
Author's Note: This wasn't intended to be "Five Times" fic but it somehow evolved into one anyway. Please forgive any canon errors - I was cleaning my apartment this weekend, and now I can't find my DVDs to double check so I'm basing everything off what I remember and transcripts. Title and cut courtesy of my recent obsession with "Battlestar Galactica." Don't mock, it's a good show! Enjoy.
"I believe that it is never a mistake to follow your heart."
Dean can't think of a time in his life when Sammy wasn't in it.
It's his first memory, his first real memory, and his dad is holding him up to the window as he's pressing his hands against the cold panes and smudging the glass, watching a blue-wrapped bundle watch them. It's tiny, that squirming mass of blue, no bigger than his Cabbage Patch doll, but he has a feeling his new baby brother is a whole lot more fragile than Chester Beaufort.
"That's your brother," his dad says, pointing a blunt, rough finger at the baby. "Do you know what means?" Dean shakes his head because he doesn't know the answer. "It means you have someone to look after," his dad explains. "You're Sammy's big brother, Dean, and you have to keep him safe." He waits a beat. "That's what big brothers do, Dean. They look after the little ones."
Dean peers even closer, smashes his nose up against the window so his breath clouds the glass and he tries to make out Sammy's face through the fog. He can't see his brother, but he knows he's there, because he's watching him and waiting for him. When the mist clears he looks through the streaked, smudged glass and Sammy is watching him too, blue eyes locking with his green. Dean smiles at his brother, and he swears, even though mama claims the baby's too little, that Sammy smiles back.
---
I. Everyone's got a skill.
Dean remembers the night his mama died.
He remembers the heat and he remembers the flames and he remembers a harsh, bitter smell surrounding him. It isn't until he's older, older and wiser and tougher, that he realizes he'd been smelling his mama dying.
He remembers his mama's screams and his father's cries and Sammy wailing in the background. He remembers his promise. He needs to get to Sammy.
He turns a corner and that painful, peculiar smell fills the hallways that make up his world. He's only four; he isn't ready for this. He's looking for his mama, waiting for the soothing scrape of her palm over his hair and the brush of her lips against his forehead, waiting for her to make it all better. Instead his father is waiting for him, Sammy clasped in his arms.
"Take your brother outside as fast you can! Don't look back. Now, Dean, go!" his father yells, and shoves his brother into his arms.
Dean remembers how heavy Sammy feels clasped against his chest, nothing like Chester Beaufort's fabric weight, and how his feet trip over his big boy slippers as he slides towards the stairs and freedom.
Everything is hot, the heat against his back and the tears dripping down his cheeks and the fear rising up in his chest, choking him so it's hard to breathe. He starts down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing and the other gripping his brother, and he repeats his father's words as he slowly takes each step at a time. "I'm Sammy's big brother," says the voice in his head. "I have to keep him safe. I have to keep him safe."
It's still hot and he's still scared and his slippers are still too big. He slips once, twice, and his knee smacks painfully into the wall as he struggles to keep his grip. Sammy wails in protest and he tries harder, holds tighter, and they get down a few more steps. He feels heavy and it's not just the fourteen pounds of deadweight keeping him pinned to the stairs. He thinks about Chester Beaufort and how he'd watch him tumble from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and he'd pick him up and dust him off and he'd be as good as new. The first time he'd held his brother his mama had told him about the soft spot at the back of his skull, and positioned Sammy just right in his arms. He was right the first time - his new baby brother is much more fragile.
It's hotter now and he can still hear his mama's screams ringing in his ears against the roar of flames filling Sammy's room. He wants to let go, to tumble down those stairs like Chester Beaufort's done so many times before and land in a heap at the bottom and pick himself up and dust himself off and make a run for it on his own. He's only four; he knows he can do it. He knows he can make it.
He slips on the next step and almost loses control, but when he rights himself he instinctively checks on his brother. Sammy is looking up at him with the biggest, brightest blue eyes. They're starting to turn green at the centers and just yesterday his mama said they'd probably turn the same shade as his. It's not the color that makes him grip the railing tighter or turn all his thoughts to the steady progression of slippers sliding over the polished wood of the stairs. It's the trust he sees there, because right now he's all Sammy has in the world.
He holds his brother tighter, presses his tiny, screaming face to his chest, and forces his way down those stairs. The front door is just up ahead, freedom and relief on the other side, and he pushes it open and breathes in cold night air.
He's still scared but it isn't hot anymore and the icy grass crunches under his big boy slippers. Sammy's stopped crying and in the moonlight his eyes are all green. "We made it," he whispers to his brother. "I kept you safe." Sammy smiles like he did on that first day and wraps his fist around his thumb.
Their father runs across the lawn and scoops them into his arms as Dean's world explodes in a burst of flames. He's clasped beneath one arm and his brother is pinned under the other, but Sammy never lets go.
---
II. The difference is my flaws are personal. Yours are professional.
Dean remembers the first time he's afraid of his father.
He remembers being tired. Tired of living on a steady diet of macaroni and canned beans. Tired of his stomach hurting from overdosing on sugarcoated cereal and whole milk. Tired of sharing a bed with Sammy because he snores and he kicks. Tired of watching "Sesame Street" because Sammy's too little for "The Cosby Show." He likes that show, likes the mother and the father and sisters and brothers living together. He thinks Cliff's sweaters are ugly and Theo's an idiot, but he likes how Cliff loves his son and how his son loves him back.
Dean misses having a house. He misses having a yard. He misses his mama kissing him tonight. He misses having a family.
He's tired of being the mother he can barely remember for the brother he doesn't know how to raise.
Sammy's sitting at the table waiting for his dinner. He wanted Spaghetti O's, so Dean made him Spaghetti O's. He doesn't mind. It's simple and easy and if Sammy eats like a normal person for once he can have everything cleaned up in time for the Huxtables.
Sammy changes his mind, cause he's Sammy and that's what he does.
"I want Lucky Charms," he says.
"There's no more Lucky Charms."
"I saw the box," Sammy insists and his jaw juts out at the angle that lets Dean know he means business, that the tears and tantrum are on the way if he doesn't give in.
Dean's tired tonight, bone tired, and he doesn't have the energy to put up a fight. "Okay, maybe there is, but there's only enough for one bowl and I haven't had any yet." He scans the clock by the TV and its 7:50, only ten minutes until his show is on. If he gives Sammy what he wants, he might be able to make it.
Sammy stares at him, green eyes locking with green, and Dean sighs because it's the only way. His stomach turns at the thought of another meal of processed noodles, and he dumps the Spaghetti O's in the trash. He's tired, too tired to be this angry, but the seconds are ticking by and Sammy is just sitting there waiting to be served, and he's sick of it. He's only ten-years-old; he isn't ready for this.
He slams the Lucky Charms on the table and pushes the box in Sammy's direction. His brother watches him, keeps watching him like that first morning, and asks in a small voice, "Do you want the prize?"
Dean watches the clock turn to 8:00, Sammy's bowl of cereal untouched by his elbow. "Just eat your dinner, Sam," he growls and slumps down in the opposite seat.
Sammy nods, dips his spoon in the bowl. He raises it to his mouth and tries to smile but Dean isn't looking. He's tired of watching; he's tired of this.
"I'm going out," he announces and Sammy puts down the spoon, watches him with wide, green eyes.
"Where are you going?" he asks and his eyes quickly flicker across the room, as if he's seeing it for the first time. "You're going to leave me alone?"
"You'll be okay, Sammy" Dean says. "I, I just need to get out for a little while, okay?"
Sammy keeps his eyes fixed on his cereal and his chin quivers. "Is this because of the Lucky Charms?" He pushes the plastic-wrapped prize across the table. "I said you could have the prize?"
Dean thinks of Cliff and Theo playing basketball in their suburban backyard and Denise worrying about who will take her to prom and how much he wanted to lose himself in Ruby learning to tie her first pair of lace up shoes. He doesn't want to think about the knives he's supposed to be sharpening while Sammy's asleep, or the Latin incantations he's supposed to memorize before he tucks himself in.
Sammy lifts his eyes to lock with his brother's and they're a clear, open green in his little face. He pushes the plastic dagger across the table, and its cheap gold coating glints in the yellowing motel light. "You keep the prize, Sam," he insists. "It will keep you safe in the dark."
Sammy shakes his head, holds it up high. "I'm not afraid of the dark, Dean."
Dean keeps his eyes downcast, so Sammy can't see the shadows there. "You should be. I'll be back soon. Don't forget to lock up while I'm out, okay?"
Sammy shrugs his shoulders in response, his attention fixed on the prize, because he's Sammy and that's what he does.
---
Dean thinks he might not go back.
He likes the diner a couple blocks from their motel, and he likes the way the waitress smiles at him while he eats his apple pie. Her hair is curly and blonde like his mama's, and her white dress reminds him of the nightgown his mama wore the last time he saw her alive. The pie tastes just right on his tongue, sweet and tart and spicy at the same time, and he remembers the pie cooking the day his mama had a pain in her belly and gave him Sammy a few hours later.
There's a TV above the counter and he doesn't know the program, because it's on after his bedtime, but he likes watching the people laugh and joke around a bar that reminds him a little of a place Caleb takes them when his father's working a job. It's different on TV, brighter and happier, and he's never been to a place where everyone knows his name.
He wonders what it would be like to live in a place where people know him, or attend a school where he isn't always the new kid.
The pretty waitress smiles again as his fork scrapes across his bare plate, and when he squints hard enough she even looks a little like his mama. The diner is bright and happy, and there's a family eating a late dinner in the corner, laughing and joking and doing things he hasn't done since his mama died. He knows if he goes back, he'll never get to do them again.
The waitress is still smiling at him and she's looking at him like the neighbors looked at him the night his world turned to ash. He wonders if he sits long enough if she'll offer to take him home like his mama's family wanted to take him and Sammy back to Texas. She smiles wider this time and runs a red-nailed hand through his hair and gives him another piece of pie, and he bats his eyes at her and pastes on his saddest face and knows if he stays long enough she'll keep him forever.
He almost does it. He almost stays.
He doesn't realize how late it is, or how long he's been gone, until some gruff, ugly dude shows up on TV and there's no longer anything bright or shiny to make him forget Sammy.
He runs out the of the diner and the pretty waitress runs after him, and she doesn't look as pretty in the harsh florescent lights but it doesn't matter.
He almost forgot Sammy and Sammy is the only thing that matters.
---
Dean has never seen his father angry before the shtriga tries to take Sammy.
He can barely look at his brother as his father rants and screams and makes him feel smaller than he already does in his oversized, secondhand clothes.
His father won't look at him as he gathers up his hunting gear and goes after the thing that almost ruined their lives all over again. "Dean," his father says and his voice is calm, too calm after what just happened. "Dean, look at me." He raises his head and winces when he meets his father's eyes because the only time he's ever seen them so dark and flashing was the night his mama went up in flames. "Dean, I'm giving you a second chance here. I want you to redeem yourself. You ever leave your brother again, and there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?"
Dean's seen hell; he understands. "Yes, sir. I understand."
He leaves them alone in the room and Dean tucks Sammy back into bed before slipping into his own.
"Dean," Sammy whispers in the darkness, and after he rolls over Dean can barely make out his brother's face in the dim light peaking around the curtains.
"Yeah?"
"Dean, will you sleep with me tonight?"
Dean sighs, because it's the rare night when he has a bed to himself. "You have your own bed tonight, Sam. Enjoy it."
"Dean," Sam repeats. "Dean, please. I'm afraid of the dark."
His statement hurts Dean more than the disgust in his father's gaze. "Okay," he says and scoots over in his bed to make room for Sammy. "Come on over."
Sammy jumps in beside him, so little he barely makes a dent in the covers, and slips one thumb in his mouth as his head nestles into the pillow; he grips Dean's thumb in his other hand.
Dean watches the lights play through his brother's hair, listens to his even breathing fill the room. He doesn't sleep, because he's Sammy's big brother and it's his job to keep him safe.
---
III. Lighten up a bit. It's only the end of the world.
Dean remembers the bottom dropping out of his world when Sammy left him again.
His mother had been dead for twenty-three years and his father might have joined her, and his brother dumped him for boobs and blonde hair and a girl he'd barely known two years.
He's man enough to admit it hurts.
He's hurting enough to miss the warning signs.
He drives through Palo Alto with the Zeppelin blaring and doesn't notice the lights flickering or the For Rent sign on the organic butcher's store.
Can't quit you, baby, so I'm gonna put you down for awhile.
His mother has been dead twenty-three years and his father might have joined her, and he can't lose the brother he just got back.
He turns swings the Impala around, crooning to his baby as the gravel road grinds into her tires, and retraces his steps.
He's still hurting, but not enough to miss the warning signs. The streetlights dance and burn out and all the blood rushes to his temples as his foot presses against the gas and the tires squeal as they burn rubber down the road.
He gets there just in time and he sees Jess engulfed in flames as her blood rains down from above, but Sammy's in danger and it fills everything he is.
He grabs his brother, pushes him out the door, grips his hand as he drags him to safety.
He's twenty-seven-years-old, he's ready for this, and his feet glide smoothly down the stairs and he easily shoulders his brother's weight. The front door is just up ahead, freedom and relief on the other side, and he pushes it open and breathes in cold night air.
Sammy is still struggling against him as the sirens wail and firemen's shouts fill the air and it takes everything in him to keep Sammy from joining Jess.
"Why did you come back?" Sammy finally asks when they're on the road and moving away from what used to be his life.
Dean glances at him, green eyes locking in the moonlight, and forces a grin. "I couldn't go to sleep angry." Sammy frowns and turns away; Dean sighs. "More importantly, it's my job to make sure you were safe."
It's been two days since the love of his life went up in puff of smoke but Sammy smiles.
---
IV. Life can be a curse, as well as a blessing.
Dean remembers the first time he lies to Sammy.
After the shtriga they disappeared into the heartland, living out of motels and reading encyclopedias in the backseat so they'd have some semblance of the education their mama wanted for him. Dean watches old movies on the black and white TVs with only three channels and thinks Steve McQueen and Charles Bronson hung the moon. He toughens his body and toughens his mind and conveniently forgets that men like them only exist in the movies. Sammy curls up on their bed with battered copies of Gary Paulsen books he'd swipe from the library for him.
Dean fancies himself some sort of Carter McCoy knockoff, Joe Wladislaw with better hair and a cooler jacket, until he finds himself standing at the giving end of a smoking gun.
He forgets that it only looks easy because it's the movies. Living it is a different story altogether.
Dean fancies himself a savior against things that go bump in the night, John Constantine without the two-pack a day habit and reserved seating in Hell.
He forgets that he doesn't have a six sense about these kinds of things and that sometimes a person and a demon are one and the same.
He and Sammy talk about it later, when they're holed up in the cabin and healing from almost losing each other again.
"You know that guy I shot? There was a person in there?"
Sammy looks guilty, stricken, because his brother took another's life to save his. "You didn't have a choice, Dean."
"Yeah, I know. That's not what bothers me."
"Then what does?"
The guilt is gone from Sammy's face and it's open and curious instead. He wants to know; he wants to understand.
Dean wants to tell him the truth, because he's Sammy and they've only had each other for the better part of a year and there isn't a single person he loves more in the world than his brother - not even his father - but he can't take that look of ignorant bliss off Sammy's face.
He lies to his brother instead.
"Killing that guy, killing Meg - I didn't hesitate. I didn't even flinch. For you or Dad, the things I'm willing to do or kill, it just…it scares me sometimes."
The sadness creeps back into Sammy's face and he wonders if he should have told the truth instead.
He didn't flinch, but he did hesitate, for a second, just half a second, he thought about letting Sammy go, giving him one-way trip to a better place where demons wouldn't murder anyone and everything he ever loved and he wouldn't suffer any longer. He wanted Sammy to smile again, really, truly smile, and for the shadows to leave his eyes. He didn't want Sammy to be afraid of the dark anymore.
He thought it would be a gift.
Then he blinked and realized this was the kind of gift Sammy couldn't return to sender, and if something went wrong he wouldn't be there to make sure the delivery was right. In the next second, his finger didn't hesitate on the trigger.
When the smoke cleared Sammy was bruised and battered but alive and that was all that mattered. Dean reached down, fingers locking around his brother's, and pulled him to safety.
"I've got you," he thought as his fingers tightened around his brother's, and Sammy smiled in return. He didn't say a word, but his eyes did the talking, "Thank you."
Dean didn't let his brother out of his sight as they helped their father to the car; he never would again. He was the big brother - it was his job to keep Sammy safe.
---
V. It's not enough to survive. One has to be worthy of survival.
Dean remembers when Sammy almost dies.
He's tired, more tired than he's ever been in his entire life, so tired he's not sure he can make it; he's less sure that he wants to make it.
He remembers what's waiting for him at the end of the line, and when he closes his eyes his mama is smiling and laughing and opening her arms to welcome her boys.
"I've missed you, baby," she whispers and presses an aching kiss to his forehead. It lingers and spreads, and his limbs are fluid and warm and full in ways they've never been before. "I've waited for you," she says and grips his hand so tight he doesn't think she'll ever let go. Its only when he steps back to see her, really see her, that he realizes he's alone.
"Where's Sam?" he demands, and she looks at him curiously, because things like questions don't exist where they are.
"What do you mean, D?" she asks. "Why would Sammy be here?"
He doesn't feel so warm anymore, just heavy, prickly in his own skin. "Where's Sammy?" he asks again, and ignores the sharp tone in his voice.
His mama still looks confused. "Why would Sammy be here?" she asks. "Sammy isn't ready, D. Sammy's a fighter. Sammy isn't ready to let go."
"No," he says and shakes his head. He can't believe it; he won't believe it. "We're supposed to do this together. We're supposed to be here together."
Somewhere far away he can hear his own words, but they sound twisted, like he's hearing them underwater. "I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of this job, this life . . . this weight on my shoulders, man. I'm tired of it."
He hears Sammy respond, winces at the concern in his brother's voice. "So what, so you're just going to give up? You're just gonna lay down and die? Look, Dean, I know this stuff with Dad has - "
"No," Dean whispers and looks around frantically, desperately. "It's not supposed to be like this. I need to get back to him. I need to be with him."
His mama watches him with that confused look on her face. "But I've been waiting for you, D. I've been waiting a long time. When Sammy's ready, he can be with us too - "
"No," Dean insists. "No…"
He opens his eyes he's in the backroom again, and he's cold and exhausted and his mama is nowhere in sight but Sammy is, and it's everything, everything to him, because if this is the end they'll be able to do it together.
"What is it about?" Sammy pestures him for answers he's unwilling to give, but he shakes his head and keeps the truth to himself. If this is the end, he wants Sammy going out with a clear conscience. He'll carry the weight because it's what big brother's do.
---
"Listen to your heart. Do that which you truly believe to be right."
"Dean," Sammy says and breaks the silence that's surrounded them since the Impala pulled out of Crater Lake for civilization and freedom. "Why did you do it?"
Dean knows exactly what he's talking about but plays the fool. "What're you talking about?" He keeps his eyes focused on the road, his posture rigid - anything not to look at his brother.
He doesn't sigh, but Dean recognizes the annoyance in Sammy's voice. "Stop playing games, Dean. You had the chance to go free, to save yourself. Why did you stay behind?"
He keeps his foot on the gas, but turns his eyes to his brother. "You really have to ask?" he bites out, but Sammy just watches him with wide eyes. In the moonlight, he can't see the shadows in them, and it makes everything worth it.
"Yeah," Sammy whispers. "I really have to ask."
Dean looks away so Sammy can't see the sacrifice in his eyes. "It's my job to keep you safe."
Sammy doesn't say anything for long time, just turns to the window and watches the empty landscape along the highway. "You know," he finally says and his voice shakes a little but his tone is firm. "I'm not afraid of the dark anymore."
Dean laughs, really, truly laughs for the first time in forever, and when he turns back to his brother he doesn't care what Sammy sees in his eyes. "Thank you," Sammy whispers. "Dean, I…"
"You don't owe me anything," Dean insists and he means it. "You'll never owe me anything. I'm your big brother, and that's what big brothers do. They look after the little ones."
The road stretches out ahead of them, endless and black, but Sammy smiles, fingers locking with his brother's over the gearshift, and it's all that matters.
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