Light Years

The first time Dean Winchester went star gazing, he was four years old. He believed in fairy tales and happy endings, that his mother's lullabies could soothe away all fears or pain, and that his daddy hung the moon.

It had gradually become a ritual between father and son that they would sit out on the hood of the Impala, gazing up at the night sky, sharing a contraband candy bar and talking about the things that matter only to little boys.

But then Mary had died, and soon this cherished time between father and child slowly became no more than a succession of goodbyes. Dean struggled to make sense of his lot in life, no longer finding solace in 'make believe' or bed time stories. He abandoned the role of big brother in favour of protector; and big boys didn't cry.

He grieved for the loss of both of his parents, because something in John had died too that night.

Aunt Ellen tried to comfort him with tuneless lullabies and promises that his mother was in a better place, and he silently wondered if he'd ever forgive his father for wanting to join her.

John gazed down at his son with unchecked pride and ruffled the child's light brown hair affectionately. It was now the face of a little boy that greeted him, not the baby he still somehow pictured in his mind, and the chubby cheeks and dimples of infancy had lately begun to fade.

"Maybe when Sam's bigger you can teach him all about the stars."

"Sammy's a baby," Dean's nose wrinkled derisively and he continued to line up his prized soldiers on the hood of the Impala, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he frowned in evident concentration.

"Well, he is now, but some day he's gonna be all grown up. He'll be big and strong, just like you'll be."

John closed the trunk of the car with a heavy heart and stole a glance back at the house behind him. His little boy's expression darkened as he watched his father shrug on a leather jacket, and he knew that he would be leaving them once again.

"Daddy, when I'm all grown up, will you take me with you?"

Scooping the little boy up in his arms, John hugged him tightly, dreading a future where either of his sons would follow in his footsteps. He never wanted them to know the horrors that existed in the world. He wanted them to live the life he never could, free from fear or heartache.

John refused to make that promise to his son, and so he said his goodbyes instead.

Sitting on the front porch that night, Dean Winchester gazed up at the sky, trying to commit each constellation to memory so that one day he might teach his baby brother.

Dean's childish heart - broken and bruised- had now forgotten the hopes of fairytales and the comfort found in the notes of a lullaby; but he'd always remember the stars.

xxxxx

Fear gripped Dean Winchester's heart like a vice, and as each precious moment passed, he saw the very fabric of his life flicker before his eyes. The sands of time refused to be halted, and the certainty of his death now hung in the air, tainting every glance or conversation with those he loved with an air of tragedy.

But he refused to succumb to his terror, dismissing thoughts of death and the flames of Hell to ease the pain he found etched on his brother's face. Because Sam Winchester lived in dread, cursing the dawn of each new morning that brought the reality of Dean's deal that much closer.

Dean had always been the protector, a role that had been cruelly pushed upon him as first born. And through a childhood of sorrow and grief, he had forged a grim determination that nothing would ever harm his younger brother. And so now he waited - bound by an act of desperation - as he prepared to surrender his own soul for the life of his sibling.