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Dean shouldn't be proud right now.
While fighting a coven of witches, Sam got hit with an age regression curse plus a knife, and when (after they killed it) Dean and their mom both went to help, Sam went for Dean.
“Dee-” Sam sobs as Dean presses on the wound in his stomach. “Hurts-”
“I know, Sammy-” Dean soothes, giving their mom a smug smile. “It’s okay, I've got you.”
Sam's small hands clutch at Dean's jacket sleeve, eyes full of tears as they lock on him like he’s the only safe port in a storm.
“Sam, sweetie, it's okay-” their mom says, reaching out, but the four-year-old Sam cries out and hugs closer to Dean.
“Dee! No!”
“Shh, it's okay.” Dean says. “I'm here. Not going anywhere.”
He glances at their mom, who's just standing there. “Can you grab the first aid kit from Baby before he bleeds out?”
She looks stunned for another minute before she nods and turns on her heel. “Yeah.”
She leaves, and Dean scoops the little Sam up, keeping him in his lap while pressing on the wound. (He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little pleased at being bigger again - damn giraffe, why's he, like, half a foot taller - and so dependent again, even if it makes him the worst.)
“Hurts-” Sam whimpers, pressing his forehead into Dean’s chest.
“I know, buddy, but I've got you.” Dean soothes. “I've always got you. Nothing bad's gonna happen, alright?”
Sam whines again, and Dean slips back into the older-brother-caretaker role easier than breathing, shushing and pressing down and rocking until Sam's not crying as much.
His mom comes back with the first aid kit. “Okay, Sam, this is gonna sting-”
Sam cries as she applies anesthetic and stitches, and he clings to Dean, and he just soothes his baby brother as their mom fixes the wound.
Once she's done, Dean stands up, cradling Sam in his arms as he picks him up. (Was he this light back then? Dean remembers a three-year-old Sam being heavier.)
“I can carry him-” his mom attempts.
Sam sniffles and clings to Dean's shirt. “No.”
Dean smirks at his mom. “He made his choice.”
He can’t help but feel a little proud of himself as he puts Sam in the back, feels proud of himself as Sam only lets Dean touch him to carry him inside and run him a bath and tuck him in.
A few days ago, their mom had told Dean that he needed to back off because she was here now and she could take care of Sam, since he was clearly doing a bad job. It led to a fight over who Sam loves more, and if this proves anything, it's that Dean's Sammy's favorite.
That's his Sammy. His baby. Nobody’s taking him away.
-
A few hours later, after finally getting Sam to sleep, Dean finds their mom in the kitchen nursing a beer.
“He loves you more.” she says monotonously, hardly reacting. “Sorry I said differently.”
Dean sighs and mans up, grabbing a beer for himself before sitting down. “No. He was four. It's just that he only knew me at that age.”
“Do you know how age regression curses work?” she asks. “Someone hit with one doesn't have specific memories, but they have intrinsic ones from their whole life. And the fact that he trusts you more than me is written so deep into him that it's a core memory for him. It's in his mind as deeply as breathing and how to eat. He trusts you. He loves you. More than I could dream of having.”
“I was there.” Dean shrugs. “I raised him, Mom. Of course he's going to trust me implicitly.”
“John raised you two.” she corrects.
Dean scoffs, taking a swig. “No, he didn't. I- look, Mom. After you died, he got obsessed with Azazel. Left us alone for weeks with a handful of twenties and a shotgun in a motel room. I was the one who helped him with his homework and put food on the table and clothes on him. I was the one who was there for his first words and steps. I raised him. Not you. Not Dad. Just me.”
She stares into her beer. “How old were you? The first time John did that?”
Dean smiles a little bit, but it's bitter. “Four.”
She shakes her head. “He left a four-year-old and a baby alone with a shotgun and some cash.”
Dean shrugs and takes a swig. “It’s okay. He loved Sam. He just wasn't around much.”
“He loved you too, Dean.” his mom says. “When you were a kid-”
“I wasn't a kid.” Dean says quietly. “Not since you died. Look, he- he was different after that.”
“He might have raised you to be hunters, but it was because he loved you-”
Dean sees red, and he slams down his beer.
“Did he love me when he abandoned me at a boy's home because I tried to steal food for Sam?” Dean snaps. “Did he love me when he taught me to shoot at seven and I made my first sawed-off at ten, but I didn't show him because he came home wasted and beat the shit out of me? Did he love me when he caught me kissing a guy and had me hunt down two gay nuns alone on my birthday as a warning? Did he love me when Sammy ran away on my watch and be beat me up so badly that I had to go to Bobby Singer for help and he had to take me to the hospital because I almost died? Did he love me when he had me pretend to be a hooked as baby, or when I actually had to sleep around for money because Sam needed new clothes and food and books and he didn't care enough? Did he love me when I didn't eat for days and days so Sam would have something? Who was a parent at four years old? You weren't there, Mom. You were gone. And I don't blame you for that, but don't act like you knew how he was as a father. Because when I say I never got to be a kid, I mean I had to sleep with someone at twelve years old to keep a motel room for Sam. Don't act like you know.” Dean spits, and he only hears what he said after they’re out of his mouth.
His mom just stares at him, beer forgotten, and he quickly wipes his eyes with a balled-up, shaking hand before taking a drink.
“Dean.” she says quietly. “I didn't know.”
“Why would you? You were gone. Even Sam doesn't know.” Dean shrugs. “Didn’t want him to hate me. I mean, who wants to know their brother was a hooker to pay for him to survive and that the money I sent him at college came from sleeping with creeps? Bad enough he knows I sold my soul to bring him back to life.”
“He shouldn't have done that.” their mom says quietly. “John shouldn't have put that on you.”
“No, but he did.” Dean mutters. “So just don't go there, okay?”
It's quiet for a long while.
“I'm glad he had you. That he has you. Sam. You’re a better parent than I was.” Mary says. “You did a good job.”
Dean stands up abruptly, scrubbing at his eyes before chugging the rest of the beer. “Going to bed. Goodnight.”
He's almost out of the kitchen when she calls, “Dean.”
“Yeah?” he says, wiping his face with his sleeve again.
“I'm proud of you.” she says. “Not just because of how you raised Sam. For the man you became.”
Dean shakes his head. “Shouldn't be.”
With that, he leaves the kitchen, going to the den and putting on Star Trek. (Nothing like comfort shows, right?)
-
When he wakes up the next morning, he's not alone, and he's not in the same spot.
Instead of sitting up, he’s curled on his side, his head on a pillow and covered by a blanket that he doesn’t remember being there before. Laying on the other side of the pillow is Sam, still a baby, drooling all over it and one tiny hand in the back of Dean's shirt.
By his feet is his mom. One hand is on his ankle, and she’s sitting up, though her head is leaning back against the back of her couch and her eyes are closed in sleep.
He lets himself smile a little.
Maybe this time, things'll be different.
He can always hope, right?