Chapter Text
Dean’s first memory was of Sam. That made sense, since the majority of his memories were about Sam. After over two decades of being a big brother, it was as if that was all he was. The sum total of Dean was Sam. Had been from that first memory, of Mommy telling him with a laugh that his baby brother was kicking at the sound of his voice, and he put his hand on her tummy, giggling at the flutter he received back to his whispered “Hi, Sammy”.
Dean’s best memories were of Sam. Hugging Sammy tight after walking him to his first day of school—Dad had been busy on a hunt, so Dean had to walk Sammy to his class a few minutes before he was able to make it to his own. Sometime later that year when Sammy asked his big brother why he had a Dean instead of a Mommy, and despite the tears that Dean had to hold back, the pain as he tried to explain to a five year old (even realizing then that it was something a five year old should never have to grasp), the fuzzy warmness that filled his heart when Sammy twined his skinny arms around Dean’s neck, reaching across the scratchy comforter of their motel room bed, and told Dean that he loved him. The necklace Sam gave him for his 9th birthday, wrapped in day-old newspaper and scrawled on with crayon, smiling shyly up at them as the two picked at leftovers for dinner on a night their dad was out, again forgetting the date that only Sam ever found importance in. All the times the two of them curled up in the back of the Impala, tucked under a ratty, threadbare blanket as some 80s hairband played in the background, Sam curled up under his arm and snoring lightly in his ear, neon lights flashing by as they high-tailed it out of some midwest Podunk town or another, the Impala’s tires squealing as they headed off to yet another town. That was the soundtrack to his childhood.
Dean’s worst memories were of Sam. Sam screaming “I hate you!” and sobbing, throwing himself on the worn out mattress of yet another hole-in-the wall motel at the age of six when Dean told him that they had to pack, that they would be leaving, that Sam would be changing kindergartens for the third time that school year, before Christmas break had even set in. Sam running off at 14 in Prescott, Dean’s terror when he discovered his little brother missing, all the worst possible scenarios running though his head, the guilt and fear more painful, more real, than the beating from Dad’s belt. The day Sam left for college, showing them the acceptance letter that he had kept hidden, the shouting between Dad and Sam and Dean’s desperate wish that he could just lay his head down, put his hands over his ears, and forget none of it was real. It was as painful as a knife to the heart, Sammy screaming that he couldn’t wait to get away from them before he jumped into a car of a friend and drove off, out of Dean’s life.
It wasn’t surprising to Dean, when his life was so intrinsically wrapped in with his brother’s, that he would love him more than most siblings would. That Sam would mean more to him than everyone else’s little brothers meant to them. Of course they were closer; Sam had been the center of his life basically since his birth, on that horrible night Daddy had shoved Sam into Dean’s hands, yelling at him to take his brother and run. From that moment on, it had always been Dean’s job to protect his brother, to watch over him. He was brother, but also best friend, protector, provider. Sam was his life.
He didn’t realize how much until that horribly painful night when Sam jumped into the old red Civic, one duffle bag full of clothes and well-worn, dog eared books in hand, everything else forgotten, anything that would remind him of Dean left behind, unimportant. Dean watched the tail-lights fade away, and for the first time he could remember, he sobbed. He couldn’t get himself out of bed the next morning, once he woke up, glanced over and realized that Sammy wasn’t in the bed across from him. His baby brother, he remembered through the haze that clouded his brain, had left him. Didn’t want to be around him anymore. Didn’t love him anymore.
After that painful realization, Dean tried to move on with his life. And it was then that he realized that Sam was his life. The hunts were just the bits in between, as be waited to get back to Sammy. Now, he blocked out those thoughts, the memories, the painful clench in his heart, and focused solely on the jobs, tailing Dad from town to town. He threw himself completely into work, made stupid sacrifices, didn’t take enough care with his well-being, was stupid and reckless as he poured himself, al of himself, into job after job. There was no Sammy there to tell him to take it easy, to bandage him up, to tell him that he mattered. No Sammy to protect. So he made his life the Hunt. Turned it into the Capital H, like his dad always had.
Hunting had been important to Dean before. It was the family business, what he had been raised to do. What his dad had always done, and he idolized his dad. It was everything they sacrificed for, so if it wasn’t important, it made all their sacrifices pointless. It made every ended friendship, every scar Dean collected, every tear Sammy shed, absolutely pointless. And he couldn't handle making their lives meaningless like that. So he had to believe in this, believe that they were doing the right thing, saving other people, other families. That there were other Sammy’s out there that he was saving to live their own lives, so they could grow up with their mommy and daddy and big brother, never have to cry.
Dean sacrificed everything for Sammy. So this was just one more thing.