1991

It snarled and hissed for show, Dean thought, before it ran forward towards him. He braced himself, ready for the impact, silver knife at the ready. He wasn't very big, he knew that, but for a thirteen year old, he knew enough that size didn't matter. He was too fast for that.

He slid out of the way just as the creature was about to hit him, rolling to the left and coming up fast. The lion paws that almost had fingers dug into the wooden beams, making the turnaround time too fast. Way too damn fast.

It shook its mane of dark brown hair, hissing at him. Its face looked like a woman's, even with the whiskers sticking out around her lips and the hair that covered her entire face. She probably would've been pretty, if Dean had squinted and tilted his head a couple of ways and had gotten hit really hard in the head. Okay, she was butt ugly, but she was dangerous, and THAT was a little more of Dean's concern right now.

Their stories were always the same. A Lamia had first come onto the scene in ancient Greece, John had told his sons, but lately they'd popped up in the midwest, from the cold winters in log cabins. It would start with a mother and her children, boarded up from the long winter with the father gone out too many times to try and find food. Becoming crazed with the hunger, the mother would decide she didn't want her children to suffer, and eat them to satisfy her own hunger. After that point, there was no going back: all she wanted to eat was the sweet meat of a child.

Gross. But again, dangerous. Very –

It leapt forward, and Dean barely slid back in time.

very dangerous. "I swear to you, you freakin' bitch, if you ripped my shirt..." he muttered under his breath.

Dad would kill him if he knew he was swearing like this, but right now, Dad wasn't here, and Dean was only swearing when he wasn't around. So far. When he turned fourteen, he figured he could say bitch out loud in front of his dad. Well, he'd try, at any rate. He didn't know at what age he was allowed to curse like Dad, but fourteen couldn't be too bad an age to start.

The Lamia turned back around, sniffing and fixing its eyes on him, and he kept the knife held tight. All he needed was a good shot at the heart, and this thing was going down. He'd show Dad that he was capable of fighting the supernatural. He hadn't been stupid enough to try and pick this fight, but it had happened, and Dean wasn't going to go running to his father just yet. He wanted to see if he could really handle this.

Suddenly the Lamia's head whipped around to the doorway, and Dean's automatically did the same thing. Then his eyes widened, the glory of taking something out on his own and the happiness of being able to swear where his dad couldn't hear him vanished, and he immediately turned and pressed his sneakers hard to the floor to help him run to the door where Sammy was standing.

He'd forgotten about Sammy. He'd left his nine year old brother in the car by himself when the Lamia had started howling and running towards the car, and Dean had wanted at it. He'd locked the doors on the car, but Sammy had come out anyways, and the Lamia was going to get there first...

"SAMMY!" he shouted, and his little brother's eyes went wide as he really got a good glimpse of the Lamia for the first time. Then he turned, running to the left where Dean was running to his right, trying to get out of the Lamia's path, trying to get to Dean.

He almost made it. The Lamia pounced and Sammy twisted to get further away from it, only partially succeeding. The Lamia caught his right shoulder, sending him sprawling into the back wall hard. Sammy cried out and Dean's hand gripped the knife harder, putting on a burst of speed he didn't think he had as he watched his little brother go down.

The knife flew forward before flying around, straight through the Lamia's chest where Dean sincerely hoped the heart was. From the screech it made and the way the building shook as it went down, he guessed he was right, and he'd gotten lucky.

Not really, though. "Sammy?" he called, hurrying over to his fallen brother.

Sammy was curled up on his right side, his right arm pressed against him and the floor. His eyes were squeezed shut, and silent tears were running down his face. He gulped for air, his breath shuddering as if he was trying not to cry. "Sammy?" Dean said, kneeling beside him. "It's dead, Sammy. It's okay. Can you move?"

Sammy opened his eyes, more tears rolling down his face and nose. "M-My arm," he hiccuped, before he really started to cry. "My arm hurts, Dean..."

He'd probably broken it. Crap. At least the Lamia hadn't eaten him, like it had a half a dozen other kids in the town. Dean slid himself into a sitting position, his right arm reaching underneath Sammy's right side and gently pulling him up. Sammy gasped then began to cry in earnest, making small noises that made all of Dean's big brother instincts shoot through the roof. "Dean," Sammy whimpered, and Dean kept pulling him up until he was sitting.

Then he reached under Sammy's leg's, pulling him into his lap. The left arm came around to reach across and over Sammy's bent knees, and his right arm stayed behind Sammy's back, forming a protective shield that nothing was going to break. A big brother tank that he wished he could keep Sammy in forever. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispered. "It's gonna be okay. I promise. It's gonna be all right, Sammy. Shhhh, I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere. It's gonna be okay."

Sammy curled up and leaned his head against Dean's not ripped shirt, and Dean sat and waited for Dad to find them.

2007

There wasn't much they could really do with the body, and Dean knew better then to suggest that they burn it. Dean didn't really think he could do it anyways, anymore than he could've pulled the trigger on Sam when his brother had been frickin' possessed, and right now, his brother was as far from being his brother as he'd been then.

Sam hadn't spoken since he'd gone into the living room with the gun. He'd walked out in tears, and had come back in a few moments later with them drying on his face, his features set in a stony mask. He'd placed the gun on the table, then had simply stood and waited for Dean.

They wound up wrapping her in a bed sheet, a clean one from the closet. Dean wanted to torch the entire place (who knew what Sam had touched, and so help him, if the cops found ANYTHING and Dean heard sirens, he was going to start getting trigger happy), which he knew was his big brother instinct coming out as evenly as the hunter's, but he knew he couldn't. There were other people in the building. People who hopefully hadn't heard the not so muffled shot of the gun being unloaded into Madison's head.

Sam had made it quick, at least. For Madison, at any rate. But right now wasn't the time to deal with what Sam was facing. Right now was about cleaning up behind themselves like they did with any job when things turned into a homicide. This wasn't any other job, though.

And Dean had been so happy about his brother actually coming out of the shell he'd hidden himself in after Jessica. Dean was a freakin' idiot.

Once everything had been wiped down, once Dean was as satisfied as he was going to get with the place, they left. Sam continued to stay silent, and Dean continued to worry, glancing at his brother as they went down the stairs to the Impala.

Not a word was said all the way back to the motel. Not a word was said as they parked and went inside. Not a word was said as Dean hung up his jacket and Sam slowly slid out of his.

Dean finally cleared his throat, warning them both that he was about to break the silence. "You, uh, want the shower first?" His voice sounded rough, like he'd gone a few rounds with a bottle of the good, strong stuff. He really needed a drink after today. So did Sam.

If Sam was even aware of things enough to drink something.

Sam said nothing, and didn't stop moving until his shirts joined his jacket on the floor. He paused for just a moment, almost glancing over his right shoulder at Dean, before stepping towards and into the bathroom. The door shut behind him, a soft click in the returning silence, and Dean could only stand and remember the sound of the gun making a click like that when Sam had shot Madison.

He definitely needed that drink.

The shower started, and the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding released in a whoosh. He grabbed the back of a nearby chair with both hands, locking his arms as he braced himself against it. He hung his head, wondering what exactly he'd done to deserve the shit that kept getting tossed their way. What Sam had ever done to deserve any of what had happened to him since he'd been nothing more than six freakin' months old.

He could only imagine the thoughts that were running through his little brother's head right now. Comparisons of Jessica being killed because of him and Madison being killed by him had to be the number one choice. Dean had tried to tell his brother before that Jessica hadn't been his fault, that the yellow eyed son of a bitch was responsible, and he'd thought that he was starting to get through to Sam.

He could practically visualize all of his words going down the drain with the shower water. After today, he'd be back at square one with Sam. No, he'd be further back from square one. He'd be at negative fifty million, because Sam's insistence that Dean kill him now while he still could was probably featuring as number two on the List of Things Sam Broods About. Especially now.

Dammit.

Then, over the shower water, he stopped moving, stopped thinking, stopped breathing, because he'd heard the unmistakeable sound of a sob from the bathroom. It was amazing to him, after all these years, how fast his chest could tighten into a harsh fist around his heart at that sound from his brother. Nothing broke him faster then his brother's tears, his agony, his pain.

He pushed himself away from the chair and made his way to the bathroom door. He knocked hesitantly, letting his knuckles rap almost silently, but enough that they'd be heard. "Sam?" he called out as softly as he dared. When he received no response, he let his hand fall to the knob and slowly turned it until the wooden door slid into the bathroom.

His brother was still in his jeans, seated on the tile floor with his back to the shower at the opposite end of the door. His freakishly long legs were laid out on the floor, as if there wasn't enough strength to move them. His hair hung around his face, but no sound came forward again. Maybe Dean had been hearing things.

From the way Sam's fingers were trembling as they rested on his thighs, he didn't think so.

"Sam?" he called again, a little louder this time. He didn't mean for it to be louder; it came out that way.

"I'm fine, Dean," came the hoarse response. Yeah, right. Sure you are. And I'm Martha Stewart.

Dean slid to the floor in an effortless crouch next to his brother. "No you're not," he said, trying desperately to glance at Sam's face. "But...you will be. You know. Not right now, I mean, but..."

A humorless snort brought his ramblings up short. "Don't ever quit your day job for motivational speaker," Sam said, his voice dead.

It wasn't humor, and it wasn't meant as such, but it was a comeback, and Dean was hanging onto it. Hard. "Sam, I..."

"Just...just leave it alone, okay?" and there was the crack in the voice Dean had been waiting for. His brother turned away to view the corner of the bathtub and the wall, and Dean knew he shouldn't press. He should leave Sam alone, let him gather his emotions together, let him put his game face on so he could head out the next day for whatever gig Dean could find on the opposite side of the country.

But he hadn't pressed Sam to talk about Jessica, either, and look how well that had gone.

He gazed at Sam for a moment more, before he made up his mind. He let his right leg sink all the way to the ground, his other leg joining him in a seated position that made him glare at the counter that was now cramping his legs. And his legs weren't nearly as long as Sam's, but Sam at least had the long width of the bathroom to stretch out in. He shook it off; this wasn't about him. This was about Sam.

When hadn't it been?

He reached to the right, where Sam was seated, and tugged his legs towards Dean. Sam started at the sudden move he made, before turning red eyes that were now glaring on his brother. "What the hell...?"

He jerked to the right when Dean's arm wrapped around his back and his right forearm, pulling him completely onto Dean's lap. "Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

"It's okay," Dean said softly, his left arm coming around and over Sam's bent knees. This had been a hell of a lot easier when Sam had been smaller than Dean, but Dean didn't care. He raised his eyes to meet his brother's angry and confused gaze, and held it. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise."

Sam froze for a fraction of a second as he got it, and then suddenly sobbed, his right hand shooting up to his mouth to cover the sob that it was too late to catch. Dean's arm tightened, and the rest of the sobs came out despite Sam's attempt to muffle them, and he leaned against Dean, his head going beyond Dean's shoulder, where Sam buried it in his brother's neck.

"It's okay," Dean murmured again. "Shhhh. I got you Sammy."

He closed his eyes, wishing his dad would walk through the door like he had all those years ago, taking note only that his children were alive before carefully taking Sammy from Dean's protective embrace. "He'll be okay, Dean," John had told him when Dean had stayed a little too close to John's side. "I promise, all right? But we gotta get him out of here." He'd turned to his youngest in his arms then, a rare smile on his face for the sniffling child. "You'll be all right, Sammy. I promise."

It had been Sam's next words that had prompted the much older Dean to hold his brother the way he had all those years ago.

"I know that. Dean's been here with me. I just need him to be here some more, and I'll still be okay."

That quietly uttered phrase had only confirmed all of Dean's own thoughts: that he was the protector that Sam needed, the one that could make things okay, and that was his job. Sam needed him.

Sam continued to sob, his tears soaking Dean's neck and shirt. Dean didn't let go. He didn't think he could if he tried. "I'm right here, Sammy. It's gonna be all right, I promise. It'll be okay. It's gonna be okay. I promise."

And it was going to be okay. He'd damn well make sure it would be if it was the last thing he ever did. He was going to protect his little brother until...no. He was going to protect his little brother forever. Not until anything. He was never going to stop.

The quiet question of who needed who more flashed through his mind, but he ignored it. Right now, Sam needed him, and Dean wasn't letting go.

"It'll be okay," Dean whispered, closing his eyes. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."