This is set somewhere in the middle of season 2.

Summary: "I have often wondered what would happen if Dean was not there, taking care of me." Short one-shot.

Rating: K+

Warnings: Angst, one mild cuss word, and mention of character death.

I do not own Supernatural. I have never owned Supernatural. Most likely, I will never own Supernatural. So please don't sue. Please.

This story is dedicated to my own older brother and my parents. Thank you, mom, for finally giving me back the computer so I could write this.

Brothers in Arms

"Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero."

Marc Brown

I have often wondered what would happen if Dean was not there, taking care of me. Hell, for most of my life - sometimes even now - Dean has acted as both my maternal and paternal figure.

He was the one who taught me how to tie my shoes into a neat bow so I wouldn't trip over them. He was the one who would wipe away my tears when Tim Montgomery would push me off the play structure and then chase that boy, yelling bloody murder. He was the one who'd hold me as I shook from my most recent nightmare, whispering nonsense until I calmed down enough to be able to go back to sleep.

My father was there, but he always seemed more like the eccentric uncle who'd stop by every now and then and take us on a trip, rather than a true father. And I hate to disparage the guy; I really do, even though I had almost no problem doing that when I was younger. But that was when he was still alive, when he could fight back with his own insults.

Dean is the ideal son for my father, I think. He's strong and passionate about what he does. Caring, too, but in a gruff sort of way, kind of like the way that Bobby cares about someone. He listened to my father religiously, did whatever he was asked of with no hesitation. No second-guessing or doubts.

Me? Well, I could have been better with my father. More patient, maybe. I don't know. We were both so headstrong that it got difficult after a while to even have a conversation with the guy without having some type of big blowup that would leave him storming off in anger and me seeking comfort from Dean.

"Yo, Sammy," Dean interrupts my thoughts, his head so close to mine that I can almost feel his warm breath hitting my cheeks. "You okay in there?"

I stare at him for a moment, looking at his face. He looks the same after all these years, maybe a little tougher, but pretty much the same. "Yeah, man, I'm okay."

He smiles and pats me on the back, pulling his keys for the Impala out of the back pocket of his jeans and dangling them in front of my eyes. "You wanna go get something to eat with me? No way in hell am I gonna eat more of that healthy food crap you've been trying to force feed me this week," He rubs his stomach.

I give a small smile too and nod, still trying to get my head out of the clouds.

We step out of the motel, making sure to lock the door behind us. We get into the Impala, Dean driving and me sitting in shotgun like it always has been, and Dean turns up the radio on one of those classic rock stations that every town seems to have buried alongside all the mind-numbing pop music.

Dean sings along, badly, but with spirit. He turns to me and gives a hundred-watt smile. He looks happy and that makes me happy, too.

I have often wondered what would happen if Dean was not there, taking care of me. And I hope I'll never have to know.

Fin