Dean was born for war. Made for it. Formed from the ashes of fires past, of the explosions that made the world what it is today. Hard and unyielding, it took what it wanted and didn't cast a glance down to the other brother, who begged and pleaded and fought for what was his.
Sam was not John's, or Ruby's, or Lucifer's. Sam did not belong to the demons fought, or the other hunters. Sam was not Bobby's. Sam belonged to Dean. Sam always belonged to Dean.
John said take care of your brother. But John was selfish and blind in revenge, and he didn't know the price Dean would pay. Because he always saved Sam (or tried his damn hardest). He was selfless and foolish and he always fought—or gave himself up instead—for his little brother.
He promised John.
John loved Sam more. It wasn't fair. Dean listened, and fought, and Dean was logical and selfless and smart and he always followed orders. Dean was the good soldier.
Sam was angry. Sam was young for so long, that Dean knew he felt left out. Dean was protecting the house and holding guns at night—leaning up against the headboard with a shotgun cocked, and green eyes blinking back sleep, long before Sam stopped holding a teddy bear.
Dean was always so much younger than he had to be (sixteen by thirteen, twenty-one by seventeen). Dean had been a small child, but he grew with confidence, and a smile could get him a drink. A smirk, the girl.
Sam hated John. But Dean knew they were too much alike, and he stood between the two of them, stopping arguments with upheld hands, and tried not to let the screaming echo in his ears. He needed them both—couldn't they see?
Dean was always good at pretending he was not in agony, and these days, he does nothing but lie and tell himself that the world will still spin without Sam.
He was strong enough to be alone, to be without Sam. Believe it or not.
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