Bars - by Whilom
Dean is four the first time he crawls over the bars of the crib, slips an arm around his brother, and gently rocks him to sleep. He gets in trouble for it the next morning—"Sammy can't see you doing that or he'll do it too, fall right over those bars and onto the floor"—but he doesn't understand it. The bars keep Sammy safe, but they also keep him from Sammy. Years later he'll wonder if that's what he'll have to choose between all his life, and he still ponders the decision although he always subconsciously chooses Sam, as if there was no choice at all.
"You were sleeping when Sammy was crying," Dean says in his defense. "You didn't even put the cans in the trash."
John's face cracks when Dean holds up the beer cans in a plastic bag and leaves to "teach stuff to Sam." It isn't right that his four year old has to clean up after his mess, be confused about whether to throw away the trash or keep the cans for later because his father seems to value them a lot, never without one in his hand.
John doesn't touch alcohol until almost a year later, but he lets Dean curl around his brother every night. Figures the kid can keep them all safe if he's given the chance.
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Dean is twenty-six the first time he reaches for Sam and ends up wrapping his body around his half-panicked kid brother with flame-filled nightmares and hunting instincts that never went truly dormant. He doesn't mention it in the morning and neither does Sam, although the shadows under and in Sam's eyes grow steadily darker and Dean has a new collection of bruises from tangling with fears, hoarse cries, and arms longer than his.
"There are some things I need to keep to myself," Sam says, the look on his face guarded and so very un-Sam that Dean wants to climb over those separating bars again.
"You know, when you were little, you never kept anything from me," Dean replies, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them even though he can feel the mask slip away and Sam's haunted eyes turn to him.
Sam doesn't say anything. A couple years later he'll remember, though, as he closes the motel door behind him and slips into the waiting car, leaving behind a supposedly sleeping Dean who's really trying to justify his choice—bars or Sammy?
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Dean is twenty-eight when he slides to his knees in the mud, his hands full of loose-limbed little brother, dabs at the wound at Sam's back, and tries to keep the endless litany—bars or Sammy, bars or Sammy—from entering his brain.
He grits out some variation of "It's going to be alright, you're safe with me," but Sam's too far gone to hear it. The vacant expression in his eyes pulls Dean back, strips away all the hunter confidence and bravado, and makes him a four year old again, in trouble because he climbed over those bars and Sammy's not safe, Dean. But Dean knew how to make that better and he's made the choice so often it's second-nature: he tucks Sam's head into the crook of his neck, wraps his arms around to sift through the too-long strands at the back of Sam's head, and buries his face in Sam's shoulder, whispering profanities, promises, and prayers.
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Dean feels ancient when he sees Sam lying on a ripped mattress and watches for the rise and fall of his chest. There is none. There's no air left in his little brother's lungs. Sam's not safe. He's behind the bars, separated from Dean—but he's not safe. Dean didn't choose this; he chose Sammy, not the bars, but the world had other ideas.
Dean's never been good at following what the world wants.
As the Impala fishtails under his white-knuckled grip and bars or Sammy screams in the silence, he refuses to tamp down the worry and the hesitation. He's ready to make that final decision. He's seen both sides. He knows what he needs. When he gets to the crossroad, Dean barely hears the demon's words. She holds the key to release the bars and he's made his choice.
Sammy. Sammy. Sammy.