Tag to Baby. Just a quick little thing that I found in my archives. And, no, it's not a Wincest fic.
Don't own; still mad about it.
R&R!
Dean's eyes jerked open and he sat up. His dream had woken him up, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was about. He looked around him, and smiled softly as he saw his little brother fast asleep in the backseat of the Impala.
There were many things Dean didn't let himself think about. Especially when it came to Sam. Dean's relationship with Sam had always been a bit turbulent; there were many hurtles that they jumped, and obstacles that they avoided, and problems that were smoothed over by nights of heavy drinking and an unprecedented amount of murder and gankings.
It was hard to think about Sam and keep their troubled past . . . well, in the past.
But it wasn't just that, though. Dean didn't like thinking about Sam too much because then he would become too attached to him, like when they were younger. Dean always did need Sam more than Sam needed him, and if he were to dwell on his admiration for his younger brother too much, the insatiable necessity to protect him from anything and everything would arise again.
That protection led to unimaginable damage.
So, Dean didn't let himself think about how, when Sam was drunk, he ate cheeseburgers, and sang different Irish drinking songs that he would invent on the spot, and would touch Dean's face a lot, and would willingly watch late night infomercials with his big brother, and make fun of Dean and life and motel rooms and hunts and people they saved, and he would tell stupid jokes that he would find online, and ramble on about random facts that he would pull from some dark crevasse of his mind, and he would smile, and laugh, and sometimes he would cry but not for long because Dean was always there to make it better.
Dean didn't let himself think about how, when Sam sobered up, he would talk about how great of a time they had when they were drunk together, and how they should do it every night but not that night because Sam had a hangover and, even though he claimed his head was about to crack open like a coconut, he was still smiling because they spent eight or more hours just being brothers, and that hadn't happened in four or five years, and Sam would tell him that he was just as happy as Dean was when they did get drunk together.
Dean didn't let himself think about how, when Sam slept, he would coo every so often, and smile softly, and laugh warmly, but he was never comfortable and he always thrashed and he always changed his position, and, sometimes, he would talk. He would talk about what he likes to eat; his favorite books. Every once in a while he would spout out lore on different creatures, but Dean hated those nights, because conscious Sam would talk about that, and he liked listening to subconscious Sam because he was adorable and would say any damn thing that came to mind. Sometimes he would talk about Mom or Jess or Madison, but those were the nights after a particularly strenuous hunt, or he had to make a decision that would result in the death of many people no matter which route he took, or he and Dean were in a fight. Those were the nights he had nightmares. Sometimes he would talk about Dean, but, when he did, it was usually just, Shut up, Dean, or No way, Dean, that waitress was eyeing me or Dean, I get the last burrito or Dean, you smell like hookers and gunpowder or You're a jerk, Dean. One time, though, one time Sam said Shut up, you son of a bitch. Dean's the best. And then he rolled onto his other side, facing Dean, his eyes squeezed shut with slumbering anger and said, You're just jealous. But that was when he was thirteen and he attended a really awful school with dickhead kids and sucky teachers. That was the school where he was bullied the worst. And that was the day Sam came home to Dean with fire in his eyes and blood on his knuckles, but assured his big brother by saying, Don't worry, it's not mine. Some kids at my school were trying to tell me that you hated me, and that you tried to act so cool because . . . Mom died and Dad is never home, so I took care of them for you. And then he smiled.
Dean didn't let himself think about Sam's goddamn puppy dog eyes that slayed him every time he looked into them, the way they almost constantly looked sad, and always had that . . . Sam-ish glint, the sparkle in his pupils.
Dean would never say it out loud, but he loved his brother.
And he didn't know what he would do without him.