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Published on Nov 30, 2011
Shelter: It started from the first goodnight kiss Dean placed on brand new baby Sammy's forehead. Little brother smelling like soap and oranges and mom's perfume. Then it continued with fire, roaring flames and heat like a hellhound's breath, Dean taking his brother outside as fast as he could. He wasn't supposed to look back but of course he did. He couldn't run back even if he wanted to. Dean had one job and it was taking care of Sam.
Next time Dean was touched by fire was when they buried their father. This time flames were quiet and restrained, over-grown Sammy standing beside him, trying to catch them both at once when they'd fall. But it was Dean's job to take care of Sam, so he didn't fall. He failed and disappointed himself, let himself and the others down countless times, but never fell. It was his purpose to catch Sam.
When Dean got sick, and not just little fever or hunting injuries, but from deep roots of his heart, pump beating too fast or too slow, he asked Sam just to give up. Let him die in peace. Of course he didn't. It was also Sam's job to take care of Dean.
There was a long, weary fight against time, against Dean's heart. Endless nights of staring Sam's stooping back and blue, tired face in the light of his laptop, wakening up in the middle of the night to check if Sam was still there, finding him fallen asleep cheek against the high mountains of books.
It was his last night when Sam didn't open his laptop or books but came sit next to him when Dean couldn't breathe, came to hold his back like he always did. Dean tried to fight, he really did, even if he claimed otherwise, tried to fight for Sammy, but the flames were too strong. He closed his eyes and couldn't run out of the house, fire embracing him.
Sam killed the flames and buried Dean under the cool ground, sheltered him with a soft soil of love and healed his burns.