I wrote this story as a challenge for myself but I posted it for feedback on my writing. Reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

When Dean was four and Sam was a baby, Dean saved his little brother's life for the first time. After that he made sure that Sam was always safe. John looked on and was glad that his boys had such a special connection, especially for those times that John couldn't be there for them.

John Winchester was a hunter. He was a father, too, and once he had been a husband, but he was a hunter most of all. Since the night Mary had been taken he had committed his life to hunting down the evil that had taken his beloved wife. He left his boys at home when he left on his trips, knowing that they could take better care of each other than he ever could of them.

Dean Winchester watched over his brother. He made sure that there was always cereal in the cabinet for Sammy's breakfast and that his homework was done for school. Every night he checked in the closet and under the bed for the monsters, even though he always told Sammy that there was no such thing as monsters. Because Dean protected his little brother. He kept him safe from the evil lurking in the shadows and he kept him safe from the knowledge that it was there.

Sam Winchester wanted to grow up to be just like Dean. In his young mind, his older brother was the epitome of a hero. Dean cooked him dinner, even if it was just macaroni and cheese or spaghettios, walked him down the block to kindergarten, read him bedtime stories, and tucked him in at night. When John was home Sam asked him to read the story, but it was still Dean who tucked him in and kissed him goodnight. That was the way it had always been.

When Dean was twelve and Sam was eight, Dean told his little brother the truth about the monsters in the closet.

"Will they come and try to get me, Dean?" asked Sam.

"They might," replied Dean, quietly. "Don't worry, Sammy. I'll always watch over you."

And he did. When Sam started having nightmares about getting snatched away in his sleep, John gave him a .45. But Dean was there to hold him and whisper soothing words. When Sam woke up screaming because he saw a yellow-eyed demon in his dreams, Dean rubbed his back until the shaky sobs evened out into soft, steady breaths and he fell fast asleep.

After that, Sam climbed into Dean's bed at nighttime. He couldn't fall asleep alone, but with his brother's arms holding him tightly and his gentle breaths tickling Sam's ear, sleep came easily. He never had nightmares when he slept with Dean.

They moved from town to town and John taught Dean and Sam to hunt. And for nine years Dean watched and held Sammy as he slept. Dean knew that that was the way it was supposed to be. It was his job to take care of Sammy, as it had been since the day John placed Sammy in his arms and whispered, "Now, Dean, go!"

Sam was fourteen when he had his first kiss. Dean had just gotten home from a date and climbed into bed with Sam. Sam could still smell the girl's perfume. "Dean, what's it like?" Sam asked.

"Hmm, Sammy? What's what like?"

"Getting kissed. What's it like?"

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean groaned into his pillow.

"Please, Dean?"

Dean propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over to kiss Sam on the lips. "There. That's what it's like, Sammy. Now will you go to sleep?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Dean." Sam curled up and his breaths quickly relaxed into a steady pattern. Dean lay awake for a long time, wondering why kissing his little brother had felt so good.

When Sam was seventeen he told John and Dean that he was leaving for college. John nodded and told him to find a girl he loved and settle down, get out of this hunting business for good. Dean grabbed the keys to his Impala and took off.

Sam went to bed alone that night. Just before dawn he was woken as Dean climbed into the bed and wrapped his arms around Sam, leaving goodnight kisses on the back of his head and neck. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry." He drunkenly murmured the words into Sam's messy, golden hair. "I'm going to miss you when you're gone." Sam rolled over and snuggled closer to Dean, seeking the comfort he had found in his brother's arms many times before.

Dean's arms tightened, pulling him in against his chest, and then suddenly stopped. "Look at me, Sammy," he demanded. Sam looked up, his face streaked with tears. "Shhh, it's okay," Dean soothed. "You'll be okay. Everything will be okay." He wiped the tears from Sam's cheeks before suddenly leaning in for a kiss.

As quickly as he had kissed Sam, Dean pulled back, aghast. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean it, okay? I just – I'm sorry." But Sam shook his head and smiled gently through his tears. He leaned in for another kiss and this time Dean didn't pull away. Together they sook answers and together they found the strength to get through another night without them.

Morning came all too quickly as the brothers woke sleepy and tangled in the sheets. "About last night…" Sam spoke up, contemplatively.

"You're leaving," said Dean gruffly. "That's good. Get a fresh start. Put all this behind you."

John entered the room and that was the last time they spoke about it for four long years. Sam found happiness at Stanford, a "normal, apple pie life" as Dean would have called it. Sam hadn't seen Dean in four years, since the day he watched the taillights of the Impala drive away and leave him behind. They talked on the phone, but it wasn't the same. For months, Sam struggled to fall asleep alone. Then he met Jess, and it seems as if the world almost made sense again. He told her about his father and his brother, told her he missed them, especially his brother. She told him that she loved him. Sam didn't understand why, when he said it back, an image of Dean's face flashed through his mind.

Four years. Four fucking years. Dean ground the Impala to a stop and jumped out, slamming the door shut. He tried to be quiet when he entered Sam's apartment, but he hadn't expected the guitar and schoolbooks lying by the door or the computer chair that he tripped over. Suddenly, he found himself accosted from behind and hurled to the floor in the inky blackness. Dean's reflexes were quick and he quickly gained the upper hand over his assailant. "Sam," he hissed. "It's me." As soon as he spoke he found himself flat on his back again, wrists held tightly. "You always did like to be on top," laughed Dean. Even in the darkness he could see Sam's glare.

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

"Bitch," came the immediate reply.

Just like always.