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exsequarTitle: I’ll Protect You
Author: Anne (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
starsouls1013)
Rating: PG
Pairing: A dash of Sam/Dean, but not really.
Warnings: A bit of blood, if that bothers you in text. No actual violence "on screen" though.
Word count: 1710
Summary: Dean swore to protect Sam from the very beginning.
A/N: Inspired partially by Dean’s line in The Benders: “Ever since then I’ve felt responsible for him, like it’s my job to keep him safe.” This fic sprang to life as bits and pieces, and gradually became a coherent whole, though composed of varied vignettes. Thanks totheaeblackthorn for giving it a look over!
When Dean held baby Sammy, he nearly glowed with happiness. He would turn a beaming smile on the tiny creature entrusted to his care, holding on gently but firmly, just like Mommy showed him. He could sit like that for inordinate periods of time, just looking at his baby brother. And when Dean leaned down and whispered, “I’ll protect you, Sammy,” tears came to Mary’s eyes.
*******
After the fire, Dean is still a little boy, but he smolders a little. Now when he holds Sammy, his shoulders are set, his jaw a little tight. Instead of glowing, he exudes a smoky fierceness, but only outwards. Sam is pulled into the heart of that cloud, surrounded but not affected. Instead, he gets the full brunt of Dean’s love. And when Dean leans down, whispers, trembling with sincerity, “I will protect you, Sam,” tears come to John’s eyes.
*******
Sam gets a little too big to be held in Dean’s lap. He’s a gangly, skinny little thing, all skin and bones. But he’s not too old to cry. One day, he topples out of a tree. Miraculously, nothing is broken, but plenty of skin is torn and Sam lies on the grass, tears leaking from his eyes and making tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. Dean emerges from that month’s motel, looking for Sam; he spots his brother curled up on the grass and races over. He falls to his knees, eyes darting over Sam’s body, looking for any serious damage.
“Sammy, you okay?? What happened?” As he speaks, his hands join his eyes, taking stock. Arm intact, other arm, legs, ribs, fingers – he lets out a sigh of relief. Sam sniffles, wincing when Dean’s hands touch broken skin.
“Tree,” he says, piteously.
Dean’s eyebrows lift. His hands keep checking. “A tree, huh? Was it a boy-eating tree? Did it grab you and throw you on the ground?”
Sam giggles a little. “Nooo… I fell.”
“You fell? Well, it must have been a push, then. My little brother wouldn’t—”
Sam suddenly cries out, yanking his leg away from Dean. Dean pulls away in surprise, his smile instantly vanishing in concern and contrition. “Oh God, Sammy, I’m sorry. Where does it hurt?”
Sam scrubs at the tears on his cheeks, trying to be strong. “My knee…”
Dean sees the harsh red smear on Sam’s left knee and gently draws the leg towards him. The skin has been punctured by a shard of glass that was in the grass beneath the tree. Dean mutters something about sleazebag motels, but his attention is focused on Sam. His fingers delicately sketch around the wound. He should probably say something jaunty and reassuring, but he’s a little too shaken by finding Sam on the ground, blood spilt and no monsters in sight. Without thinking about it, he leans down and presses his lips to the whole skin next to the wound. He whispers, almost inaudible, “I’ll protect you, Sammy.”
Sam is silent for a moment, then - “From trees?” His boyish laughter, high and bright, peals into the dusty air. But Dean’s eyes have a sheen of tears.
*******
Sam’s thirteen, loves soccer and books and his big brother, hates going on these hunts. So does Dean, sometimes, ‘cause his little brother, the one he’s got to protect, is placed in mortal danger far too often. So when Sam ends up on the floor of an old abandoned house, blood streaming from a gash in his scalp where a poltergeist-thrown chair connected with his head, Dean nearly faints from panic, a whining buzz rising in his ears. He checks quickly to make sure Dad’s got the situation under control, relentless training coming into play, before running to Sam’s side, an action that is sadly familiar. The blood is flowing profusely, soaking Sam’s Ninja Turtles t-shirt to a wet black, and Dean rips a large piece of the t-shirt off (Sam’s got another one underneath, longsleeved, because even at 13 he’s got marks to hide) and presses it carefully to the wound. He shifts Sam so his head is in Dean’s lap, cradling it gently, willing Sam to wake up. He barely registers as Dad finally ends the sonofabitch, all his focus on SamSamSamSam…
A clear droplet splashes onto Sam’s face, and Dean is confused for a moment before he realizes it’s his own tear. He would laugh at himself, if he wasn’t trying so hard not to scream. He scrubs impatiently at his eyes, Sam’s blood smearing across his cheek. The blood is everywhere, soaking Dean’s jeans, hands, shoes; Dean firmly tells himself that this is what scalp wounds do, they bleed terrifyingly but are usually minor. It doesn’t help. His hands are firm and steady as they press the inadequate scrap of cloth to Sam’s wound, but his teeth grind together so harshly that his jaw aches.
“Sam. Sammy. Come on, Sam, wake up.” Dean’s voice shakes – he’s getting desperate. Just as he’s about to yell for Dad, Sam makes a small, piteous noise, then louder, groans of waking up to head-bursting pain. Dean’s heart feels like it’s making a bid for freedom through his throat, as Sam’s brow furrows and his eyes slowly open. Dean brushes at his own eyes again, an almost subconscious reflex – the protector doesn’t cry. Sam’s blood, his own sweat and tears, mingle on his skin.
Sam’s confused brown eyes, glazed with fear and pain, focus in on Dean’s face, and some of the tension goes out of his skinny, boyish frame. Dean puts on a brave smile, and if it wavers a little bit, Sam’s probably too woozy to notice.
“Welcome back, kiddo.”
That brings a tiny smile to Sam’s lips, very small, but Dean’ll take it. Any reassurance that his little brother is going to be okay, that this isn’t his life pouring onto Dean’s lap.
"You scared me there for a second. What were you thinking, getting hit in the head with a chair? Honestly.”
Sam almost laughs, but stops, hissing a sharp breath in. Dean ditches the humor, because he feels like he might throw up with worry, and it’s not all that funny anyway. “It’s okay Sam. We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine.”
Sam’s voice is hoarse, wobbly, unclear, but there isn’t more than a hint of fear. Like he’s protecting Dean right back. “Just shut up and get me out of here, Dean.”
Dean lets out a short laugh, high-pitched with his nervousness. Tears are rolling down his cheeks now, and he doesn’t bother to stop them. Sam’ll be fine, he knows, they’ve had worse than this, but… “I said I’d protect you, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy whisper, and he’s not sure Sam can even hear. “How can I do that? How?”
*******
Dean watches, his fingers clenching in the coarse motel comforter. He hates that Sammy is the one that has to suffer this, has to carry this burden. It goes against all big brother instincts to just lie here while Sam is in excruciating pain. He’s writhing and moaning through his teeth, the sheets tangled around his impossibly long limbs and his skin shining with sweat. His movements are restrained, even in sleep, because Sam’s always been conscious of his absurd size, ever since he got that fateful inch that put him past Dean.
Dean forces himself to stay put. These dreams are too important, too many lives are on the line, for Dean to interrupt them. But he hates what they do to Sam. And not just in his sleep – Sam’s developed huge rings under his eyes, and he’s always sleepy, but afraid to fall asleep, because of what the night brings. It’s dangerous, really, with what they do every day. One day Sam’s going to slip up, and then who cares how many people they’ve saved? Because it’s Sam, and whether Dean’s in the mood to admit it or not, he’s Dean’s entire world, and he probably couldn’t go on if Sam were to fall.
All of this rushes through Dean’s head, on a continuous worried loop. He’s been losing sleep himself; he’s so attuned to Sam now that the slightest indication of discontentment wakes Dean up. He feels it would be wrong somehow to sleep through Sam’s suffering. He wants so badly to carry some of the burden on his own shoulders, and this is the only way he knows how to even begin to do that. And Dean couldn’t bear for Sam to wake up from his nightmares alone.
Suddenly, Sam’s body stiffens, then slumps back against the bed, released from the nightmare’s thrall. Even before Sam’s eyes open, as they inevitably do, Dean is rolling out of his own bed and sitting on the edge of Sam’s, finding Sam’s hand and squeezing it gently between his own. Sam closes his eyes again, exhausted and spent, and lists a place and name. Dean files it away in his memory.
“Shh, Sam, it’s okay, I’m here. Forget about it for now, okay?”
Sam nods mutely, too numbed and exhausted to say anything else. For several moments they sit like that, a tableau of pain and a desperate desire to heal. Then Sam rolls over, Dean’s hand still captured in his own. His back turns to face Dean, and he pulls Dean’s arm over his waist, tugging him forward. Dean blinks; this is new, but he doesn’t resist, instead sliding forward willingly to lie down behind Sam, his arm fitting comfortably around Sam’s chest. Their hands are joined together over Sam’s heart, and the symbolism almost makes Dean smile, but he’s nearly sick with worry and concern, so he just presses close, granting whatever comfort he possibly can.
The stillness could almost be taken for peace, but then Sam’s shoulders are shaking and a choked off sob emerges from deep in the pillow. Dean feels like his heart is crumpling and twisting in his chest, a nearly physical pain as he tightens his arm around Sam, trying so hard to not cry too. Because the protector doesn’t cry.
It hurts so much that after saving Sam from everything from trees to werewolves to ghosts, in the end Dean couldn’t protect Sam from himself.
Author: Anne (
starsouls1013)Rating: PG
Pairing: A dash of Sam/Dean, but not really.
Warnings: A bit of blood, if that bothers you in text. No actual violence "on screen" though.
Word count: 1710
Summary: Dean swore to protect Sam from the very beginning.
A/N: Inspired partially by Dean’s line in The Benders: “Ever since then I’ve felt responsible for him, like it’s my job to keep him safe.” This fic sprang to life as bits and pieces, and gradually became a coherent whole, though composed of varied vignettes. Thanks to
theaeblackthorn for giving it a look over!When Dean held baby Sammy, he nearly glowed with happiness. He would turn a beaming smile on the tiny creature entrusted to his care, holding on gently but firmly, just like Mommy showed him. He could sit like that for inordinate periods of time, just looking at his baby brother. And when Dean leaned down and whispered, “I’ll protect you, Sammy,” tears came to Mary’s eyes.
*******
After the fire, Dean is still a little boy, but he smolders a little. Now when he holds Sammy, his shoulders are set, his jaw a little tight. Instead of glowing, he exudes a smoky fierceness, but only outwards. Sam is pulled into the heart of that cloud, surrounded but not affected. Instead, he gets the full brunt of Dean’s love. And when Dean leans down, whispers, trembling with sincerity, “I will protect you, Sam,” tears come to John’s eyes.
*******
Sam gets a little too big to be held in Dean’s lap. He’s a gangly, skinny little thing, all skin and bones. But he’s not too old to cry. One day, he topples out of a tree. Miraculously, nothing is broken, but plenty of skin is torn and Sam lies on the grass, tears leaking from his eyes and making tracks through the dirt on his cheeks. Dean emerges from that month’s motel, looking for Sam; he spots his brother curled up on the grass and races over. He falls to his knees, eyes darting over Sam’s body, looking for any serious damage.
“Sammy, you okay?? What happened?” As he speaks, his hands join his eyes, taking stock. Arm intact, other arm, legs, ribs, fingers – he lets out a sigh of relief. Sam sniffles, wincing when Dean’s hands touch broken skin.
“Tree,” he says, piteously.
Dean’s eyebrows lift. His hands keep checking. “A tree, huh? Was it a boy-eating tree? Did it grab you and throw you on the ground?”
Sam giggles a little. “Nooo… I fell.”
“You fell? Well, it must have been a push, then. My little brother wouldn’t—”
Sam suddenly cries out, yanking his leg away from Dean. Dean pulls away in surprise, his smile instantly vanishing in concern and contrition. “Oh God, Sammy, I’m sorry. Where does it hurt?”
Sam scrubs at the tears on his cheeks, trying to be strong. “My knee…”
Dean sees the harsh red smear on Sam’s left knee and gently draws the leg towards him. The skin has been punctured by a shard of glass that was in the grass beneath the tree. Dean mutters something about sleazebag motels, but his attention is focused on Sam. His fingers delicately sketch around the wound. He should probably say something jaunty and reassuring, but he’s a little too shaken by finding Sam on the ground, blood spilt and no monsters in sight. Without thinking about it, he leans down and presses his lips to the whole skin next to the wound. He whispers, almost inaudible, “I’ll protect you, Sammy.”
Sam is silent for a moment, then - “From trees?” His boyish laughter, high and bright, peals into the dusty air. But Dean’s eyes have a sheen of tears.
*******
Sam’s thirteen, loves soccer and books and his big brother, hates going on these hunts. So does Dean, sometimes, ‘cause his little brother, the one he’s got to protect, is placed in mortal danger far too often. So when Sam ends up on the floor of an old abandoned house, blood streaming from a gash in his scalp where a poltergeist-thrown chair connected with his head, Dean nearly faints from panic, a whining buzz rising in his ears. He checks quickly to make sure Dad’s got the situation under control, relentless training coming into play, before running to Sam’s side, an action that is sadly familiar. The blood is flowing profusely, soaking Sam’s Ninja Turtles t-shirt to a wet black, and Dean rips a large piece of the t-shirt off (Sam’s got another one underneath, longsleeved, because even at 13 he’s got marks to hide) and presses it carefully to the wound. He shifts Sam so his head is in Dean’s lap, cradling it gently, willing Sam to wake up. He barely registers as Dad finally ends the sonofabitch, all his focus on SamSamSamSam…
A clear droplet splashes onto Sam’s face, and Dean is confused for a moment before he realizes it’s his own tear. He would laugh at himself, if he wasn’t trying so hard not to scream. He scrubs impatiently at his eyes, Sam’s blood smearing across his cheek. The blood is everywhere, soaking Dean’s jeans, hands, shoes; Dean firmly tells himself that this is what scalp wounds do, they bleed terrifyingly but are usually minor. It doesn’t help. His hands are firm and steady as they press the inadequate scrap of cloth to Sam’s wound, but his teeth grind together so harshly that his jaw aches.
“Sam. Sammy. Come on, Sam, wake up.” Dean’s voice shakes – he’s getting desperate. Just as he’s about to yell for Dad, Sam makes a small, piteous noise, then louder, groans of waking up to head-bursting pain. Dean’s heart feels like it’s making a bid for freedom through his throat, as Sam’s brow furrows and his eyes slowly open. Dean brushes at his own eyes again, an almost subconscious reflex – the protector doesn’t cry. Sam’s blood, his own sweat and tears, mingle on his skin.
Sam’s confused brown eyes, glazed with fear and pain, focus in on Dean’s face, and some of the tension goes out of his skinny, boyish frame. Dean puts on a brave smile, and if it wavers a little bit, Sam’s probably too woozy to notice.
“Welcome back, kiddo.”
That brings a tiny smile to Sam’s lips, very small, but Dean’ll take it. Any reassurance that his little brother is going to be okay, that this isn’t his life pouring onto Dean’s lap.
"You scared me there for a second. What were you thinking, getting hit in the head with a chair? Honestly.”
Sam almost laughs, but stops, hissing a sharp breath in. Dean ditches the humor, because he feels like he might throw up with worry, and it’s not all that funny anyway. “It’s okay Sam. We’ll take care of you. You’ll be fine.”
Sam’s voice is hoarse, wobbly, unclear, but there isn’t more than a hint of fear. Like he’s protecting Dean right back. “Just shut up and get me out of here, Dean.”
Dean lets out a short laugh, high-pitched with his nervousness. Tears are rolling down his cheeks now, and he doesn’t bother to stop them. Sam’ll be fine, he knows, they’ve had worse than this, but… “I said I’d protect you, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy whisper, and he’s not sure Sam can even hear. “How can I do that? How?”
*******
Dean watches, his fingers clenching in the coarse motel comforter. He hates that Sammy is the one that has to suffer this, has to carry this burden. It goes against all big brother instincts to just lie here while Sam is in excruciating pain. He’s writhing and moaning through his teeth, the sheets tangled around his impossibly long limbs and his skin shining with sweat. His movements are restrained, even in sleep, because Sam’s always been conscious of his absurd size, ever since he got that fateful inch that put him past Dean.
Dean forces himself to stay put. These dreams are too important, too many lives are on the line, for Dean to interrupt them. But he hates what they do to Sam. And not just in his sleep – Sam’s developed huge rings under his eyes, and he’s always sleepy, but afraid to fall asleep, because of what the night brings. It’s dangerous, really, with what they do every day. One day Sam’s going to slip up, and then who cares how many people they’ve saved? Because it’s Sam, and whether Dean’s in the mood to admit it or not, he’s Dean’s entire world, and he probably couldn’t go on if Sam were to fall.
All of this rushes through Dean’s head, on a continuous worried loop. He’s been losing sleep himself; he’s so attuned to Sam now that the slightest indication of discontentment wakes Dean up. He feels it would be wrong somehow to sleep through Sam’s suffering. He wants so badly to carry some of the burden on his own shoulders, and this is the only way he knows how to even begin to do that. And Dean couldn’t bear for Sam to wake up from his nightmares alone.
Suddenly, Sam’s body stiffens, then slumps back against the bed, released from the nightmare’s thrall. Even before Sam’s eyes open, as they inevitably do, Dean is rolling out of his own bed and sitting on the edge of Sam’s, finding Sam’s hand and squeezing it gently between his own. Sam closes his eyes again, exhausted and spent, and lists a place and name. Dean files it away in his memory.
“Shh, Sam, it’s okay, I’m here. Forget about it for now, okay?”
Sam nods mutely, too numbed and exhausted to say anything else. For several moments they sit like that, a tableau of pain and a desperate desire to heal. Then Sam rolls over, Dean’s hand still captured in his own. His back turns to face Dean, and he pulls Dean’s arm over his waist, tugging him forward. Dean blinks; this is new, but he doesn’t resist, instead sliding forward willingly to lie down behind Sam, his arm fitting comfortably around Sam’s chest. Their hands are joined together over Sam’s heart, and the symbolism almost makes Dean smile, but he’s nearly sick with worry and concern, so he just presses close, granting whatever comfort he possibly can.
The stillness could almost be taken for peace, but then Sam’s shoulders are shaking and a choked off sob emerges from deep in the pillow. Dean feels like his heart is crumpling and twisting in his chest, a nearly physical pain as he tightens his arm around Sam, trying so hard to not cry too. Because the protector doesn’t cry.
It hurts so much that after saving Sam from everything from trees to werewolves to ghosts, in the end Dean couldn’t protect Sam from himself.
