Dean sat behind the same desk that the federal government provided him and all the other DEA agents, along with a stationary tag with the name "Winchester" written across it. Signifying very little to the people he now worked with.

If you saw Dean's home and car, you'd be surprised just how neat his desk was. The files that were stacking up were all aligned and in piles based on his cases. He had a lamp for the late nights reading and searching through the printed pages of reports from local police and from fellow DEA agents. The laptop sat in front of the chair, now closed, angled to the edge of both his office desk calendar and the edge of his desk. The drawers were closed and locked.

The only thing out of place was the one photo he was able to ever find of his father. Two summers before he passed at Ocean City. Because he was hours away from the Atlantic and his parents ran hectic lives, it was a rare occasion to travel that far. It was his father, smiling, holding Dean and his baby brother. The picture was off angled, Dean could remember the wind and their mother laughing as she tried to hold on to her hat and take the picture. He could feel the press of his dad's mouth and scuff against the side of his head like it was yesterday. The picture frame was wooden, with a fine plastic cover rather than glass to prevent any breaking and damage to the photo. It just sat with its own area point at Dean.

Dean shook his head. He hated thinking about his father in the workplace. Thinking about the shadow he followed in, the name that rang with diligence and valor in Baltimore was no longer important to his fellow agents. After nearly eighteen years on the force, seven in narcotics, Dean got the hang of the job. But he was in a whole new world of evil, with international drug threats and cartel wars.

He rubbed his eyes before looking at his watch. Nearly eleven and all he had done for the past five hours was read. His latest case was one that struck close. His crowning achievement coming back to haunt him it seemed. He stood up, the chair squeaking as he pushed it in. He strode over to a locker with his initials labeled across it, grabbing a leather jacket older than him and reached to check for his keys.

The drive was short. He was able to find an apartment for two pretty easily on the income he was making, but Washington D.C. still wasn't cheap. But Dean knew he had to get something nice and clean. He pulled up to a spot next to an old Indian motorcycle. It hadn't moved for a few days thankfully. Dean let out a sigh of relief with the realization. He exited his impala, locking the door behind him after grabbing a file. He walked past a street lamp on his way to a stair well. It was nights like these he was glad he was on the second floor.

He turned the key and doorknob and entered his apartment. He could hear the TV in the living room on, soft and playing one of those annoying car insurance commercials. "Sammy? You still up?" Dean said as he placed his keys on a small table just inside of the entrance to their kitchen. "Yeah. I… uh… was waiting for you." replied a frail voice. Dean shook his head and closed his eyes and walked toward his brother.

Sam was lying on the couch, rubbing his fingers together constantly. It was a nervous tick he picked up a few years ago. He was wearing sweats and an old t-shirt he got when he was in high school. A shirt he shouldn't even fit in anymore. Sam's thin arms poked out the sleeves, as if they were just bones. His face was looking much better, but still pale and thin. His hair was long, but a mess. He obviously hadn't moved from that spot for a while.

"How long have you been awake?" It was nearly midnight now, but Dean always had to ask. "I actually woke up when you left. I kinda got nervous and couldn't shut my eyes again." Sam said looking down, not toward his brother. His tick slightly quickening and he shook a bit. Dean held back a frown but smiled instead, and said "That's alright Sammy, I understand," he reached over to the small coffee table and grabbed a stress ball and held it in front of his brother. "Here, you'll rub her fingers raw again." Sam nodded as he grabbed the ball and pressed it near flat and rolled it between his hands.

Dean sat down next to his brother and softly grabbed Sam's chin and forced him to look at him, Dean staring in to Sam's eyes. "You haven't eaten today have you?" Dean's eyebrow's raised. Sam just looked disappointed again. "I don't… I don't want to mess up…" He just stared at the ball he was squeezing and took deep breaths. Dean forced a half smile and rubbed Sam's head and said "Hey, it's alright. But don't expect five-star quality from me. I can barely make cereal." He jumped up and headed to the kitchen, the over-head light shown an odd green tint to the room that Dean didn't really like, but didn't have the energy to care.

He walked to his freezer and pulled out a small bowl covered with foil, frozen left over soup he held on to for a few days after he made it. He dropped the solid brick of soup in to a small pan that sat on the stove top and turned it on and waited.

Dean's head ached with the worry he had. He was glad he brother was here, safe, and some-what healthier. But he didn't seem to be taking any of the medication that his doctor said her necessary to keep up his mental functions and to help calm him down.

Just after high school, Sam became just as rebellious as any other teen. He constantly gave his mother a hard time, but she was strong and constantly kept him in line, for as long as she could. Eventually, Sam was lost in the party scene and hooked. Dean, at the time working sixty hour weeks and only giving a few phone calls when he was conscious and not busy, he lost his brother in the very world he was fighting; Drugs.

After their mother kicked Sam out and cut off contact with him, Dean took him in. With the strict rules that it was "My way or the highway," as he put it. Only admitting it to himself, Dean would never forgive himself for what happened to Sam. No amount of rides to rehab, constant re-enforcement, staying up all night just to make sure he's breathing, calling him from work when he feel strange, would ever make up for the fact he could have saved his brother long before he was in trouble.

But he was clean, including methadone treatment and no longer being forced in to outpatient therapy. Nearly a month now he was staying with Dean and not having to get his body filtered or pumped clean. Dean knew he wasn't in tip-top shape now, but better now than ever before.

Dean dipped his pinkie finger in to the slightly boiling soup, the burning sensation pushing an "Ah!" from his lips. With his pinkie in his mouth, he turned off the stove top and grabbed a new bowl. After wiping down his finger, he poured the soup and searched for a spoon. After inspecting the small specks that seemed to permanently stain the silver surface, he stuck it in the bowl and started to walk out again.

"Alright, just be careful its-" Dean started but stopped when he saw his brother. The man who could seem to keep his hands still for a moment was now sleeping. His long legs extended out to the coffee table, his knees were noticed meaning it had to be uncomfortable. His arms were crossed with the stress ball sitting in his hand. Dean laughed and smiled a bit looking down at the bowl in his hand. With the same smile, he looked at his baby brother. He thought of the photo again. As his smile faded, he sighed and shut his eyes tight and walked back.

After refrigerating the soup, he came back to his brother. He carefully turned off the TV and grabbed the stress ball, placing it back on the coffee table. He gently placed his arm under his brother's legs that were between the edge of the couch and the beginning of the coffee table and slowly turned him until his legs were sitting on the other two cushions of the couch. Dean had to quickly grab on to his brother's right shoulder, quickly grabbing a nearby pillow and propping it beneath his head as he gently let his brother fall back. Following that, he grabbed a light cover and put it over his legs and midsection, leaving his arms and torso out. "'Night, Sammy." Dean whispered as he walked to his room, adjacent to the one Sam would usually be in.

Dean took off his button up shirt and ironed pants to reveal a white t-shirt and boxers. He took off the ring off his right hand and the watch from his left. He looked at his alarm clock, glowing green that it was about thirty minutes past midnight now. He clicked to check and see if his alarm was set for the next morning. Six AM, sharp. He rolled himself under his sheets and struggled to get comfortable. He finally closed his eyes, and whispered, to seemingly no one:

"Please let him be ok. Please."

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