Summary:  He loves them with a fierceness that scares the shit out of him. But he's not sure that will always be enough.
Spoilers:  Post Pilot
Disclaimer:  Not mine.

"Don't tell me I haven't been good to you
Don't tell me I have never been there for you
Don't tell me why
Nothing is good enough"
Good Enough -- Sarah McLachlan

The steady hiss and patter of water on tiles can't mask the harsh, broken sobs. Dean presses his forehead to the cheap plywood and curls his fingers into fists. Anger is good--it's clean and pure and he knows exactly what to do with it. "We're gonna kill this thing," he promised Sam, grasping for something, anything that might stop his brother from quietly imploding in the midst of the sirens, ash, and smoke. "We're gonna send the evil son of a bitch straight to hell."

He fights to hold on to that anger now, in the face of Sam's desperately muffled grief. It's a talisman; the salt circle keeping other messier and infinitely more scary emotions at bay.

The water shuts off, and after a long pause the shower curtain rattles across the rod. Dean retreats to the bedroom, tugging back a gaudy polyester bedspread and drawing the curtains against the golden spill of early morning sunlight. He bundles Sam's dirty clothes into a plastic bag, grimacing at the sharp, acrid scent of soot and embers. That smell has always meant sorrow and loss and tears, and it's the main reason he hates camping.

Rusty hinges creak and Sam emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, his arms peppered with gooseflesh despite the stuffy warmth of the room. When he just stands, shivering, with that thousand-yard stare, Dean takes charge.

"Here." He pulls boxers and a tee shirt from his duffel and presses them into the hand not clutching the towel. "I'll go out later and get you some clothes."

Sam blinks, looking through him in a way that's seriously creeping Dean out before his mind seems to engage. "I can borrow something from you."

Dean snorts, feeling the ground steady beneath his feet. "It's been years since you could wear my jeans, little brother. Not to mention you like yours hanging off your ass."

But Sam doesn't cooperate, doesn't fall back into their verbal sparring the way he's supposed to. As he drops the towel and pulls on the boxers, he's stubbornly shaking his head. "I need to go back to the apartment, look around. See if there's anything...I don't know...something that can tell us--"

"Dude, the cops and the fire department are crawling all over that place. We'll go later, when things quiet down."

"I can't let this thing get away, not again." Sam's voice is high and unsure, an echo of the little boy he was, not the man he's become. "We have to find it, Dean. Now, before the trail gets cold."

"And we will. But right now we need to get some sleep." Dean guides Sam to the bed, pressing until his brother's legs fold and he sits on the edge of the mattress. Crouching down, he gazes into glassy hazel eyes. "What's rule number two, Sammy?"

Sam looks away, his throat working. "Never hunt when you're functioning at less than 100 percent."

"So you were listening."

"I'm not tired, Dean."

This, at least, is familiar. "Fine. Then just lay down for a little while." He picks up the remote and crosses to the other side of the bed. Sitting with his back propped against the headboard, he clicks on the television and turns the volume down low.

Sam mutters under his breath, fidgeting and squirming until he winds up on his side, his spine pressed along the length of Dean's outstretched legs. Dean doesn't move, just lets the warmth of his body and the television's incessant drone do all the work. Within minutes the shivers ease, then stop, and Sam goes boneless, breathing the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Dean tips his head against the wall, no longer able to ignore the grief that burns his eyes and stings his throat. This is my girlfriend, Jessica Sam had said, and Dean thought he'd understood. Scoring chicks had never been a problem for either of the Winchester brothers--they were suckers for Dean's charm and inexplicably reduced to jelly by Sam's manners and dimples. No big surprise to find his baby brother shacked up with a girl, though Jessica was undeniably a ten on the babe-o-meter.

This is my girlfriend, Jessica.

So yeah, he thought he had it all figured out. Except Sam had tried to throw himself into that inferno, fighting Dean with mindless desperation before collapsing, hollow-eyed and shell-shocked, on the pavement. And Dean had dropped to his knees, blindsided, sucker punched by the realization that he knew that look, knew it like an old friend, and the recognition cut deeper than any knife because for twenty two years he'd seen it every time he gazed into his father's face.

Sam twitches, making a soft sound of distress in the back of his throat. Dean scrubs at his eyes, then lays his hand on his brother's head, pulling his fingers gently through still-damp strands of hair. He hasn't done this since Sam was a little boy terrified of the monster in his closet, but some things really don't change, and his brother quiets under his touch.

This is his job, and has been since he can remember, Dean thinks a little bitterly. Taking care of Sam. Taking care of Dad. He's the peacemaker, the mediator. Desperately holding the family together while his father and brother seem determined to tear it apart. Standing in the breach between one's unending, obsessive, sometimes self-destructive quest and the other's stubborn longing for something more, something better... something normal.

They're all he's got, and he loves them with a fierceness that scares the shit out of him. But he's not sure that will always be enough. And he's so damn tired.

Once again he's literally pulled Sammy from the fire. Only this time Dad's gone, his brother's in pieces, and Dean's not sure he can put him back together again. Though he'd deny it with his last breath, Sam has always looked at him as if he could walk on water--no problem too big, no monster too bad, and God, he doesn't want to let his little brother down now.

Sam shudders, his breath catching, and moisture sparkles in his lashes. Dean makes soothing circles on the tense muscles of his back. "Just a dream, Sam," he murmurs, though he knows this time it's a lie.

"Dean?" Sam breathes his name on a sigh, never opening his eyes.

He smiles, recalling all the times he's coaxed entire conversations from his little brother without Sam ever waking up. "Shhh. I'm right here."

"Gotta find Dad."

"We will."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause I'm the big brother. And we make one hell of a team. Now stop being a pain in the ass and go to sleep, Sammy."

His brother's brow furrows. "It'sss...Sssam."

"Whatever, tough guy."

But Sam's under again, the adrenaline rush is finally wearing off, and Dean's feeling every one of the last 48 hours.

Maybe it will all be okay, he thinks, sliding down until his head hits the pillow and his eyes flutter shut. They do make a helluva team--always have. Hunting will give Sam focus and Dean will be something to put his back against. They'll track down Dad, be a family again.

And this time maybe, just maybe, it will be good enough.

Finis