We're Winchesters. We fight ghosts, wendigos, shifters, gods, demons, angels, and a crap ton of other monsters. We don't get paid, we don't get thanked, we just do it, even if we're sick and tired of it.
We're men. We eat and sleep and snore and perv on women and burp and tell dirty jokes and fart and swear.
But hell, none of that really matters right now. None of it matters, because I'm on Bobby's couch and Sammy, my darling, sweet, freaking huge Sammy is stretched out next to me with his head in my lap, half-asleep, fingers clutching my t-shirt, and I'm stroking his hair, his face, anything that constantly tells me that this is real and he's not leaving. Suddenly he wiggles and presses closer to me.
"Dean?"
"Yeah, Sammy."
"I –" He stops and his breathing is jerky. Then he lets go of my shirt and finds my hand. I grip his.
"I just didn't think I would make it."
I let go and scoop my hands under his back, lifting him up and holding him to me and letting his head fall on my shoulder. He heaves against me and I know he's crying and trying not to but failing anyway, sobs gasping out as he holds on for dear life and I clasp him even tighter.
"I'm here now, Sammy."
People don't get it. They can smirk or question all they want, but they don't matter. Because we are Winchesters, we are men, but over all that, we're brothers, and no matter how big he gets, no matter how bitchy he acts, Sammy is my little brother, and nothing, not even hell itself, will keep me from him. I find his forehead and kiss it.
"I will never leave you."