Dean is John's favorite. Sam knows this.
He's twelve years old, when he realizes it first. Hardly more than tousled mop of hair and a jumble of scrawny limbs, drowning in thrift shop clothes 3 sizes too large.
Sam has just completed his first hunt without Dean, and he's screaming in the passenger seat of the Impala.
John is shouting at him in the background, but he's white noise; Sam can't hear him over the wild pounding in his ears. Her blood is on his hands, spattered across his lips, the girl, oh GOD, she was a little girl...
"SAM!" Rough hands grab the lapels of his oversized shirt, yanking him forward. His head snaps back painfully as he's jerked, the wide eyes of his father filling his vision.
"Sammy." John exhales, warm, beer-scented breath all over Sam's face, and he wants to be sick. "Sam, buddy, you gotta calm down, just take a deep breath for me-"
His dad's face is inches away, yet it fades in and out of focus, like a blurry specimen under a microscope. It's a moment before Sam realizes that this is because he's crying. John's hands release his collar and drop to his shoulders, heavy, but comforting all the same. Something to tether Sam to the world, to keep him from exploding into millions of bloody pieces and blowing away with the wind, just like...just like…
A broken sob tears out of his throat, and John pulls his boy to his chest.
With his face buried in warm flannel that smells of gunpowder and gasoline and home, Sam is done for.
His little hands desperately grasp at the back of his father's shirt as he burrows into the older man's chest. John's arms wrap around him tightly, and for a moment Sam thinks it could be alright, that it will all be alright as long as he stays here, in the protection of his father's embrace, forever, until he dies, and he wants to die, he doesn't want to see any more..
"Sammy?" John murmurs after a moment. He gently pries Sam's fingers from his shirt, despite the way his son shakes and tries to wriggle his way back into the safety of his father's arms. As he's tugged away, cold air washes over Sam like a douse of icy water, and the illusion of safety shatters. Everything unwanted comes rushing back like a flood; he can see her face, her soft cheeks and dying eyes, her heaving form as the dreadful black smoke surged from her body like expelled bile. He can feel the handle of a gun in his shaking hand; feel the blood rain across his face like a hail of bullets, and at twelve years old, he knows what it is to be unmade.
"I killed her," Sam cries, and John stares at him with eyes like shattered glass. "I killed her!"
"You killed it, Sam," John growls, giving his son a rough shake that Sam feels down to his bones. "You killed a demon, you couldn't help that it possessed that girl. You did what you had to do; you did what was right."
"No," Sam whispers brokenly, staring up at his father with eyes a thousand years old. "I killed her too, I know I did; I killed a little girl-"
"Sam!" John shouts, shaking him again, and Sam wants to burn out, wants to choke on the bile rising in his throat. "Stop! You killed that demon. You killed an evil creature and saved who knows how many human lives, you did not-"
"I KILLED HER!" Sam screams, ripping free of his father's grasp. His face is crumbling and his hands are shaking, but he can't hold it in; he's damned if he stops now. "You made me kill her!" And twelve year old Sam tastes rage, pure, unadulterated rage. He wants to slap the hurt expression right off John's face, wants to hurt him the exact way he hurt that child, that innocent girl who died in a pink, flower print dress and died because of him-
"SAMUEL WINCHESTER!" John roars, and it's the loudest thing that Sam has heard in his life. The anger drains from his body in an instant, and now he's filled with fear: pure, primal fear. His wide eyes take in his father's glowering face, and he's never seen such anger before. There's a deafening moment. John glares at Sam and Sam wants to shrink away but can't, pinned in place by his father's stare. Then John makes a sudden motion forward, and for the first time in his life, Sam thinks his daddy is going to hit him.
He bursts into tears.
Sam can't help it, can't stop if he tried. His small body heaves with the force of his sobs, coughing and choking as they escape his throat. John moves toward him again and Sam whimpers pitifully, and tries to make himself small, before he's pulled into a strong embrace once more. He's crying so hard he can't breathe, gasping as he's crushed to his father's chest so tightly. He can count his heartbeats through the flannel.
"I'm sorry," John's voice breaks, and his arms form a cage around his son to keep bad things out, but also to keep Sam in. He rocks the boy back and forth, too jerkily to be comforting. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
He doesn't know what to do, Sam realizes, as his tears soak his dad's shirt, and he feels tiny tremors running through the strong arms encircling him. He doesn't know what to do, because he's never done this before.
He's scared.
John draws him back to look him in the eyes, and Sam is shocked to find that his father is crying too. "I'm sorry," John whispers hopelessly, smoothing Sam's sweaty bangs back from his eyes. Sam has never seen his dad look so lost. "I'm sorry." It's all he can say.
Sam knows he is strange then, because this is new to John, because Dean never reacted this way. Because he's skinny and sensitive, and because he still hasn't wiped the little girl's blood from his lips. And for all the meaning that John's whispered apologies hold, Sam's father can't mask his look of relief when Sam's tears cease as suddenly as they began.
"Alright now, sport?" John half-smiles, and Sam blinks back. "Good. Let's get back to the motel. Dean'll be home from school soon; you two can rent a movie tonight, if you want. Sound good?"
A movie, Sam thinks, and his laugh sounds like a sob. A movie will make everything all right.
Dean will make everything all right. The thought makes Sam want to cry again.
Dean knows what to do, knows how to gather his little brother in his arms and rock Sam so gently it makes him want to weep. He knows because he feels; he feels everything that Sam does, and he never shows it. That's why we both love him best, Sam thinks, glancing sideways at his father, whose dark eyes are fixed on the road. Because he knows that you don't feel and he knows that I do, and he can adjust. Dean knows when to feel, and when to not. He fits with us both. That's why he's your favorite, Dad. He's brave.
Sam is not John's favorite. He knows this. He wishes he were brave.