I was thinking about this post while I might or might not have been listening to Hey Jude by The Beatles so now you have this:
DEAN WINCHESTER, who only felt truly useful when he was protecting his little sister. Sure, he was useful when hunting monsters, but there were other hunters who could do the same. Protecting Sam? Yeah, that was engraved in his bones, but Sam had always known how to take care of himself when it came down to it. You were different. When he looked at you, he could only see the once carefree little girl, all giggles with doe eyes and a big grin. That was the kind of innocence he’d never really had. When he looked at you, he remembered checking under your bed for monsters or holding you when you got scared of John, and he remembered how in those moments, you needed him. That was when he felt like he mattered, when he could see your fear melt into relief as he told you he’d destroy the world before he let any monsters hurt his baby sister.
But outside of those moments? DEAN WINCHESTER didn’t feel like your favorite. No matter how often you said you loved him and Sam equally (except for when you were mad at one of them), Dean always felt like he came second. It stung, though he’d never admit it. He didn’t really feel like he was anyone’s favorite. Not yours. Not Sam’s. Not even Dad’s, whom he’d spent his whole life trying to please, following orders like they were gospel.
DEAN WINCHESTER, who got used to the heavy weight in his chest. It was there when he tried to teach you something, like your alphabet, or play with you, only for you to run off after Sam like a little puppy. And it was there as you grew up, stronger than ever as he watched your eyes light up when Sam came back from college or how you’d find yourself wearing Sam’s jacket (which was definitely too big for you) and chatting off Sam’s ear with sparkles in your eyes. Dean would watch from a distance, pretending it didn’t bother him. Pretending he didn’t wish you’d look at him with the same awe as you looked at Sam.
But then there were nights like this. Nights where he held you in his arms, your body tucked against him, making you seem so small, as you fought off sleep. He’d hum softly or murmur a story, his voice low and steady, doing everything he could to keep the world at bay for just a little longer. He could briefly process that you asked if you could tell him a secret before he was humming in conformation. And then you whispered it.
“You’re my favorite brother.”
He froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a second, he thought he’d imagined it. But then your words hung in the quiet room, warm and heavy, wrapping around him like a blanket as you finally drifted off to sleep. And for the first time in a long time, DEAN WINCHESTER didn’t feel like he was fighting for a place in someone’s heart. For the first time, he didn’t feel second. And for the rest of the night, even as he fell into a deep sleep with you in his arms, he couldn’t wipe the small smile from his lips.
