Dad had never told him that he had one job, and one job only; take care of Sammy. In reality, Dean had plenty of jobs.

At seventeen he was the cook, the mechanic, Dad's wingman, the 3am to 7am shift driver, the family comedian, the shot-gun cleaner, the patch-everybody-up-guy, and the general handyman.

Also, a stand-in parent.

The babysitter.

And at the moment, the goddamn freakin' child psychologist.

"..Dean, I don't know, I just don't think I'm supposed to do this, y'know?"

Tugging on his brother's jacket, Dean propelled 13-year-old Sam forward at a faster pace.

"Not really. Shut up and walk."

Dad's voice floated back to them from a few paces ahead; even through the traffic noise of the city the boys could easily distinguish their father's voice.

"Sam, Dean, keep up."

If his little brother was annoyed at being hauled around by his Carhartt jacket there was no indication of it. Stupid kid was probably too focused on himself to even notice Dean was trying to get the lunk to move.

"...It's just, I don't really like hunting, Dean. I don't like having to march around in the middle of the night-"

Whine. Whine. Oh-my-freaking-god-he's WHINING. Again.

Dean could feel the blood in his temples beginning to pound.

They were in the middle of a hunt; they'd spent days tracking the namahage to the inner city, and Dad said they were close. Time was crucial now.

"Dude. Shut up."

If the jacket-tugging didn't elicit a response, Dean's snap did.

He could picture the exact face his brother was making without even looking up.

Nostrils flaring like an angry cow, mouth drawn into a sudden scowl, Sam was glaring at him with Terminator Eyes.

To further clarify, he added:

"People are freakin' dying, Sam. Just shut up about yourself for one minute. Can you do that?"

The icy silence beside him was the only reply, and Dean quickened his pace to distance himself from his angry brother.

He felt a tiny bit guilty - but mostly justified. Stupid Sam was always thinking about himself - his next school, his friends, his college future… God, would the kid never grow up? The world was a little bigger than Sammy Winchester realized.

He'd put about a fifteen foot distance between them when he heard the muffled shriek.

Time seemed to crawl as Dean's forward momentum halted and he spun - just in time to see his brother's feet disappear into an alley.

"Sam!" Dean's own yelp of shock was overpowered by his father's guttural bellow; a force from behind nearly threw Dean into the wall as John Winchester charged past him, his sawed-off raised.

John rounded the corner before Dean could right himself; the echo of gunfire erupted from the alley.

He staggered forward, his legs had somehow forgotten how to run.

"Sammy!"

There was Dad, crouched in the alley. A gangly figure below him on the pavement. No Namahage.

He stopped.

He could hear Sam's voice - it was shaky.

"It just grabbed me, dad, it just grabbed me…"

"You're okay, son. You're okay. You shouldn't have been in the back like that, I'm sorry, Sammy."

Sure, Dean had a lot of jobs. But he had one that was more important than all of them.

And he'd just failed.