"Dean?" Dean squeezed his eyes shut in annoyance. Four days in a row now, right before he was asleep, right before he fell into unconsciousness the questions began. It was usually only one, but it was always a whopper of a question that left him awake for hours afterwards.

"What Sam?" he asked in a sigh.

"Did you wish that Ben was your son?"

"What?" Dean snapped.

"Did you ever wish that Ben Braden was your kid?"

"Where in the hell did that come from Sam?"

"Just thinking."

"Why in the world would you be thinking about that?"

"It's easier to think about than the apocalypse."

"Maybe you should spend more time thinking our way out of that than whether or not I wish I had a kid." Dean shook his head and turned over on his side. Dean thought that would effectively end the conversation. He should have known better.

"Do you?"

Dean closed his eyes, counted to ten, prayed to whatever would listen that he wouldn't kill his little brother right there and then for nothing other than being simply annoying and then took a deep breath and asked, "Why do you want to know Sam? He isn't. It doesn't matter."

Sam licked his lips. "Because, I want to know. You never told me." He said lamely.

Dean turned over on his other side and starred at the side of his brother's head. "You're kidding right? That was close to two years ago. Why would you just want to know?"

"I don't know. Just do."

"Whatever Sam. Go to sleep." Dean shook his head and turned back onto his other side to go to sleep.

Dean heard his brother take a breath, could almost hear his jaw open and shut, heard Sam rustle a little in his bed, and Dean finally thought that Sam would drop it. Yet again, he should have known that Sam wasn't going to drop it. Sam was worse than a dog with a bone when he wanted to know something.

"Not too long ago, you would answer anything I asked. I've asked you a million questions over the years, you've always answered. Now, we hardly talk, we are two hunters who happen to work together. We talk about cases, we talk about the apocalypse, we talk about Bobby, but we don't actually talk anymore."

"When did we turn into girls?"

Sam sighed. "I'm not even talking about the big stuff Dean. We used to argue about music, television, movies, anything. Now we don't talk about anything. I don't know you anymore."

"And you quite painfully pointed out to me not too long ago that I don't know you, that I never have and I never will. So, really, what's the point?" The comment stung. "Or perhaps I didn't hear correctly, I was, you know, still not breathing quite right while you were saying that. I could have been hallucinating at that point, who knows?"

Sam swallowed again. "You heard right."

"Oh, good to know. Good night Sam." Dean pulled the pillow a little more snugly under his head.

"I didn't mean it."

"Whatever."

"I didn't. I was angry, and I knew that would get to you."

"Whatever Sam. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It does matter!" Sam screamed, fisted hands slamming against the bed, voice echoing off of the walls. "It does matter." He said more softly when he felt Dean's eyes on him. "I was so wrong. I said that, I can still hear myself saying that. I can still see the look in your eyes when I had my hands wrapped around your neck, tightening, tightening, and the feeling of your windpipe…the strength." Sam was beginning to choke up. He squinted trying to make out if Sam was crying. It sounded like it. But Sam didn't cry any more. He got misty eyed but the tears didn't fall anymore. Lucifer, the apocalypse, demon blood, something had changed that about his floppy haired brother. "I still see the disappointment, the hurt, that's what I saw. And I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. I was wrong, and I'm sorry. And I want us to be brothers again, and I don't know where to start because it was me that didn't know you, not the other way around."

Flashes of being in the hospital, of the reaper Tessa, flooded back, we were just getting to be brothers again. Sam's scared voice floating on top of it. He licked his lips. "I wanted him to be mine." Sam turned to Dean's soft voice. "I wanted it so badly. I thought, that maybe, just once I hadn't screwed everything up in my life, that I had something good. That there was someone out there that was actually a piece of me. That maybe I could have a slice of normal, like you had. Just for a few minutes I had a picture of what it could be like. Playing ball, teaching him cars, stuff about girls….stuff that I could pass on to someone."

"You passed it on to me."

"But Sam, you don't care about any of that stuff. You are smart, you like books, you like froo froo coffee drinks, you never wanted to play sports, you wanted to play chess, stuff that I didn't understand, because I don't have anywhere near the brains you do."

"But if I'm so smart…what the hell happened?" Sam was crying now, his large hands covering his face. Dean sat up and starred at his little brother.

"I don't know Sam. You were desperate, and desperate men do things they aren't proud of."

"I'm sorry for choking you Dean. I really am. I'm also sorry about what I said." Dean nodded and then laid back down in his bed.

Dean didn't want to forgive Sam, he wanted him to know just how bad he felt, how horrible it was to have a brother turn on you, one that you trusted to watch your back, keep the bad guys away, not become the bad guy whose massive hands were around your throat pushing and waiting for you to fall into unconsciousness. But then he remembered Sam standing in all white, his brother's face, the devil's soul shining through his brother's soft compassionate hazel eyes. Forgiveness was what was needed. Forgiveness would keep Sam, Sam. Forgiveness would lighten this load on Dean's chest.

"It's all good Sammy." He managed. Sam would understand.

And Sam did understand.