A/N:
A bit of non-detailed John/Dean and Sam/Dean, for the sake of the story.
Kinda of a spur of the moment fanfic. Might remain as a one-shot, might not. We'll see.
The Good Son and Brother
Something that people didn't really seem to understand, not even those who stood him the closest, was that Dean would do absolutely anything for those he loved.
Absolutely… Anything.
When his mother was still alive, he'd bolt to her side as soon as his name had left her lips. Eagerly he would do whatever it was that she asked of him, without complaint. He always kept her company when she cooked for the family – especially when she was expecting his brother. His precious, little brother. Anything she asked, he'd help her with.
He relished in the reward of being shown off to their family friends, being seen as the perfect son that never fussed, never complained. Everyone loved him. He loved himself.
Sam came, and only once did Dean look disappointed about not getting attention from his parents. It was right when the bundle of joy had come home with his mother from the hospital, and he'd been told to play in his room while his parents relaxed in their bedroom. He had just pouted with his lips, before skipping off to his room.
Being a big brother was even better than being a big help to his parents. He'd hold his baby brother in his arms and just stare at him, play with him, doing anything to keep the tiny boy happy.
His reward was Sam's giggles, hearing Sam coo in response to him, being told that he was the best big brother in the world by his parents.
The downfall of being the best big brother in the world was to watch his home burn down to the ground, flames dancing in his eyes as he carefully rocked his brother in his arms, slowly calming his brother down.
He was the good son that instead of questioning his father, he had willingly taken Sam in his arms and ran outside, ignoring the burning pain in his small heart. Ignoring the need to cry out for his mother like the broken child that he became that night.
Instead of crying and asking why, he didn't say a word. For months he just sat at Bobby's, staring into the wall, unless he was told to do something else or if he was focusing on his little brother. He was void of all emotions, probably suffering from some sort of PTSD, or at least it was what John and Bobby told anyone who dared to ask.
It took over a year for Dean to speak up again, and he did so with a paniced shout. "Dad! Uncle!"
The two grown men had burst into the living room, gasping and then going completely silent as they watched the scene before them.
Dean was trying to be as still as he possibly could where he was sat on his knees, arms and hands shaking from the strain. For only being five years old, he sure knew how important this very moment was in their family.
Sam was babbling non-sense, but in between his words he was happily squealing. "Dee! Dee!" he giggled, unsteadily taking a step towards his older brother. Then he fell over, and before either John or Bobby could even gasp – Dean was already scooping the crying baby into his arms.
Never had they wished that Mary had still been with them, as they did in that very moment.
Dean had always been a good son, but what no one ever expected was that he'd also be a better parent than his own father. No one was surprised after what had happened, but it still wasn't expected by anyone.
Sam wasn't like his brother. He wasn't quiet – he voiced his complaints – he didn't always do what he was told – more often than not he had a tantrum – and he couldn't handle not getting the attention that he needed. Thankfully, his brother was always there, always giving him what he wanted. Always keeping him clothed, fed, clean and safe.
Indeed, Dean was more of a parent than their father was. He never gave it much thought. He was happy to feel useful, happy to help. Do something he was good at. His mother had always praised him, saying he always knew when someone needed a hug or a helping hand. John had praised him too. John had been so proud.
John was no longer proud when the Shtriga almost took Sam. It was the first time that Dean experienced the feeling of uselessness, the way his father had stared him down as he raised a hand that looked so huge all those years back.
Never did Dean question if he deserved the slap that left his cheek swollen for two days. Of course he'd deserved it. He almost had his brother killed. Sam was important. John was important. They were more important than anything.
Dean had to make sure they were safe. He couldn't afford to fail. Failures were out of the question.
He was a good son. He failed, and never complained or backed down when the punishment came straight at him. He was a good soldier, learnt quickly, never made the same mistake twice. Never questioned authority.
Sam and John complained. Dean fixed it. Sam and John fought. Dean had to take the consequences. John drank and hunted, Sam studied and grew. Dean made sure they had someone they could rely on for help.
Sam got angry because Dean never understood. John got angry because Dean never did well enough.
Dean liked to think he was a good son, a good brother. Sam used to look up at him, John used to be proud of him. They didn't anymore.
They had a lot of laughs, he couldn't deny that. They had a lot of fun. Though every single time their laughs died down, a piece of him died with it in the awkward silence that followed.
Somewhere along the line, he was no longer the good son, the good brother. There wasn't any reason to love himself, if all he did was fail. Time after time, he would fail. His only family started turning their backs to him, always two steps ahead. John and Sam. Sam and John. Smarted, stronger, loveable.
He ignored the fact that the abuse from John was growing stronger, the stinging smell of alcohol more noticeable. He ignored the letters and the brochures Sam tried to hide from everyone, joking about the sudden growth spurts that his brother had in an attempt to make the inviteable scenario feel easier to swallow.
Dean felt that he had never been a good brother, as he watched Sam storm out of that door in anger.
Dean felt that he had never been a good son, as he watched John turn deadly silent and hit the bottle.
If only he had been better, none of that would've happened. None of it. Maybe his mother wouldn't have died that day, if only he'd been better. Despite knowing that no, that was not the truth, a demon took her… He felt it was his fault. The angels wouldn't watch over someone as worthless as him.
That's why he never believed in angels.
That's why he deserved it when John started grabbing at him in a drunken haze, whispering with desperation his wife's name.
"Mary, Mary, oh Mary," was all that Dean would hear some nights, as he embraced his father and comforted him.
"It's alright John, you'll be alright, you and Sam," he would tell his father in the softest of voices, trying to remember the sweetness of his mother's voice. He'd stopped mentioning himself long ago, and his father had never caught on.
Not once.
He never made a single noise when John came home angry and drunk. Never said anything when his father came into his bed. Not a single sound left his lips when he felt hands on his skin. Completely silent as his father moaned his mother's name as his body was used as a poor substitute for the soulmate his father had lost so long ago, and still yearned for.
Dean never saw anything wrong with it, but he felt himself fading, appetite decreasing, selflessness and selfconsciousness sky-rocketing. So he reached out, for the first time in his life.
"Hey. This is Sam Winchester. I'm currently unavailable. If it's something important, please leave your name and number after the-" Dean hung up before the message had finished.
He tried. Again and again. Greeted by the same message over and over again. Never leaving a message, never asking to go with his father who he knew was checking up on Sam.
It was a lonely life, being a hunter that wasn't loved. Who was only useful to pick up the left overs of several messes.
It was a surprise when he got the Impala by his father. Not without having been threatened to the verge of not accepting the car, but he did anyway. The car needed someone to take care of it, and he sure would.
It was a surprise when Sam didn't throw him out immediately when he had crept into the apartment and pinned him to the floor, unknowingly waking the sleeping girlfriend up. It went surprisingly well though, and for a little while, Dean was happy. Incredibly happy to have Sam by his side, having the two of them look for their dad. Together.
How could he had known that when he went to fetch Sam that night, he'd ruin everything that his brother had built?
He did his best to keep it together. Did his best to never let anything onto his brother. Sometimes the words just slipped from him, and he regretted every single complaint that he had voice to his brother.
Though it didn't matter. Dean was a bad brother. A bad son. His family hurt because of him. If only he'd been better… John and Sam wouldn't have to fight. They'd be happy.
They would have been a fantastic hunter duo. Smart, strong, brave. Sam and John.
It was no secret that John had always been more proud of Sam, and Dean told Sam about it. Especially after John had sacrificed himself – sold his soul – to save Dean from death. So that Dean could take care of Sam. There couldn't be any other reason.
"He checked up on you, spoke of you so fondly, looked so proud of you," he said while they were driving one night. Sam looked disbelievingly at him, and he felt like he needed to slap him. He had no right, so he didn't. "It's true. He always wanted the best for you. Always. He was just bad with expressing it."
"… I'm proud of you," he had whispered when Sam had fallen asleep, doing his best to keep the tears from falling.
It wasn't anything weird when Sam finally got drunk off his ass one day. Dean had seen it coming from a mile, and yet he had to ask 'are you drunk?'. He got the reply he expected. He didn't expect his brother to ask him to kill him if he turned evil. Dean's heart broke, but he promised.
When it came to the point of letting Sam die, Dean couldn't take it. Sold his soul, and no one was grateful. Just angry. Still, he didn't regret it. At least this would be a useful death.
Next time Sam was drunk, he called him Jess. Dean said nothing, turning himself mute, and just let his brother do whatever he wanted. Leading him to bed on unsteady legs and doing the exact same thing their father had done. There was so much love, desperation, just like it had been in John.
It wasn't for him, but when Sam closed his eyes, Dean dared open his and imagine that for once, someone loved just him. Didn't abandon him, didn't hate him. He dared to speak a single sentence, voice so soft and sweet from the emotions, as his brother came; "I love you." The groan ringing through the air made it hard to hear, and yet, Sam replied tiredly "I love you too, Jess…"
Dean had almost bursted from emotions he didn't know he had, but he kept it in. Almost wished he hadn't, as he was going to die anyway.
Horror was pumping through his body as they ran from the hellhounds, believing they had ran away from them. They were wrong, and Dean cursed Lilith. Not for ruining their plan, not for being a demon, not for anything like that.
But for not having knocked Sam unconscious as the hellhounds were let into the room.
It hurt. Being chewed on and ripped apart by the hounds. Knowing that his brother was watching it all. He never wanted Sam to have to see something so gruesome.
Everything went still.
Dean was already gone as his brother let out a broken scream.
Dean would do anything for his family. He did everything he could've done, pushed himself as far as he could be pushed. He never felt properly loved, but at least he did what he could.
That's all that matters, for the good son and brother.