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When Same was six and a half, a demon taunted him by holding his favorite stuffed animal, a dirty, natty sheep named Rocky, just out of his reach while Sam bawled like a baby. Dean came running into the cabin, bellowing as only a ten year old could, brandishing his silver-bladed knife, surprising both Sam and the monster. Two minutes later, the demon was so much goo on the floor and Sam was cuddling Rocky like a long lost brother. Dean was still clutching Sam tightly when their father arrived.
When Sam was 12, he wanted to join the Boyscouts. That went over like a lead balloon. Neither the full-out tantrum, nor the silent sullen pout budged John Winchester’s decision. What was the point in being part of a troop in Colorado when you were in Maine? Because that’s where they were headed next, he was informed.
Actually, Maine hadn’t been so bad. Their arrival in mid-September almost guaranteed that John would stay put through the first term of school, at least. And the leaves were the coolest colors of neon yellow and rich orange, with some bright red blasting through the mix. And Dean surprised him one afternoon with a yellow sash, and badges for archery, Indian lore and bugling that he’d picked up at a garage sale and they formed their own troop. Of course, Dean was the Scout Leader.
When Sam was 17, he and his brother shared Dean’s then-girlfriend, Cherri. John left the boys to their own devices, while he dredged into the swamp to talk to a well-regarded Voodoo queen about the unexplained disappearance of all the old women in the Parish.
Sam had never experience heat and humidity so thick and smooth you could cut it with a butter knife. He and Dean had started out shirtless, Cherri soon joined them. After two margaritas Sam had lost what little inhibitions he had…Dean had never had any and who knew about Cherri. They squirmed around together on the shag carpet like a litter of puppies, the sweat making their bodies slip and slide against each other.
No one thought it strange that Dean had placed himself between Sam and Cherri before they’d all sprawled into a satisfied heap.
When Sam was 22, he gave up his freedom and sometimes, he thought, his control, to Dean. He was foolish to believe it would be any different without their father than it had been with him. Dean had learned his trade well. Sam, apparently, hadn’t learned anything at Sanford.
Sam remembered how Dean had always been there to buffer…against John, against the world. Nights like this, however…Sam felt like Dean was the one he needed to be buffered from. And that just wasn’t right.