Notes:English is not my first language and I have no beta at the moment so forgive me for any mistakes.
Kudos, reviews and suggestions are welcome though!

Broken Toys and Broken Hearts

They just had a bad fight and there's no reason why Dean Winchester should feel guilty, no one. He's watching television and his brother has run away to the bedroom and Dean tells himself that he just has a stomach ache, that it's not guilt what he feels, that Sam shouldn't have been so damn unbearable and insist so much that he played with him with those stupid little cars: it was nine o'clock in the evening and Dean still had to tidy up, help him get dressed for bed and he was so tired and he didn't want to play and it was even November 2nd, he too had the right to feel sad and -
Dean didn't expect the toy car to break when he threw it in the air, he didn't even realize it broke until Sam burst into tears and sobs - "You're mean, Dean ! It was a gift from Dad! When he comes back, I'll tell him! ".
There is no reason why the tears of a seven-and-a-half-year-old boy hurt his heart like that, but damn it, even if he was annoying the hell out of him, Dean's job is to protect Sam. That's not what he did today. Today he would have needed someone to protect Sam from him.
He stands up and takes the liquid glue from the shelf. He hopes it will be enough not so much for the toy car, but to fix them both, to put his brother's pieces back together. Then he heads to the bedroom they share. When Dean opens the door, his brother is hidden in a ball of quivering blankets and he can't help but gasp as Dean sits by the side of his bed.
"Just leave me alone, Dean!" he mutters in tears, from under the covers.
On the bedside table, there are the remains of his toy car, but that's not what hurts Dean the most. What hurts Dean the most is the fact that this time those tears in his eyes could be entirely his fault. He's used to seeing Sam cry: Sam cries when he's tired, he cries when he misses dad, he cries when the kids at school ask him about his mom, but he never cries because of him. That's not how it should be.
"Okay, you keep crying like a baby, Sammy," he says, walking away and reaching for the bedside table to get the toy car. "In the meantime, I'll fix your car."
Sam finally emerges from under his covers. When his little head peeks out from under there, his green eyes are wary, his cheeks flushed and streaked with tears that he wipes with his pajama sleeve.
"You can't fix it, Dean," he says, crossing his arms across his chest and making a face that makes him look even smaller and more helpless.
Dean now recognizes him, with that look of skepticism and knowingness that he can't help but paint on his face, sometimes. He rolls his eyes and smiles shyly, hoping that monstrous guilt in his stomach will give him some respite. Dean is not sure that what he was referring to when he said that he can't fix it is his car though.
"Of course I can," he replies, as he opens the liquid glue cap and its characteristic smell invades the whole room. "When Bobby fixed dad's car, I looked at how he did it"
Sam wrinkles his nose because he is not very convinced. Dean scared him too much that day: he is not ready to give in and forgive him. Not yet. It is far too soon for that.
"I once saw a doctor performing a surgery on TV, Dean, but that doesn't mean I am a surgeon now!"
Dean shrugs because he feels a little ridiculous, actually, even for his standards - he's eleven and playing the mechanic? Seriously?
But Sam, underneath that pose of arrogance, is holding back a smile, and he is sure that if Sam is smiling, he must have found the right thing to do.
"Shut up, you idiot," he says simply, pouring a generous amount of liquid glue on one end of the toy car, then making it mate with the other.
Dean hurries to press on both ends, but he already knows that that little car will never be the same again, no matter what. We can try to patch up our mistakes a thousand and one thousand times, we can lick our wounds and we can ignore them hoping that they stop hurting, sooner or later. But the scars, well, those are a different thing. It also applies to his family, to the beating hearts. Because his mother was a person, she was a miracle and a blessing. Just like Sammy.
"It should be fine," he says, handing him the toy car with an uncertain expression. "Just let it dry."
Sam takes it and knows perfectly well that that's the closest to an apology he will ever get. He knows that Dean is doing his best, that he does everything to see him happy, and that right now, he is thinking about mom. He knows that when Dean has that expression on his face, it's because he's thinking about mom. Mothers - Sam is nearly eight, but he has known for a while - make Dean a little uncomfortable. Sam himself had the opportunity to notice the compassionate caresses that certain teachers reserve for him at school and the ridiculous and ferocious "Poor child, your mom would be so happy to see you grow up the way you have." Sam is nearly eight years old and he has never met his mum, but he agrees that she would be proud of him. He can't bear the expression on his brother's face when he thinks about her. He looks so vulnerable in those moments. So he would like to tell him that he has forgiven him, that his mother would have forgiven him too and that he won't ask any more questions about her for that evening, but he knows it would be useless. Because his brother, who at times seems so big, strong, and brave, would reply "Don't be silly, Sammy", and he would automatically retort and they would be back where they started again. He knows he is an intruder in that pain of his, he knows that perhaps that is a part of Dean that at nearly eight he still can't understand. Still, he just wants to see the tension leave his shoulders, he just wants him to relax a little.
"Thanks, Dean," he says, after placing the toy car on the bedside table.
Dean nods and his little brother wraps him in a warm hug and Dean understands perfectly what he's doing: he's trying to fix him, just like he fixed that stupid little car. He's stubborn, disobedient, full of questions, and insufferable, but it's clear that he's also so damn smart and sensitive, in his way.
That's when he makes a mental promise to himself: he promises not to scare Sam like that anymore, because he's not one of those monsters that dad hunts, and to not to treat Sammy like that anymore, because he's not Dad and he has no right, no one at all. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair that he hugged him and forgave him like this.
He would never let anyone hurt him. Even if that someone was himself.
"Sammy, I ..." he begins, unsure of what to say. "I didn't want to- ... I didn't think that ..."
That bunch of too-long curls and impossibly green eyes also known as his pain-in-the-ass little brother emerges from that hug and looks at him, raising an eyebrow. He has that look full of impossible questions that Dean knows so damn well.
"Did a cat eat your tongue?" he says, and it is with that sentence that Dean knows they will be fine, that they have found a way to survive, at least until tomorrow. They always find it, somehow.
Dean gives him a light slap on the back of the head and Sam just smiles because that's so typical of Dean.
"Well. You know what I meant, jerk" he replies, pushing him away with an unkind gesture from himself.
Sam laughs: he knows it's still too soon for Dean to abandon that mask of fake courage that he wears as if it were a crown. He looks at him and he knows that he can't do anything for him, that Dean doesn't need Sam to pat him on the back, to hold his hand, and say that it'll be okay. Hell, his brother would probably kick his ass for just trying to do so. So Sam just tries to sidetrack the conversation instead.
"Sure, you were trying to say you're an idiot," he replies. Sam has that "I'm so perfect" smile on his face, a smile that Dean loves and hates with equal intensity. "Do you want to sleep here tonight?"
Sam is pointing to his bed and Dean knows that maybe he shouldn't, he's seven and a half and Dean shouldn't spoil him like that, but it's also Mum's death anniversary and he misses her so much and his brother has never had a bed in which to take refuge after a nightmare for ... all their life and maybe Mom would not have wanted them to be alone on a day like this.
"Only if you keep those cold little feet away from me," he reiterates because he's still Dean and he has a reputation to enforce. "And just for tonight: the fact that I'm sorry we argued today doesn't mean I want you to grow up like a spoiled little girl!"
(That night, when Sammy falls asleep next to him, something hits him: the smell of his brother's neck and his affectionate warmth are as close to his mum as he will ever get)