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Sam didn’t like going to school.
At least, not when he was younger- six, to be exact. Wide-eyed, wild-haired, mouth always running and hands constantly tugging on Dean’s sleeve for some sliver of attention. That’s where he always wanted to be- by Dean’s side. Not in the midst of a swarm of high voices and accusing looks and giggles hidden behind palms.
He couldn’t be with his big brother when he was at school. Couldn’t hear his warm voice or count the explosion of freckles falling across his cheeks after Dad grumbled that he was “too busy” to play a game. It was always, “Class, this is Sam.” “Where have you been, Sam?” “Where’d you get that bruise, Sam?”
No. No, he just wanted his brother on the backseat of the Impala for hours on end, watching his lips curl into a smile whenever the right song came on. He didn’t want to hear strangers or teachers with too-angry voices bend down and call him “Sammy” like it was a swear. He was never ready to give up his family for time in a cold room with cold people.
But days like this, when Sammy could breathe the cool, October air without it burning the back of his nose, where there were just enough rays of sun coming through the cross-stitches of full, white clouds, where the slide was extra slippery and his clothes were clean, he loved to step into the hallways and hear the linoleum squeak under the thin soles of his old sneakers.
He smiled to himself, toothy and wide, like a six-year-old should.
It wasn’t the weather. It wasn’t the sun or the playground or even the rare feel of clothes, clean clothes, warm and fresh-smelling around him. No, it was Tuesday. And Tuesdays were his favorite.
Tuesdays were show and tell. His mouth twitched up into a grin just thinking about it.
Sam’s letter was S this week. Right after R, he reminded himself, stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk with his tongue in his cheek. Of course, the second his teacher handed him the little slip of paper with that big blue letter tattooed in the center, a thousand- no- a million things raced through his mind in nothing short of a few seconds. Shoe. No, no… Uh, how about… Sponge? Soap? Snake?
He scratched his head and huffed, happiness swirling with the disquiet curled in a tight little stone behind his stomach. They didn’t have much, their family. The Impala. A new motel room with new beds and new stains almost every other month. Whatever they could stuff in their duffels and too-greasy diner food.
His would-be grin fell into a frown as his anxious, little heart began to beat faster. What would he do? What did he have that could really… really blow all of the kids away? Finally make the whispers and the little scoffs stop?
Shotgun, he thought, but he immediately brushed the rowdy image aside. Sure, they had plenty of those. But he knew that wouldn’t help him any bit. He didn’t know if anyone had been raised with guns, raised to know what the parts were- the stock, the barrel, the trigger- like he had.
“No weapons, Sam!”
He remembered that day. The pocketknife. The wide eyes all tracking him like he was a criminal. He winced as self-conscious heat lit up his round cheeks and kicked a stray chip of bark, a few other things all-too-common to him flitting behind his eyelids like bats.
He didn’t know if they would understand Dad’s talks about salt. About protection and symbols and finding, finding, finding it.
He wrinkled his nose in thought. Even with the steady crunch of gravel under his feet the only sound around him, it was still hard to think. S. S...
It was late autumn; flecks of blue could still be found floating in the murky, slate-grey sky. He glanced around, trying his best to fit words into his mouth, letting them linger on his tongue, so he could taste them. Figure out something he could bring. Something special, something… Something that meant a lot to him.
And then pictures were flashing right behind his eyelashes, faster than he could blink. Bright green eyes, sun-spotted cheeks, and a short crop of half-spiked brown hair. Dean. Dean meant a lot to him, he concluded. He meant the most. Excitement bubbled up inside him as he thought of ideas, how he could drag Dean in by the hem of his coat and brag to the class about how fast he could take apart a pistol.
But then he stopped. He frowned. And he sighed sadly, shaking his head to himself as he picked the lint from his pocket with his fingernail.
Dean started with a D.
But brother… The word slipped into the image too, curling around Dean’s wrists. Dean was a brother, too. And brother started with a B. He felt the wheels in his six-year-old head twist into motion as he picked a string from the bottom of his shirt with clumsy fingers. So maybe it didn’t have to be Dean. Maybe not even brother.
But what was Dean to Sam, other than that? What could he be?
A teacher, he thought quickly, almost matter-of-factly, with a small nod of his head. T. He carded back unruly brown bangs and thought of his lessons in the Impala- words, numbers, animals, too. The leather seats groaning every time he shifted closer to his brother, slipped his hands under his leather jacket and soaked up his warmth. The smooth lines of the somehow-new picture books colorful and bright under his hands. Dean’s patient voice a careful, kind whisper above the rock bleeding from the speakers up front. Dean had been the reason he’d learned the alphabet before Sam had even started Kindergarten.
He smiled. Words were coming from every angle now, blossoming like daffodils in every corner of his mind.
A leader. L. How could he forget? Sam had been looking up to Dean since… since forever. Had been studying him ever since his older brother had pulled him out of that fire, trying to be just like him- down to the bump in his nose and the near-invisible crinkle his eyes made when he laughed.
Just thinking about Dean made Sam’s chest swell and swell, and he grinned dimple-deep, excitement fizzing under his lungs as he searched and searched for the perfect word.
He heard kids circle the tire swing, a chorus of squeaky voices trailing around him in lazy circles. Part of him listened half-heartedly, his earliest training kicking in, but most of him, a good chunk of him, was still stuck in the far-reaches of his head, searching for whatever words he could find to describe his brother.
What’re you gonna’ be for Halloween?
I dunno’. A fireman, maybe. Like my daddy. You?
I wanna’ be a tiger. Mom’s gonna’ do my face paint ‘n’ everythin’.
Gotchu’ both beat, a voice chimed. Sam’s ears pricked up despite himself, and he stopped, head cocking in curiosity even as he failed to face whoever was talking. He stopped and picked at his pockets with a yawn.
Gonna’ be a superhero.
The word echoed around in Sam’s ears for a few seconds, and he whispered it to himself, his smile stretching and stretching until his bubblegum cheeks were pushing his eyes to a squint. Superhero.
“Sam!”
Sam twisted around, smiling just at his voice. There he was now- his hero. Dean was hurrying over, arms swinging in his too-long sleeves, a would-be grin on his face. His brother reached him with a breathless huff, and he smiled as he ruffled Sam’s hair, squeezing him in brotherly hug. “Hurry up, Sammy, we gotta’ go.”
Sam nodded willingly. Ideas were already swimming through his head, racing in front of his eyes before he could catch them and sort them out. He slipped his hand into Dean’s, struggling to match his brother’s long stride, and he tugged on his arm. He tried his best to hide his too-eager smile behind an indifferent frown. “Dean?”
He looked down, his bottle-green eyes scrunching in another smile. Sam watched his face shift, his lips part, his irises flick back and forth over his little brother’s face. He loved the way Dean squeezed his hand and pulled him closer with a gentle tug. Dean was so warm. So familiar and… safe. “Yeah?”
Sam’s lips split into a grin.
“Do we havva’ camera?”
Sam’s letter today is S, Ms. Talbot announced. Her velvety voice soothed the din into silence, and she turned to Sam with a kind smile. A nod. A careful pat on the arm and something like a sigh.
Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was sadness. Maybe she was already expecting the swarm of heckles and giggles and pointing fingers. Sam didn’t bother to think about it, though. He just smiled back, the weak grin not quite reaching his eyes. He kept his gaze from nervously flitting from floor to ceiling, eyes locking on the back legs of a chair in the front row. He just wanted to try his best to show that he wasn’t so scared.
He shifted on his feet, feeling the weight of all gazes settle between his lungs, and waited for Ms. Talbot to finish talking.
So let’s give him our best behavior!
Papers stopped shuffling. Crayons were dropped from stubby fingers. Thirty expectant faces turned up with stifled giggles and doubtful glances. How could they not laugh? Sam Winchester- in his old, oversized clothes with more patches than any of them could number. His nappy hair curled up at the ears and pictures, those freakish pictures he always drew. He was so quiet, so lonely, so weird. Even then, twitching up at the front, something tucked behind his back with his head bowed to face the floor, everyone in the room wanted to just laugh.
Sam’s little feet pounded across the sidewalk, screeching past a corner and carrying him down the length of the cafeteria. He couldn’t hear them anymore. He thought they had left. But he couldn’t take the chances. He had to find an adult, a teacher, the janitor or the principal, somebody-
Uh, so… I… Sam heard muffled voices and a chorus of laughter from the back, and the tips of his ears reddened in a hot blush. He knew they were talking about him. He tried his best not to care, just focused on the picture in his sweaty hands and looked at his brother- smiling, fists tucked in his pockets and grass-green eyes shining with something like pride.
I wanted to- he swallowed nervously. His mouth was dry. I chose superhero as my word. And I brought a picture of my big brother Dean-
“Come back Winchester!”
His legs hurt. His lungs burned. Tears stung his eyes and made his face wet and splotched with red smudges. But he had to keep running. They c0uldn’t catch him if he kept running, right?
“Where’s your brother now?”
Just looking at the picture made his heart slow to nothing but a nervous bump-bump against his ribs. Sammy’s smile was secret- hesitant and the smallest bit shaky; he began to imagine that Dean was actually grinning up at him. Willing him forward. You can do it, Sammy. He released a breath.
His name is Dean.
Sam’s gaze flickered up. Despite all the bored faces, some with half-lidded eyes, others dangerously judgmental or amused, he couldn’t help the swell of pride in his heart that Dean was his brother. He wanted to tell them. Tell them all what Dean could do.
He’s my superhero.
He could hear them now. Three sets of feet crashing down the pavement ten, nine, eight feet behind him. He swallowed back a thick glob of spit and gasped for breath. He had to stop soon. Stop and find somewhere to hide.
“Hey, Sammy!” A mess of breathless laughter. Like hyenas. “Show us your powers!”
You guys might say he’s not a superhero. He rubbed the pad of his thumb along the edge of the photo and dared to glance up at the crowd. Seemed the only one smiling was Ms. Talbot.
But he’s the best one, he continued.
Better than Superman.
Scoff number one.
Better than Spiderman, too.
Scoff two, three, and four.
Even better than Batman.
He lost count of all the grumbles and grinned up at the tiles in the ceiling.
He’s real smart, he beamed. Smarter than all the books in here. Probably smarter than the principal. Not in the same ways, though. He dragged one palm down his jeans, and tried to make sense of everything in his head. It was a storm of thoughts, every drop of rain something he could say about his brother. His big hero, Dean.
A fist caught in the back of his jacket and jerked him backwards, and his knees buckled beneath him till he was butt-first on the concrete. The fall jarred him, pain shooting from the base of his spine to the roots of his teeth, and he gasped as he felt something crack. He could barely see anything in front of him through the watery film of tears, but he could still make out their faces.
Gordon. Brady. Victor.
He protects me from a lotta’ stuff. Monsters, he thought. Animals. Weapons. Sometimes Dad when his yelling gets too loud. But he didn’t say any of these things. Just toed the thin carpet with the tip of his sneaker.
He’s real fast, good with his hands, and really, really strong. He grinned, feeling phantom cramps of laughter curl behind his stomach. So funny, he chuckled. Funnier than anyone in the world.
And he has these eyes. Sammy tried to keep that wistful lilt from slipping into his voice. Green. Like… like moss. Or ivy. He looked down at those eyes, popping right out of the picture, and felt Dean’s gaze make his chest go warm and soft.
He saves me almost every day.
Sam clambered to his knees, tripping again and falling onto his palms with a pant before pushing himself up; a foot landed against his back and shoved him back down again and again until an angry red mark was tattooed against the back of his hip.
“Come on,” Brady crooned. He grinned to his friends, one looming above each of Sam’s shoulders, and pounded a fist into his free hand. “Aint you got super strength?”
Cliché, Sam thought absently. He watched Gordon and Victor circle closer, drawing towards Brady like two carrion flies, and swallowed as they all leaned down, braced their hands on their knees, and sneered. Like a single entity. Like… He struggled to find the word. But he remembered the pictures, the pictures from one of Dean’s books. A monster with dull black scales and long, blunt claws. Three heads.
Something clicked. Hydra.
“L-leave me alone,” he whimpered. He spared a glance down at his palms and felt tears well behind his eyes. The skin along the jut of his wrist was crisscrossed with rows of scratches oozing pearls of scarlet blood. He clutched his hands to his chest, trying his best not to cringe, and fit a rebellious scowl to his mouth. He hoped they didn’t see his lip quivering.
“You shouldn’t need to fight,” he snickered. “Doncthu’ got that big brother of yours?”
“Yeah,” Victor echoed. He crossed his arms, spreading his feet shoulder-width and looking down on Sam with something dangerously close to blatant contempt. “Your hero gonna’ come and save you?”
He’s a lot taller than me, Sam added. He stood up on his toes and reached towards the ceiling, fingers spread wide, and struggled to measure just how tall Dean was. He hasn’t grown yet, hadn’t come close to the six foot four he was destined to reach. His fingers barely brushed where Dean’s chin would have been.
Lot older. But he’s so nice to me. Really careful and kind and the best big brother. Always give me the most space on the bed and the better pillow and washes my jacket before his. I’m never hungry because of Dean. I’m never alone.
Sam’s skin began to thrum with familiar warmth, thick and sweet, sinking down to the soles of his feet like honey, and he bit his bottom lip to keep from cracking into a grin.
He doesn’t wear a cape, but… He shrugged, self-consciousness evaporating into mist. He could almost imagine Dean next to him. He could almost feel the heft of his arm across his shoulders.
Some heroes don’t wear capes.
“Sam Winchester,” Brady giggled. He glanced over at the others and curled his lip up in a sneer. “More like Screw-Up Winchester.”
“Screwed-Up Winchester,” Gordon leered.
“Can’t even be normal for show and tell.” Victor leaned down. Shook his head slowly, like he was disappointed. But his eyes- they were ignited. “Can’t even be like any of us for one day.”
Why are they so angry? Sam thought. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing hot tears back behind his irises. It burned. It stung. His back ached and the fabric of his shirt bit into the cuts on his hands. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to grip Dean’s jacket in his fists and cry into his strong shoulder.
Fear buzzed through him like electricity, and he choked back a sob.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
It all happened in slow motion. He saw one foot swing back to kick, one small fist bunch up and fly down, three round, unforgiving faces grin in sick delight. Sammy braced himself. He knew he didn’t have time to retaliate, and his brain was so full of fear, this new kind of fear, and adrenaline and pain, that he didn’t even think to roll away. He just tucked his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.
Let it be quick, he thought. He blocked out all the sounds, the light suddenly too bright, the foreboding laughter high and uneven. He gritted his teeth and waited for flashes of pain to erupt over his back and legs. Let it not be that bad.
But instead of starbursts of red behind his eyelids and bruises like blossoms along his sides, he heard another set of feet pounding down to meet him. A distant voice, livid and loud and aggressive enough to ripple through the concrete and shiver up Sam’s spine.
“Hey!” They were getting closer. “Hey!” The voice was getting angrier. “Get off of him, you douchebags!”
The pain still wasn’t there. No more giggling or harsh words. He willed himself to open his eyes the smallest bit, and he peeked between the crack in his forearms, feeling his body grow heavy and warm.
Dean.
He was there. Right behind the three boys, chest heaving up and down in ragged breaths, hands balled tight into fists. He was looming over all of them, had them all caged up against the brick wall, spitting venom into all their faces like a viper. Sam watched in awe as the sneers melted into gaping mouths and wide, round eyes. He watched Dean’s hands close around Brady’s collar and jerk him up and forward until their eyes were less tha a few inches apart.
“This funny to you? Picking on my little brother?” Dean bared his teeth and shook Brady a little bit; the boys eyes nearly rolled back into his head, and Gordon and Victor were already rushing away for help. Dean brought his other hand down to knot in the front of Brady’s shirt, and leaned down with a wolf-like grin, nothing but fury in his eyes. “How about we sweeten the pot, you little bit-“
Sam was up before he could register, pulling on Dean’s elbow with everything he had. It was so hard to move him. He was fixed to the ground like an oak, and he was so hot, radiating warmth right out of his jacket like some sort of human wood-furnace.
“Dean, you gotta’ let go of him!” Sam pleaded. “Don’t hurt him, please!”
Dean tensed under his touch. He didn’t let go of Brady, though, just leaned in closer and closer with eyes thin and teeth pulled back in a grimace. Sam watched the boy wriggle in Dean’s grip, watched his feet kick and his pupils widen in fear.
Dean ignored his brother altogether. Just tightened his fingers in the shirt till Sam was scared Brady would choke.
“Touch him again,” Dean hissed. He took a second to scan the boy’s face with wild, green eyes. “And you’re meat. Got it?”
Dean’s fists unclasped his shirt, and Brady dropped to the floor, instantly shooting off down the sidewalk, huffing and sobbing all the way to the front office. Sam could still hear him scream for a teacher even after the double doors had fallen shut.
Sam knew he would have to switch schools after this. He’d have to move again or kick up the homeschooling in the backseat. “Class, this is Sam.” But somehow he didn’t care. A weird peace settled behind his sternum as he steadied his breathing and turned to gaze up at Dean with reverence.
“What were you gonna’ do?” he panted. He raked his hair out of his eyes with shaking fingers and watched the fire in Dean’s eyes sizzle into ashes. His big brother smiled, flexing his fingers.
“Aw, nothing,” he mumbled. He rolled his eyes. “Can’t beat a baby into pulp, can I?”
Cheap indignation worked its way past the warmth singing through Sam’s body, and he giggled, not even trying to frown. “I’m not a baby.” He shoved against Dean’s side, but melted into his brother’s arms nonetheless, willingly taking Dean’s hand as they shuffled down the street to the Impala.
“Yeah, I know, Sammy.” Dean pressed him closer and squeezed his hand, urging him forward. Sam tried his best to match him steps, lengthen his gait, stumble until their feet moved in perfect rhythm. Right, left, right, left. “Let’s head home.”
Sam would have liked a few Kindergarteners’ fists in his sides, just then. It beat werewolf claws tearing across his cheeks like knives. He winced as Dean patted a cool washcloth against the wound and chuckled softly, watching the man’s irises glimmer in the low lamplight like emeralds.
“Yeah,” he simpered. His full lips twisted up in a smirk, and he caught Sam’s gaze in between his lashes. “Yeah, I remember that.” He dunked the cloth in a bowl of diluted pink water and wrung it out to dry. His tone had changed somehow- nostalgic and easy. “Clinton Elementary.”
Sam smiled at his brother. Perfect memory. Like a camera. He remembered saying that on that day, too. He had probably taken five minutes praising his big brother from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He still had that picture crumpled like an old receipt at the bottom of his bag.
“Wasn’t the first time you’d saved me,” he mumbled. He fought back a gummy smile and fingered with the empty pistol in his lap, testing the flex of the trigger. “Wasn’t the last, either.” He risked a glance up to see Dean watching him, eyes crinkled in a sweet smile and shining with an unnamable glow. He scooted closer, fitting their sides against eachother, and chuckled enough that the deep laughter vibrated through Sam’s clothes and into his skin.
“That’s what I’m here for, right?”
Sam let his head fall to his chest. His hair fell over his cheeks to hide his dimpled grin, and he kicked Dean’s feet playfully with a snort. After all these years, that feeling in his chest never changed. It was the same warmth, thick and familiar, like home. It drizzled into his chest like syrup, and he smiled to himself as his eyes fell shut. “Yeah.”
A few beats of silence. Light and loving, rare and sweeter than sap.
“You’re still my hero, Dean.”
He opened his eyes carefully, and watched his brother’s lips split into a brilliant smile. A genuine smile that he didn’t see often enough. Butterflies erupted in his stomach, and he nudged Dean’s shoulder with his own. “You’ll always be a hero to me.”