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Deanna was 4 years old, tiny and curled up on the bed, when Sam dared to open the journal he'd stolen from Dad's bag and look through it. There were photos tucked into the first few pages- Mom, Dad himself, Sam as a kid holding his baby sister Deanna with a somber gaze on her. And then came the monsters. Beautiful ink-pen sketches, terrible handwriting, and pages upon pages of demons and Latin and ghosts and things that Sam had never heard of. And his name, along with his sister's:
Was it after Deanna?... Sammy doesn't seem right sometimes... Deanna's room, right above her crib... Sammy nearly got kidnapped by a demon... She never falls asleep if Sam's not there with her... Sam barely leaves her side... Deanna found my guns today, started to play with them... Sammy killed a man today and barely flinched... Maybe H had been right... Maybe my kids aren't entirely human... But they are mine... I'm so sorry, Mary, I don't know how long I can protect them...
Maybe Sam should have felt something other than anger. Here were his father's own words, confirming the existence of monsters and doubting his own children- Sam should have terrified, or hurt. But all he felt was anger.
Dad couldn't protect them for long? And he was realizing this after dragging them into this crusade? Fine. Sam would do it himself.
He crossed over to his duffel, dug out the newspaper-wrapped item he'd wanted to give to his sister. Then he crossed over to his bed. "De?" He shook her gently. "Dean, wake up, come on, it's Christmas morning."
Dean- she insisted she liked it better than her full name- woke up with a pout, bleary green eyes landing on him unerringly. "Snow?"
Sam pointed to the window. At the sight of freshly fallen snow from the night before, she brightened, sleepiness forgotten in favor of sitting upright and nearly bouncing herself off the bed. Sam caught her around the middle before she could jump off. "Gifts first, okay?"
Sufficiently distracted, Dean turned to him again, wide-eyed and eager. Sam gave her the small package, let her unwrap it hurriedly and finding a heavy, brass amulet, the leather cord hung around her fingers.
"It's for protection, Dean, okay?" Sam said gently, taking it from her and putting it around her neck. It looked too big for her, the amulet almost reaching her navel. "Never take it off."
"It's ugly," she said bluntly, grinning down at it. "I love it, Sammy." She launched herself at Sam in a hug, headbutting him in the chest. Sam fell back, pretending to be hurt, breaking into laughter when she visibly panicked at the fake pain on his face.
All was well.
Sam had just returned from football practice and was fast asleep, tired and loose-limbed from a shower, when Dean found Dad's journal. It wasn't so much rebellion as curiosity that was driving her and she took a quick peek out the window to check that their car wasn't approaching, before hopping onto the bed, sitting next to Sam's unconscious form, and reading.
She read and she read and she read, because she couldn't stop despite the fear that seemed to numb her all over. And while a few things just didn't register, didn't make sense, all she really gleaned was that the world was full of evil.
"Sammy?" She whispered, shaking her brother.
There must have been something in her voice, because Sam practically jolted awake, grabbing Dean's arms and eyes roving around the room. How long had he known about monsters? Dean wondered.
Then he noticed the journal in her hand. "Dean," he sighed, disapproval colouring his tone.
"Is it true?" She asked.
Sam looked at her sadly. "Yeah," he answered firmly. "Werewolves, ghosts, ghouls- all of it."
Dean looked down at the journal. "Santa Claus?" She asked sullenly.
She was surprised to hear a thoughtful hum instead of laughter. "Could be," Sam said. "Maybe he's just really good at staying hidden."
Dean wasn't old enough to really believe in Santa Claus or tooth fairies. At least, she didn't think she was. But if Sam said it was possible, then it probably was. And it made her feel just the tiniest bit better.
"Do you hunt them too?" She asked.
Sam nodded. "Dad needs help protecting us," he said. "He needs help protecting you." He looked mildly angry, but then, Sam was always angry at Dad.
Dean bit her lip, thinking hard. "I'll protect you," she said, quiet but firm. "When I'm big enough."
Again, Sam didn't laugh. He just looked at her. And he smiled, patting the side of her head. "You already do, De."
Dean wasn't sure what he meant by that. But it didn't matter just then.
After Deanna started insisted on accompanying them on hunts, Dad decided to begin her training. She'd had the theoretical part covered since Dad got to know she'd snuck into his journal. And now...
Sam was delegated to the sidelines, watching from the rickety porch of the tiny cabin they were renting out, watching Dean square up against Dad, looking much too small and delicate in front of him. But that was alright- after all, Sam had been stick figure-thin when he was 10 and then he'd been a chubby 12 year old. He'd grown into it just fine, thanks to Dad's training regime. Dean would be the same, he knew.
Unease grew in his chest anyway and Sam pushed it down, watching quietly. He pretended it didn't make him nauseous when Dean overshot and fell face-first on the ground, or when Dad had her arm twisted behind her back to show her how to get out of his hold, or when Dean ended up with a sore back and cramped muscles for weeks after weeks. But she was getting better, Sam could see it, so he pretended and pretended and pretended and...
Dad moved too fast, Dean didn't move fast enough. His fist snapped into her mouth too hard. She hadn't quite finished crying out in pain before Sam was on his feet, skidding to his knees beside her.
"Dean? De? Hey, come on, look at me," Sam babbled, while John kneeled on her other side.
Dean looked up at him with watery eyes. "I'm fine," she tried to say. There was blood smeared on her lips, staining her teeth and tongue.
Sam stared at her, chest suddenly too tight, the unease from before growing into a sense of wrongwrongwrongwrong. She shouldn't be bleeding. Dean should never be bleeding.
"Should get some ice on that," John said softly, reaching out to help Dean up.
Without thinking, Sam's hand shot out, gripping his father's wrist a little too hard. "Don't-" He cut himself off, realising how absurd his thoughts would sound. This was nothing, really. Sam and John had hurt each during training plenty of times, had broken bones on a few memorable occasions. This was nothing and there would be worse.
That didn't stop Sam from wanting to demand that their father never touch Dean again.
"Sam?" John's voice was careful, wary, like he didn't like whatever he saw in Sam's eyes.
Sam let go, shaking himself. "You go ahead and get the ice, dad," he said, as composed as he could. "I'll bring Dean inside."
For once, John didn't argue. He nodded curtly, standing up. Sam turned to Dean, giving her a shaky smile that even he could tell wasn't very reassuring. He reached out, gingerly wiping the blood off her mouth. He looked at his thumb, red glistening on it, and had the sudden urge to touch his tongue to it, to see if his sister's blood would taste familiar. He shook himself. Dean just looked back at him curiously, almost calculating, and it made his stomach lurch, like she could glean the anger from his thoughts.
John told Sam to take over Dean's training from the next day.
When Sam was 16, he started dating. Finally, Dad seemed to think when Sam stammered out a reason for why he'd been out past night curfew.
Dean frowned, a little niggle of annoyance in her stomach. It only grew when, a few days later, while Sam was out again, John looked at her slightly apologetically and said, "Dean, I think you should start sleeping alone now."
"Alone?" Dean repeated, a little alarmed.
"Not alone in a room," John corrected. "Alone in a bed." He nodded at the second bed, the one he usually took. "I'll just take a second room."
"You always say buying two rooms is a waste of money," Dean reminded him.
"You and your brother were still kids then," John said with a dismissive shrug, turning to cleaning his guns again. "But you're too old to be sharing a bed now. Especially, Sam."
Dean narrowed her eyes at him. "Is this because of Sam dating that girl?" She asked.
"Deanna, whatever the hell reasons I have for making a decision aren't your business," he said sternly. "I've already talked to your brother, and he's agreed."
Dean bristled, but she didn't have Sam's hot temper and ready-to-battle wit just yet. So she just huffed angrily, finishing her homework with a ferocity that almost tore through her. She felt vaguely betrayed that Sam had agreed with Dad, that he was out there with some other girl and not taking Dean's side on this matter. Where was his sense of rebellion when Dean needed it?
Dean hated the faceless girl- Rachel, Sam's voice in her head supplied unhelpfully- with a vengeance.
Dad stuck to his word, getting another room and leaving Dean alone in the first one. She lay awake for two hours, staring at the blank wall, waiting. The second bed felt too big, too unfamiliar.
When Sam arrived, she pretended to be asleep, though she couldn't be sure whether or not he was fooled. She couldn't keep quiet when she felt him pause at her bed though, hand stroking through her hair.
"How was your date?" She asked snidely.
Sam chuckled. "Pretty good, actually."
There was a dreamy note in his voice that she'd never heard before and it made her feel sick. Sullen, she pictured that faceless girl with a bullet hole between her eyes. Crude and unnecessarily violent, but it helped her feel a little better. Sam always did say she was their father's daughter.
A few minutes later, though, Sam was sliding into bed beside her, getting under the covers with mindless ease.
Dean looked at him over her shoulder. "Dad said to sleep in different beds," she reminded.
Sam paused, eyes glinting in the darkness. "You want to?"
Dean frowned, unsure. "Uh, no? Duh."
Sam grinned. "Well, who's gonna tell him?" He questioned, getting comfortable. "Don't worry, you know how early I wake up. I'll sneak into the other one before he checks in on us in the morning." He pressed a kiss to her cheek. In the dark, it was a little too close to her mouth, and Dean's face heated up, heartbeat stuttering briefly. "Night, Dean."
When Dean started looking at boys, Sam started looking away from her. She didn't seem to realise how often she was completely in his space, pale legs draped over his lap when they were on a couch, head on his shoulder when she fell asleep in the car, sides pressed together when they were brushing their teeth together. Hell, she barely thought twice before stripping half her clothes off in front of him.
Not to mention how she still crept into his bed every night after Dad left them in their room.
It wasn't until Sam felt homicidal rage watching Dean bat her lashes at a guy on the football team that he realized: maybe he'd gone too far in his determination to protect Dean. Or maybe he'd just always been obsessed with her- it was just manifesting in different ways now.
"You can't growl at a guy I like," Dean insisted, dodging a punch Sam threw at her. She ducked under his arm, tackling him around his middle and trying to push him down.
"You're jailbait," Sam panted, shoving her off by the shoulders and grabbing her arm, twisting it behind her back. "He was my age."
Dean's sneer was audible. "Just because you didn't date till you were 16." She wrenched out of his grip, elbow jamming into his side.
Sam didn't bother replying to that. He lunged for Dean's arm again, this time yanking them both to the ground, and then pinned her to the grass.
"Bitch," Dean cursed breathlessly, squirming under him.
"Focus," Sam hissed a command, trapping her hands above her head. "Come on, you want me to believe you're not a kid, you gotta throw me off."
Dean glared, colour high on her cheeks, almost disguising her freckles. Her struggle slowed down, legs trying to kick out from under him. He could feel her tense and he tightened his grip on her neck just a bit, settling almost all his weight on her to keep her in place.
Dean let out a grunt of pain, eyes widening and-
And her pupils were blown, the green almost disappeared. Her throat bobbed under Sam's hand, heart beating so fast Sam could feel it through their shirts.
"Dean?" Sam sounded too uncertain, he knew, and his grip relaxed, weight shifting...
Dean bit her lip in thought, then twisted, flipping them smoothly.
Sam hit the ground hard, but he just stared up at his sister, who was looking down at him in shock.
"Good job," Sam said weakly.
Dean looked stricken. "Sam..." She was straddling him, keeping his hands pressed to his own chest.
He could break her hold if he wanted. But he didn't and she dipped her head lower, like she was testing.
Sam waited, tense but curious, not wanting to spook her.
Sam's phone rang, left half-forgotten on the picnic table they'd been sparring next to. Dean jumped away from Sam, almost scrambling off, and he immediately missed the feel of her.
When Sam started hiding college application papers, Dean found them within a week. It was easy, not so surprisingly, because Sam had never been able hide anything from her, really.
Her first reaction was hurt: Sam was planning on leaving? Without telling her?
All the little things over the past few months suddenly made sense: Sam no longer hugging her, averting his eyes from her sometimes, no longer holding her to his chest when they fell asleep. It was all so obvious: he'd cottoned on to what Dean wanted, what he wanted too, and was trying to spare... Who? Himself? Her? Both?
Then came the anger: how dare he? He'd promised her he'd always be with her. Sure, she'd been 6 years old then, but somethings weren't supposed to be bound by time or age.
No. No, she was going to either make him stay or take her with him.
When exactly Dean figured out Sam's desires, he had no idea. But suddenly, she was always there, more so than before.
She hugged him differently, arms wrapping around his neck, her lips pressing butterfly kisses to his throat. She didn't swing her legs over his lap anymore, choosing instead to curl into his side, calloused hand resting over his heart. Her smirks and teasing turned more affectionate, her eyes always dark and trained on him when he teased back. Playing pool was now more like playing some bizarre version of incest chicken.
Sam wasn't sure whether he wanted to drag her to the motel of the moment and fuck her, or bash his own head against the wall because she was 15 years old, damn it, how had she turned into this seducing little minx of a sister under his watch?
Then again... He'd been the one to teach her to know every single tool she owned, had taught her to never lose confidence in herself. She was using all those lessons on him now.
And it wasn't like Sam was an idiot. He knew what she was doing, even if he couldn't figure out if it had been prompted by something specific or not. The problem, he worked out on a quiet afternoon, was that he was more stubborn than her. And now that he knew what Dean was trying to do, he'd be damned if he broke and bent to her will.
If Deanna wanted this to happen, she was going to have to either up her game impossibly so or just make the first move.
And anyway, Dean might lean towards promiscuity, but Sam had four years on her, thank you very much.
"I'm going for a shower," he announced casually one humid night and stripped off his t-shirt without looking at her. The sharp stutter of her breath had him grinning when he closed the bathroom door. She gave him so much shit for being shy or self-conscious, which wasn't actually wrong; it was nice to get a reaction like that.
When Sam got hurt, chest torn up from some spell cast by a wannabe witch, Dean shot without second thought or hesitation, gun hand steady and an entire clip emptied into the teenager.
Dad didn't look her in the eye, something wary about him.
Dean didn't pay attention to that, too busy staring at Sam's too-shallow breathing and closed eyes.
Dad left them alone as per every night, promising that Sam's injuries weren't too severe, just scary-looking.
She stayed up for hours, sitting up next to Sam's prone form, watching him breathe.
At around 3 AM, his eyes fluttered open, fixing on her blearily. "De?"
She shuffled around a bit so he could see her without craning his neck. "Hey."
He hummed. "You okay?"
"Yeah," she assured. "No injuries."
He nodded a bit. "Witch?"
"Killed him," she said bluntly.
His gaze sharpened a bit, alertness breaking through the haze of rain meds. "You okay?" He asked again. It wasn't about injuries this time.
Dean just shrugged. "He hurt you," she said simply.
Sam kept looking at her, but something softened. "That's my girl," he mumbled, fond and approving through the exhaustion. "My knight in shining armour."
Dean snorted. "Whatever, your Majesty," she mocked, despite the little flutter in her chest at Sam's easy referral to her as his protector. About time their status quo evened out a little bit more.
Sam chuckled faintly at her, hazel eyes practically sparkling in the yellow light of the lamp. Dean's heart jumped and she grew serious.
"Sam?" Her voice broke a little. "You can't... Don't..." How could she explain it to him? How did she tell him that she was tired of being unsure of her place in his life, of whether or not he'd leave her? "I just..." The overwhelming tightness in her chest made it impossible to think. Sam was looking up at her like he already knew what she wanted. And there were too many words tripping over themselves on her tongue. So she swallowed them all back, threw subtlety to the wind, and leaned down, pressing her lips to Sam's.
He was pliant for a moment. Then he sighed into it, kissing back lazily, almost mindless, and the constriction in Dean's chest imploded, pinpricks of light bursting behind her tightly closed eyes like fireworks. Sam tasted of blood and scotch and Dean revelled in it, keening at the way Sam opened up so easily to her, tip of his tongue teasing against hers and the edge of his teeth catching on her lower lip.
Dean never wanted to stop, wanted to keep kissing him until he was breathing the air from her lungs, until he could feel the hot rush of blood in her veins and could hear every single thought she had for him, until all he knew was her.
"Dean?" They weren't kissing anymore, just their lips brushing idly, eyes half-lidded and taking each other in, hands gripping as tightly as possible.
"Don't leave me," Dean mumbled, but it was as much of an order as it was a plea.
Sam's smile was almost mischievous, smug. "Like I wouldn't have just tossed you into the trunk and brought you along." It was just as true for college as it was for life.
Dean broke into a sob and a laugh at the same time- it sounded vaguely like a hiccup. She scooted down, finally laying down and curling into him, mindful of his injuries as she hugged him around his stomach.
Sam kissed the top of her head. "Start packing," he said, sounding sleepy again. "Term starts September. We're leaving at least two weeks before." Then he added, "Can't believe that's what you got all worked up about."
"Shut up," Dean reprimanded.
They left without fuss- Dad went on a hunt and when he came back, both his kids were gone, leaving no trace, just a note. Sam had gotten the Impala a couple years ago and right now, he leaned back in the shotgun seat, watching Dean's joyful laugh as she sped down the highway.