“You’re gonna love him when he’s older,” Mom promises as she smooths her thumb over Sammy’s fat cheek. “You two’ll be attached at the hip.”
Dean isn’t convinced. All he’s done since coming home from the hospital is scream, cry, and sleep. He can’t play or do anything fun.
—
“You’re gonna protect him, Dean,” Dad makes him promise when Sammy’s six months old.
Dean holds him on his lap, supports his head like Mom told him, and stares down into his green eyes. He’s still not very fun, but he grabs onto Dean’s sleeve and stares at him until his eyes finally close and he falls asleep in his arms.
—
“You’re Dad’s bitch, you always have been!” Sam yells at him when he’s thirteen years old.
Dean scowls at him and grabs the front of his shirt, not allowing him to duck away after talking to his older brother like that. Sammy’s still not fun, in fact he’s an annoying little bitch sometimes, but Dean immediately feels guilty for grabbing him.
He doesn’t say “I’m sorry,” not outright, but later that night he tucks Sam into bed and tells him he loves him to the back of his sleeping head.