Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. This thing's just a drabble, it's nothing major, just some thoughts

He watched out for his brother for twenty years.

It didn't matter to him when his father left, because then he was left to his own devices. He could spoil Sammy, he could make sure everything was alright. He found no more pleasure in anything than seeing his brother laugh or smile, give the tiniest hint of contentment. He loved to see his baby brother's delight and happiness and know that it was him that brought it along.

When he took care of his brother he felt... well, different. Around his father he had to be strong and confident, follow the orders given to him by his superior, not the requests of his family. John took him on a hunt, his first hunt, and he never once felt toward his father the way he did toward his brother. He could never see John as he saw Sammy. John was his superior.

John wasn't much of a father to either of them.

So Dean practically raised Sam. Taught him the ropes of life. He spent two days teaching Sam how to use a knife and fork, and then another few weeks frowning at him when he chewed with his mouth open. He taught Sam how to tie his shoes. When Sam came to him in the park with a grazed knee Dean put him on his back and carried him home and cleaned him up, while John rolled his eyes at his youngest.

Dean watched Sam grow up. Watched him sprout from a tiny little squirt who craned his neck to get higher than his hip to a gigantic pile of limbs and hair that loomed over him like one of those freaky massive teddy bears people buy from stores and stuff. Watched him grow teeth. Watched him break his first limb. Dean watched Sam take his first steps and picked him up when he fell.

Dean was a father, a brother, and a best friend.

He never failed Sam.

John didn't try very hard. When he remembered it was Dean or Sam's birthdays, it was rare he got a present for them. He couldn't provide them with all the clothing they needed, couldn't quite treat them like sons. He didn't really. He treated them more like soldiers than he treated them like kin.

Deep down, he knew that John, after years of hunting and so few familial times, couldn't be more to him any more than 'Sir'. John was never there for Christmas or Thanksgiving and rarely remembered or cared for his birthday.

Sammy did.

He could remember his ninth birthday. Little Sam was only five at the time, the short little kid. Dean himself was down, knowing his father wasn't going to be back for at least four more days. Dean was ready to get to sleep after tucking Sam in. But not five minutes after he put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes had the soft padding of footsteps on the ground had his eyes opening.

There was Sam, shuffling toward him with a huge smile and a poorly wrapped present.

Even though it was just a chocolate bar, Dean treasured it.

Dean remembered that it was more than John or anyone else had given him that year.

Sam knew Dean better than anyone. Dean was everything he needed. His role model, his friend, Whatever Sam needed he knew Dean would become just for him. Because Dean was good that way, he was a caring brother who gave up everything.

When he was old enough to do anything, Sam started giving back.

At five was when he was starting to understand. Dad wasn't going to be as good as Dean was. Dad wasn't the one to tuck him in at night and greet him warmly in the mornings. So Sam took to Dean. Walked more like Dean, talked more like Dean. He favored Dean in the smaller ways. Sometimes Dean and Dada got home exhausted, and Dad would go right to sleep. Dean would sit on his bed and grimace in pain or relief. Sam, seeing this, would smile and get Dean a bottle of cold, fresh water that he'd put in the fridge just for Dean.

When Dean was thirteen, he came home looking frustrated with himself, and tears were pooling in his eyes.

The paper with the big red D on it's front explained a lot to Sam.

So he just went to sit next to his brother. Dean didn't say anything, didn't need a hug, and Sam knew that. So he just sat there, a presence. Dean latched on to that, pulling himself together and clinging tightly to the fact that Sammy was here.

Sam stood up and hugged his brother close, and Dean hugged him back.

Sometimes that was all he needed. Th know that he was still Sam's hero, no matter what grades he got or how many girls rejected him.

And he was.

He was Sam's biggest hero.

Sam got older and provded more for his brother than before. Dean came home and the house was clean, and Sam would be waiting to pass him a nice cold beer. He'd whisper out an explanation to Dean about a question and point out the route to finding the answer, and Dean would wordlessly work it out, wirte it down, whatever. And they'd never mention it, because Dean didn't need to think he was dumb for having his little brother helping him out.

At nineteen, Sam was smarter than him.

Dean was, somehow, still his hero.

The brothers were closer than others. They relied on each other so much. Sam would look over his shoulder and know Dean would be there. Dean would look up and know that Sam would by his side. Sam and Dean provided and cared for each other, tended each other's wounds and made each other laugh. They were a perfect team, moved in sync and harmonized so flawlessly, so perfectly that to truly study it would leave one stumped.

Because the Winchester boys were somehow more than just family.

They didn't really have fixed roles, the Winchester sons. The muscle, the brains, the logic, whatever it was they both had their turns being there. Sometimes they butted heads over the most stupid of things, but they never let it get int he way.

Eventually, they stopped being the Winchester boys, sons of John Winchester. They were the Winchesters. Just the Winchesters. The name was theirs, not a courtesy provided by their bloodline.

And the name was something they held proudly.

Everyone knew Sam was smarter.

Everyone acknowledged that Dean was the better hunter.

Nobody dared suggest that either was better than the other.

That was suicide.

That's the thing, now. When John told Sam that if he left he was never coming back, nobody knew. Nobody knew that when he left that house, left his hunter life and his beloved brother, nobody heard them talking over the phone when Sam settled down. Nobody heard the messages they sent to the other, the final words for two years.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I left you. But I can't say I wish I was there. Just... If you ever need to... want to... I'm here. No matter what. I owe it to you, Dean."

"Sam, it's not your fault. I was there, I heard it. I get it. Sam, do me a favor, and live for a little. Live for a little, and the moment you decide you don't like it, you give me a call. I'll be sure to let you know if I need you, Sammy, don't you worry. Be safe, little brother."

Not much to someone listening in, but to each other it was everything. They would always still be there. They would always have each other's backs. For the two years Sam was at college, the brothers developed alone. They lived without the other, and it was good. Sam got smarter, Dean became a better hunter. They met up, and suddenly what they had learned on their own made living together again different. It's hard to know if it made their lives harder of easier, but they had more aspects of themselves that did both, so it didn't matter as much when they wondered if it would be better to have stayed together.

They still had it anyway.

When they met Castiel, the brothers didn't quite know what they were going to do. The angel was indifferent, and to them a simple helping stranger. Days, weeks, months and years passed by, and slowly Castiel started coming around more and more. Dean and Sam, without knowing it, started relying on the angel of the lord, though not as much as they relied on each other.

Castiel, himself, didn't see it until a long time in.

The brothers, he knew, were close. Castiel never expected that he could have anything like that, a bond between brothers.

Sam and Dean, however, didn't even think about it.

The more the angel was around, the more they knew they had to look out for him. The first hunts with the angel weren't much, a simple partnership, more for convenience than for anything else. After that, it wasn't even registered. It was instinctive, completely natural.

They started caring.

Sam and Dean found themselves glancing behind the angel's back, making sure nothing was about to try and gank him from behind. They took up positions where they couldn't just take out their target, but also make sure that they could defend Castiel. They moved, they had Castiel's back, even though he didn't need it most of the time. But growing up as they had, the brothers did it anyway.

They leaned a little on the angel, they trusted him and counted on him.

Strange as it may seem, the angel was a brother now.

The trio worked together better than before. The brothers, the great hunters, who worked so incredibly well together, merging with the angel from heaven, who raised them from perdition. They taught him, without meaning to, the ropes. Some basics with guns, some little things like how a family worked together. Castiel taught them as well, showed them with solid proof that family was far more than just blood.

Sometimes they took big jobs. They came out on top, and were all the stronger for it.

Castiel brought a job around, a big one. It had seemed to easy at the time, taking out a group of demons. None of them counted on the fact that there would be so many. What was probably a hundred demons converged on them, and suddenly, the trio was fighting for much more than the job.

They fought in perfect harmony. Castiel, weakened by the sigils in the building, still had his blade. He fought like a whirlwind, occasionally popping off a shot or two with the gun that the brothers insisted he carry. Dean was between them, firing off round after round, taking out demons. Sam, also shooting, was yelling an exorcism, holding his own and keeping a careful eye on anything that could come at his brother - brothers - from behind.

It was here that the tides turned.

Dean, seeing one of the nasties coming up behind Castiel, leaped for him and stuck Ruby's knife into the sucker's head. Castiel, in turn, took out the demon that leaped after his friend.

Dean looked back at his brother, his little brother for nearly thirty years.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

Dean panicked, alerting Cas, and the angel and human fought with renewed vigor. They stayed back to back, Castiel continuing the exorcism for Sam while Dean shouted frantically for his brother. Hearing nothing, Dean grew more worried, fighting like a demon himself. When Castiel uttered the last words of the exorcism and black smoke leaped from the twenty or so vessels, Dean ran towards where Sam was last.

Sam Winchester wasn't there.

Dean turned around while Castiel walked about the room, scratching out sigils. Almost in response to Dean's cries, a piercing scream erupted from somewhere in the building. Immediately, the angel and hunter stopped everything, rushing towards where they heard the sound coming from, bursting into a strangely empty storage unit in the warehouse.

There he was. The tall man, impossibly tall compared to his brother and father before him, surrounded by seven or eight very dead demons. He was hunched over, arms wrapped around his middle, kneeling in the middle of the circle of fallen vessels.

Dean rushed forwards, kneeling beside his brother. Sam leaned into him immediately, and Dean pulled one of the massive arms around his shoulders, helping Sam to his feet. Castiel, eyes widened slightly, hurriedly moved towards him. He eased Sam's other arm away from his bloody middle, and Dean panicked at the sight of the bloodied gash.

Dean Winchester and Castiel supported Sam out of the room, moving agonisingly slowly down the halls. Sam fell many times, stumbling and dizzy from the blood loss. All of a sudden, he went completely limp, causing Dean and Castiel - whose powers were still blocked by the sigils - to falter. Sam coughed, and Dean lowered him to the ground gently. The action was surprising for a man of his size and habits, and he lay Sam on his back, cradling his head in his lap.

"Dean," Sam said weakly. Dean shushed him, though, stroking his hair and taking his free hand. Castiel felt out of place, wrong, as if he were intruding on a private moment. But at the same time, he felt that he had to be here. Sam looked at the angel and painstakingly placed a hand on his knee.

They sat there for a few minutes, Sam slowly choking. Castiel scrambled internally, searching desperately for a tiny thread of his Grace that he could use to heal Sam, to save his friend.

Castiel looked up when Dean froze.

The man's face was fixed on his brother's hand, the grip slackened even as Dean grasped it tightly in his own. Sam's hand fell from Castiel's knee, but the angel, paling, took it up and held it tightly, calling Sam's name. Dean burst into motion, gently slapping Sam's face, shaking his hand, patting him on the chest. Sam was still and silent, empty eyes gazing unseeingly at the roof.

And so one brother fell.

Dean tried everything. He called on countless crossroad demons, tried striking every deal possible to get his brother back.

But Sam was gone. He went back to the cage, and this time there was nothing they could do. Castiel tried to pull the soul out, put it back into the body, but he returned barely alive. Dean tried for the better part of a year, hunting down every monster he came across on the way.

But it was no use.

His brother was gone.

In late December that year, just before Christmas, Dean sat alone in a bar, downing his third beer. He was thinking, thinking hard, and tears stung his eyes.

He thought of the fact that he would never see his little brother again.

Sam would never greet him with a smile and a hug. He'd never be waiting at the motel room with a roll of the eyes when Dean stumbled in, drunk. Sa would never argue with Dean about stupid things, useless topics, he'd never have Dean's back. Dean was torn, torn in half, leaving a gaping wound where his beloved little brother used to stay.

If Castiel came in that night, after months of leaving Dean alone - he knew that Dean still blamed him for the death of his brother, after all - and sat with him, Dean didn't think on it. If Castiel ordered a beer and stayed with Dean for the rest of the night, flew him home and got him to bed safely, neither of them commented. And if Castiel was there in the morning, next to a breakfast of bacon and eggs, Dean couldn't bring himself to be wary.

Castiel never left his side after that. He remained by the human's side, hunted with him and made up as much as he could. Dean, even though he didn't want to, still trusted Cas to have his back. He was secretly glad to have one brother back by his side.

The next year, on the second of May, Dean sat on a hill with Castiel, leaning against a massive, thick tree. The willow, whose leaves turned the most beautiful gold come autumn, could have been a hundred years old, all thick, twisted trunk and long tresses. But if one were to look closely, they could make out the tiny symbols carved into every square centimeter of the dark, rich trunk and branches, the symbols that grew naturally with the leaves.

That tree, which may be surprising, was less than two years old.

With help from the angel of Thursday, the little willow grew incredibly quickly, going from a tiny, freshly planted sapling to a great, majestic tree overnight. The thick, dark wood of the trunk, a very specific shade of brown, grew around a large silver urn, within which were encased the ashes of a great hunter. The tree, in the middle of a forest, was a safe haven. As far as the gnarled roots extended, demons, ghosts and monsters could not approach the willow. It was charmed, too, that no human would dare inflict any sort of damage to any part of the willow.

Sitting in a nook, where the trunk split the first time into branches, was a gun, onto which were engraved letters.

S.W. D.W. C.W.

Dean turned his head toward his brother, nudging Castiel with his elbow. The angel smiled a little, relaxing a little more and leaning against the trunk. The bottle of quality beer sat empty, wedged between the roots, and there was a large puddle where some of it had been poured on the ground. Dean, pleasantly lightheaded, and Castiel, who had eased up considerably, shared stories and jokes, and Dean laughed harder when Castiel didn't get it and cocked his head to the side.

It was good to laugh.

And Cas, knowing that Dean still hurt badly, swore that Sam and Dean, the legendary brothers, the team, would see each other again.

That night, there was the sound of springs creaking. Dean heard it, but in his sleepy haze he thought nothing of it, assuming Castiel had just come to stray the night again. Dean always got two beds anyway.

In the morning, Sam was there. He was alive, and Dean held him close for hours after he was sure it was him. He called on Castiel.

The angel held Sam just as close as Dean had.

After all, Dean had told him many times that Castiel was family.

When Dean joined in, the three wrapped up in a group embrace, Cas had never believed it more.

A/N Alright, so this little thing was niggling me and I had to try. Sorry if the ending is sucky, I'm not even good at life. Please tell me if you hate it. Again, sorry for wasting your time with this, leave a review if it's worth it.

Awesome... Live a long time and be happyyyyyyy.

Sid.