A little glimpse behind the curtain at our boys in their youth. Probably done a thousand times over in a thousand and one ways, but oh well, better make that a thousand and two, because here's mine! XD

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Supernatural. But I do own your soul. How did that happen?

December, 1989

"Please, Dean?"

Dean hated the snow. Hated winter in general. Sam had been trying to get him to have a snowball fight with him all day, and so far Dean had been able to turn him, and subsequently the blinding white tundra that was Minnesota in the winter, down. But now… now Sam was standing at his elbow, dressed like a subarctic Eskimo and leveling all his defenses with a set of puppy-dog eyes to beat all others. It was a look the kid had been born to use; Sam pulled that on anyone and they were done for. When Sam looked at Dean like that it meant, "You do love me, don't you?" Sam looked at Dean like that and his answer was always, "Yes."
Besides, he'd said please.

OoOoO

April, 1997

"Please, Dean?"

"No, Sam, you're too young."

"And how old were you when you first got to? Thirteen? I'm almost a year older than that already!"

Dean's shoulders sagged, he knew he was going to lose. When it came to Sam he could never deny him anything. Besides, it was an important skill. A weary sigh and Sam's eyes lit up, knowing victory was his. "Alright, but one scratch and you're going to be the one explaining it to dad."

Sam's back straightened, sobering instantly in the face of such a serious threat. "I'll be extra careful and I swear I'll listen to everything you say."

Dean smiled, passing the Impala's keys into Sam's eager hand. "I know you will Sammy."

OoOoO

June, 2001

"Please, Dean?"

Dean looked up from his seat on the Impala's hood where he had retreated to wait out the raging storm of his brother and father fighting. When he met his brother's pained, red-rimmed eyes any illusions or hopes he had of this all being same hellish nightmare were instantly dispelled. Even he wasn't twisted enough to imagine that amount of hurt on someone's face, especially not Sam's.

He didn't think it possible, but somehow the ache in his chest got worse and all he wanted was to throw Sam in the back of the Impala and drive until the sky and the road blurred into one. But he couldn't, he knew. This was Sam's choice and Sam's alone.

He knew that if he were to say no, to tell Sam that he wanted him to stay more than he wanted his next breath, that Sam would stay. Because as rebellious, as stubborn as Sam was, there was still a part of him that wanted to stay. But not a big enough part to do so without regret, Dean knew that, too. And he'd seen just about every emotion possible in his baby brother's eyes but he'd never seen resentment there, at least not directed at him, and he didn't ever want to. So instead he gave Sam's shoulder a small, reassuring squeeze and grabbed his bags from the ground and packed them into the backseat.

When they got to the bus station Sam had hugged him so tightly Dean was fairly certain small patches of himself had melded to Sam, staying with him even when he pulled away and headed towards the California departure. Dean took some small measure of comfort from that. He may not be entirely with Sam, but a bit of him would always be there.

Sam looked back only once before boarding, and that look was back, the large, wide-open eyes of a six-year-old Eskimo-Sam silently asking, "You do love me, don't you?" And Dean smiled through the pain of letting his brother go where he couldn't follow. Because when Sammy looked at Dean like that he only knew one answer. "Yes."

###