It wasn't the same.

It didn't have the same heart ripped out of his chest, never see her face again king of grief. Losing Dawn wasn't the same as losing Jessica. In many ways, it was a helluva lot easier. She didn't die, he didn't have to watch it happen, and it wasn't (indirectly, directly, however you want to look at it) his fault. But in other ways, it was much, much worse.

Dawn was gone, a fact Sam would just have to deal with, but because of the way the City worked, there was never any telling if she would ever come back. If Sam stayed there for ten more years, he'd spend ten years wondering, waiting, and if she did come back, there was no saying if she'd even remember him. And that was so, so much worse.

As he stood there in the Hall of the Missing, clenching and unclenching his fists, biting back the hollow feeling in his gut a little too literally (the taste of copper was on his tongue), Sam suffered the crippling feeling of loss once again. They weren't even dating, but it still felt like he'd lost a part of him. And in some ways, he had.

Dawn brought him a kind of solace that he had never found anywhere else. They talked about things Sam could only dream of saying to Dean, and he trusted her almost as much (but only almost; Dean always came first). She was his best friend, and whether he admitted it to himself or not, he loved her. Against everything he'd learned over the years, in spite of how much he told himself not to, he let someone get close to him. He let someone become important, began to cherish someone, knowing full well that one day, inevitably, this would happen. One of them would be left behind to deal with the disappearance of the other.

He knew it would happen.

Yet it still hurt so fucking much, he couldn't stand it.

He couldn't imagine never having full conversations in Latin and Sumerian with her. He couldn't wrap his mind around her never stubbornly refusing to let him fall into that dark place he was so prone to dwelling in. He couldn't look at that damn pictured in the Hall, her smiling face staring back at him as he felt the ground fall out from beneath his feet. He had half the mind to take it down or punch the wall or scream or set the world on fire, anything.

But instead, there was a weak exhale of air, as close as he'd let himself get to weeping, before he turned away and left behind all of his silly little dreams. She wasn't dead. She wasn't gone from his life for the rest of eternity. And it wasn't his fault she was gone. But he still felt guilty.

He never told her the truth. He never said he loved her. And after this, even if she came back, he never would.

There was only so many times Sam could get his heart broken.

"What the hell is that?"

Always the start to an interesting and often times aggravating conversation for Sam, especially when it comes to Dean. He's just gotten back to the motel after reading up on some lore at the nearby library, only to find Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen eating something most peculiar.

"What does it look like, genius?" he replies tactfully, the spoon he's eating with still in his mouth.

"It looks like you've gone back to grade school, Dean. I mean, really? Pudding?"

"Hey, don't knock the pudding. It's a classic snack."

Sam laughs sardonically, "Yeah, sure. For seven year olds. When'd you even buy it?"

"The other day," Dean mumbles as he scrapes the last remains of the chocolate gelatin out of the tiny plastic cup, "There's more in the fridge if you want some."

"No, I'm, I'm okay without. Some of us actually graduated high school."

"Hey!"

Sam just laughs as Dean protests, only to be interrupted by his phone ringing. "Hello? The, uh, Bullseye Motel. Riverside. Room 262. Why, what's--?" He doesn't get a chance to finish his question before there's a knock at the door behind him. When Castiel wants something, he doesn't wait for the questions. Sam opens the door and he's standing there, phone still at his ear.

"Hello, Sam. I need to speak with you and Dean. Where is he?" he asks as he walks past Sam, then looks down to where Dean has pulled out the pack and has started on his next cup. "What is that?"

"C'mon, seriously?" Dean growls a little, setting down the spoonful he was just about to devour. "It's pudding, Cas. Y'know, a little SwissMiss for your lunchbox?"

"I understand that it's a dairy-based gelatin dessert. Why are you eating it?"

"Because it tastes good! Jeez, you'd think I'm eating Soilent Green or something!" Dean wipes a hand over his face in annoyance.

"I, apologize if I've offended you, Dean. I was under the impression that pudding was a treat for children."

The glare Dean shoots the angel has him glancing back to Sam for assistance, but the giant just shakes his head with an amused little smile. Dean sighs, "Look, Cas, have you ever eaten pudding?"

A little abashed, "I...can't say that I have, no."

"Well, you're gonna try it now. Here." Dean pulls out another cup and spoon and places it on the table for Castiel to take.

"I don't understand the purpose of this exercise. Why would I eat that?"

"Because maybe it'll loosen up that stick in your ass."

"But I don't have a--"

"Just eat it," Dean groans. Again, the angel glances back to Sam who shakes his head with his lips pursed, which Cas takes as signal to just humor the man. He picks up the cup warily, overly cautious as he opens it and takes the first bite. After a few seconds of the brothers staring at him, waiting for some sort of a response, he tilts his head and looks down at the cup, "This is...oddly enjoyable."

Dean laughs triumphantly and pulls out a chair for him to sit down in, "Yeah-ah, at'ta boy, Cas." Cas promptly takes the seat and continues the consumption of his chocolate goodness in obvious contentment.

"Wow," Sam shakes his head, half in disbelief, before setting down the keys and taking off his jacket.

"Come on, Sammy. Lighten up. Look, even mister more-uptight-than-Martha-Stewart over here is enjoying himself. And I mean before the jailtime." He motions to Cas, who is to busy shoveling pudding into his mouth to agree with more than just a nod. Dean pulls out another cup and spoon, but Sam immediately denies it.

"I'm really okay. Thanks anyway," Sam says as he moves toward the beds. Dean stops him by pulling out his gun and aiming it directly for Sam's head.

"Sammy. Eat."

The younger brother raises his eyebrows, "Seriously, Dean?"

"Oh, I'm serious," he pulls back the safety, "Sit, Sasquatch." Sam rolls his eyes and pulls out the last chair, picking up the snack and sitting with dramatized exasperation, "I can't believe you really just threatened me into eating pudding. You do remember the Apocalypse we're supposed to be stopping, right?"

"'course I do. This might be our last chance to eat pudding before the world goes topside. You'll be thanking me later. Now, eat." Only after Sam has taken the first bite and blinks in surprise at how delicious it really is does Dean grin and put his gun down. He turns to his friend who is currently trying to lick out the remnants of the snack from the bottom of the cup, "You want another one there, Buster?"

Cas doesn't even make a face at the dog name or wipe the small chocolate line on his nose, only sets down the now empty plastic container and holds out his hand, "Yes, please." Dean laughs and happily passes one over before starting back up on his own.

And so Team Free Will takes a day off from Devil hunting and enjoys one of the finer things in life: a calm summer afternoon, indulging in a treat with friends and family. Who knew such a simple act would become such a memorable occasion, especially in light of what was to come? It was one of the few and one of the last times the trio ever spent their time together happily.

Gotta enjoy the little things.

All throughout Sam's infant and toddler years, Dean was the one that took care of him when he needed it. Even when John was there, which wasn't often, Dean was still Sam's parental figure. If Sam got sick, Dean was the one that nursed him back to health. If Sam got hurt, Dean was the one that cleaned and wrapped the wound.

If Sam had a nightmare, Dean was the one that would comfort him and croon him back to sleep.

He never really realized how much of his mother's habits stuck with him throughout the years. When Dean couldn't sleep, she'd lay next to him in the bed and rub his arm gently, telling him that she would never leave his side. 'It's okay, baby. Don't be afraid. Mommy's here.'

On the nights when the nightmares came, Dean would always be the first to know, not just because they shared a bed, but because he started to recognize the signs. It'd start with the shaking, which he used to mistake for Sam simply being cold, until he'd start curling up into the fetal position and covering his head. At that point, Sam'd start mumbling to himself until eventually he started screaming. John would wake up thinking something was in the room, then get angry when he realized it was just another of Sam's dreams.

But Dean understood Sam's dreams. It wasn't just him being afraid of the dark or having your average child's nighttime fears - he was recalling memories of Mary's death. Sam didn't know this; he'd just curl up next to Dean and cry, begging him not to let the fire get him. 'It's everywhere, Dean, it's so bright. Don't let it get me. I don't wanna burn up.' Dean knew, and he would hold Sam close and rub his arm until he fell back asleep. 'Don't worry, Sammy. Nothing's gonna get you. I'm right here.'

Soon enough, Dean figured out how to predict the nightmare was coming and without being told, without Sam even knowing, Dean'd wake up and help him find his solace.

Twenty years later, things are still the same. Sam's older, and very aware of what he's dreaming about, but nothing's really changed. The shaking, the cowering. The way he screams Jessica's name at the top of his lungs. Dean knows. But Sam is so closed off these now. There's no coming to him for guidance, no telling him what's going on. Not that he really needs to, Dean already knows, but still. He's taken care of the kid all his life, the least he could do is talk to him. Or let him give him shit.

It's been about a month since Jessica's death and Sam's been having the dreams for weeks, but Dean has't commented on them much. He's waiting for Sam to bring it up, or to say something, but all he gets is a snide remark before he moves on to another topic. It's...frustrating, to say the least.

One night, Dean wakes up to the shaking again. Usually he can't hear it from the other bed, but tonight it's especially loud. Hopefully that means Sam'll say something about it. Dean quickly turns on the bedside light and reaches under his bed to pull out a gun, which he promptly starts taking apart and cleaning. He wants to make it look like he's been up the whole time when Sam finally comes to.

Which he does, with a start. "Jessica!" he cries, sitting up abruptly and breathing heavily. The light's presence halfway blinds him and he squints a little as he turns to see Dean staring at him with raised eyebrows.

"Again, dude?" he teases, putting down the cloth and piecing the gun back together, "What, do you need me to come sleep with you again like when we were kids?"

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes, "Shut up, Dean." He lays back down and turns his back to him, which means no caring and sharing for the Winchester brothers tonight. Dean isn't sure whether to be upset or relieved. He keeps the teasing tone in his voice, but if Sam were to actually look at his face, he'd see just how concerned Dean really is.

"Need me to tuck you in? Kiss you on the forehead? Read you a bedtime story?"

"Goodnight, Dean." Grumpy pants.

He watches as Sam's breathing evens out and eventually eases back to sleep. Dean doesn't keep track of how much time passes, hours or maybe just a matter of minutes, looking back and forth between the gun he's putting back together and his sleeping baby brother. For a moment, he believes this is the end of it, that the nightmare has passed.

But then there's the slightest of shifts and it starts all over again.

Sam's shaking like he's naked in the Arctic circle, and he tucks his knees closer to his chest. Cowering. Afraid. And so very, very alone. Dean gets up and sits beside him, watching for only a second as the mumbled cries start spilling from Sam's lips. "No. No, no. I'm sorry, Jess, I'm so sorry. Please, no."

God, if there wasn't anything Dean would do to take this all away. But all he can do is rub Sam's arm gently, "It's okay, Sammy. I'm right here. It's okay."

And for the first time since he was a child, Sam sleeps soundly, undisturbed by the nighttime terrors that plague his dreams.

Four words. Four key words that, no matter what happens in the world, will always give Dean a reason to keep moving. The same four words that he's carried with him since before he could really remember. The same four words that have always kept him grounded.

Take care of Sammy.

Dean would never let anything hurt his baby brother - not the dog that always barks at him on the way home from the store; not the kids that pick on him for being quiet and secluded; not the monsters in the dark that'd love to eat him right up. It doesn't matter who or what it is, Dean will always protect Sam from it.

Sam might not be aware of that four word command that dictates most of Dean's life, but he is highly aware of how protective his brother is. It's part of the reason why he always has and always will look up to him like his own personal super hero. Nothing can take Dean down - not the dogs, the bullies, not even...

...a bear?

"Dean, look! It's just like you!" Dean looks up from the latest issue of Hot Rod to the TV. Sam's watching some Discovery Channel-esque show about bears, educational crap that Dean could really care less about it. At the moment, it's talking about mother bears and how ferocious they get when their cubs are in danger.

"What, are you trying to call me a chick?" Dean smirks a little, grabbing his younger brother and giving him a noogie while Sam laughs and tries to escape.

Once he's finally free, he sits up and grins, "No, jerk. It said that momma bears protect their cubs from everything, even tigers. Just like you do."

"Well, I dunno what tiger's gonna wanna eat you, you're too little." He grabs him again to give him another noogie, but stops after a few seconds to smile down at him, "But you're right about one thing: I'll protect you from everything, Sammy."

Smiling, and no longer struggling against his grasp on him, "Always?" Sam knows the answer, Dean's told him before and he trusts him, but he likes hearing him say it anyway.

Dean nods, "Always. But that doesn't mean I'm your mother bear, squirt." And the wrestling continues.

"Dean, do you think we'll ever get to do that?"

"Do what?"

"That," a six year old Sam says blankly, pointing to the TV screen in front of them. It's another boring day, just sitting around the motel, and they're watching some crappy outdated reruns. The screen shows a small family sitting around a campfire with marshmallows on sticks and laughing in a way that only ever really happens in crappy outdated TV shows, never real life. But Sam's too young to understand that, and he looks up at his older brother with hopeful eyes.

Dean wishes he could deliver better news, but realistically speaking, Hell will freeze over before the Winchester go camping.

"I dunno, Sammy," he tries to lay it on easy, "We're not exactly the Brady's."

"It looks fun, though. We could even make those, um. What're they called? Uh, s-s'mo--?"

"S'mores?" Dean finishes the word for him, brows furrowed, "You want to make s'mores?"

Sam perks up, happy that Dean knows what he's talking about. Of course he does, Dean knows everything, right? He probably even knows how to set up a tent and make a campfire, which in Sam's mind means that this whole scenario is totally plausible. He smiles excitedly, "Yeah, why not? Dad goes camping all the time, right? We could go with him, and--"

"Sam," Dean interrupts, shaking his head with a small frown, "I'm sorry, but I just don't think it's gonna happen. Dad's...busy, with work. You know that."

Dean knows the real reason why they couldn't go camping with John, but he's not about to tell Sam that.

The younger boy sinks back down with disappointment, his eyes dropping to the couch, "Oh. Right. Work." He turns to face the TV again, but his eyes are still aimed down at the floor. Life isn't some crappy outdated TV rerun, of course they can't do anything like that fake family in front of them. Sam is constantly reminded of that fact by things like this, things he wants to do but will never be able to. Already so jaded at the age of six.

Which just about breaks Dean's heart.

So he puts his hand on Sam's shoulder and tries his best to smile, "Look, how about this?" The younger brother turns to look at him, the same dejected expression on his face. Dean perseveres with his sympathetic smile, "We might not be able to go camping, but we can still make s'mores. Does that sound like fun?"

Sam's mood lifts, but only slightly. He's a little skeptical. "How can we make s'm-s'mores, without a campfire?" His struggling with the snack's name makes Dean smile sincerely. His innocent, baby brother is so cute. He'd do anything to protect that innocence, like indulge him in childish illusions of grandeur.

"It won't exactly be the same, but we can use the kitchen stove. It's either that, or nothing at all. It's up to you." Sam shakes his head vigorously and Dean laughs a little before continuing. "Alright. Now, we're gonna have to use some of this week's grocery money to buy the stuff we need, which means eating Skettios for dinner a couple days in a row. No complaining though, or the deal's off. Okay?"

He nods, then asks curiously, "You know how to make s'muh-s'muh," he grumbles a little in frustration, "them?"

Dean takes this as an opportunity to tease him, "I'm sorry, make what now?"

"You know what I mean, jerk!" Sam pouts, punching his brother in the arm.

Dean just laughs and ruffles Sam's hair, "'course I do, munchkin. I know everything." Which is totally not true, but he can at least wing it for Sammy's sake. As long as he kept smiling, nothing else really mattered.

So what if their lives aren't like some crappy outdated TV show? The melted chocolate and marshmallow drippings all over the oven make for much better memories than anything those fake laughs could ever dream of.

For as long as Sam could remember, Dean was the only person he could ever rely on. They moved around too often to make any friends, they only visited Uncle Bobby once in a blue moon, and their parents were always, always gone. John's absence Sam understood: "He's working", Dean would say. "He's got really important work to do." His lack of a father he could chalk up to business, but his mother? She was just..gone. Sam usually didn't think much of it - he was too young - but around the time he turned five, curiosity got the better of him.

It was just any other day when Sam finally decided to ask. He and Dean were sitting in the motel, waiting for John to get home wile watching reruns of old cartoons. Sam looked up at his older brother, figuring he was the only person that would answer him, and trusting him to give the truth. He popped the question in a soft voice with all the innocence of a toddler, "Dean, where did Mommy go?"

His big green eyes, all wide with wonder and anticipation, watched as Dean's face changed in a way he'd never scene before. It became stiff, his eyes a little distant and cold as he looked down at him. "What?" Dean asked, obvious restraint showing through his voice. Sam didn't understand this, so he pressed on.

"Mom, she's never here. Even less than Dad is. Where did she go?"

Dean inhaled sharply before responding, "She didn't go anywhere, Sam. She just..can't see us, right now."

"Does she have work too?"

"No, she doesn't. Now just watch the show," Dean ordered, turning his attention back to the TV with his jaw set.

"But Dean--" he began to plead, but Dean wasn't having any of it.

"Please, just stop asking, Sammy."

It was strange; Dean had never avoided a question Sam asked before, which only made him more curious. Not only for the truth, but to see what he'd do next.

"If she doesn't have work, why did she leave us?" Sam asked earnestly, pulling his entire body onto the couch to turn and face his brother. What came next was entirely unexpected, and caught him completely off guard.

"She didn't leave us, Sam!" Dean snapped, "She's dead, okay? She died, a long time ago, and we'll never see her again!" It happened so suddenly, the way he turned to him and shouted directly in Sam's face.

It scared him.

Sam scrambled backwards on the couch, curling up into a ball with wide eyes and tears running down his cheeks. It was the first time Dean ever yelled at him, and though he didn't quite understand the concept of "dead", he knew he must've done something wrong. When John got angry at them like that, it meant they were in trouble, and then came the swats. Sam was scared Dean was going to hit him too, and then go away just like their dad always did. Dean was the one person Sam knew would never leave him, but for the first time, he thought that he would.

He didn't want to end up alone.

Hands holding his head down in preparation for the expected beating, Sam tried his best to speak through his sobs and ended up stuttering over his words. "I-I'm s-sorry, Dean, I didn't, I'm sorry."

When Dean's hand finally did reach him, it was not to hit him but to pull the younger boy into a hug. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he said softly, his voice the very definition of apologetic, "I didn't mean to yell like that. I'm sorry."

Sam still didn't understand, but he knew that Dean was there, so he reached out to wrap his arms around his brother's torso and wail into his shoulder. His hands held onto the back of Dean's shirt as tightly as they could, as though he'd disappear if he didn't.

Dean started rubbing his back to comfort him, "It's okay, Sammy, I'm right here. I'm not gonna leave you. We don't need anyone else; I'll take care of you. You know that, right?" Too busy crying to answer verbally, Sam just nodded his head against Dean's shoulder.

"Good. It's just you and me, Sammy, to the very end. Promise."