In a run-down community center gym, a group therapy facilitator looked expectantly at the tall, broad-shouldered newcomer, who had been picking at his fingernails for the entire session. "Sam? Would you like to share?"

"Not particularly," Sam mumbled, digging painfully at the line of caked-in dirt below the skin line of his thumbnail.

"Well," the facilitator said evenly, leaning forward in his chair, clasping his hands and placing his elbows on his knees, "this is court mandated, and this is your second week here. I'm afraid if you don't contribute, I'll have to tell the judge you're not complying. If I'm forced to do that, things will get very difficult for you, Sam."

"You don't know shit about me, or my life, Mr. Rogers. Who are you to tell me that things will get very difficult for me if I don't care and share?"

"Why don't you just… tell everyone why you're here, and we can build on that next time."

"Fine," Sam snapped, looking up from his fingers for the first time and focusing his dark, angry eyes on the group leader. "A few weeks ago, I ran into a guy I used to be buddies with at Stanford and he made a crack about my dead girlfriend, so I beat him to a pulp. I got me a real good lawyer, who got me off with a couple hundred hours of community service and some clearly top-notch court mandated sharing circle sessions. So, here I am."

"And how did it feel?"

"Beating him up?"

"Yes."

"Like opening presents on Christmas morning."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm angry all the time. So, wailing on a guy who deserved it felt pretty damn good."

"And your girlfriend… what was her name?"

Sam's bravado suddenly evaporated. He didn't answer right away, but the facilitator held his gaze long enough that he started feeling uncomfortable and he shifted slightly in his seat. "Jessica," his voice was barely above a whisper.

"When did she die?"

"A few years ago."

"A few years ago? And you're still this angry?"

"Yes," Sam seethed, through clenched teeth. He refused to offer anything else. "Are we done?"

"For now. This gives us plenty to delve into next time. Thank you, Sam – and everyone, for coming tonight. I'll see you all next week."

Sam stood up so fast, his chair fell over. He practically ran to the doors, wrenching them open so forcefully that they all but snapped back shut on him; he refused to give anyone enough time to even consider talking to him. Closing his eyes as he got outside, he took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the cool night air; as the wind blew his long brown hair over his face, he slowly felt his pulse return to normal and the pounding in his ears and temples begin to subside. He was jolted out of his brief reprieve by the sudden honk of a horn. Sam snapped back to reality and walked slowly towards his brother, Dean, opening the Impala's passenger door – with its characteristic squeak- and getting in without so much as a 'hello'.

"And how was the mandated kumbaya session this evening? Did they actually get you to open up, or should I just drop you off at the police station on my way back to the apartment?" Dean asked with a sarcastic smirk.

"It was fine. Can we just go?"

"Police station drive-by, or straight home?"

"Dean, stop being an ass! I just wanna get outta here, okay?"

"Oh shit, they did make you talk. All right, Sasquatch, keep your pants on, we're going," with that, Dean revved up the engine, turned up his Led Zeppelin tape, started head-banging to the beat and peeled away from the curb.


As soon as they returned to their tiny, sparse apartment, Sam stomped to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Dean closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh before making his way to the fridge and pulling out several beers – with no intention of offering one to Sam. He slowly made his way to his own bedroom, closed the door behind him, sat on the side of his bed and put the bottles of beer down on the bedside table. He pulled a bottle opener from his pocket and stared at it; as he did, he felt a familiar sense of shame rise in him. He continued staring until his vision started to blur, before clenching his jaw and blinking hard, grabbing the first bottle and wrenching the cap off with excessive force.

And so, Dean's nightly ritual began – the task of anesthetizing himself against the pain of a lifetime of self-doubt and the sense of having failed everyone around him, especially Sam. As one empty bottle became two, and two became three, the sweet relief of numbness began to set in. Eventually, his eyelids started to feel heavy; but even still, he kept drinking.

His mind wandered, splitting itself between memories of the past and what was happening right now – today. He knew that what happened to Jessica wasn't his fault – he'd never even met her. But what her death had done to Sam, the effect it had on him and the darkness it brought out in him – that, Dean felt partly responsible for. That darkness in Sam that was now so potent and poisonous, it couldn't have been brought out if it was never there to begin with.

Dean's childhood had been stolen from him when he was just four years old. He remembered waking late at night to the smell and choking sensation of smoke. He'd stumbled out of bed and made his way to Sam's nursery to find the bedroom of his six-month-old brother inexplicably on fire. He remembered being unaware, in that instant, what was causing him to choke – the smoke, or the fear. He could hear his dad yelling and could just barely make out the sight of him frantically bending over Sam's crib. He saw something else too, but his mind had long since locked that imagery away to protect him. He called for his dad and remembered how suddenly he was right in front of him, yelling frantic but firm orders while handing him baby Sam, "Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back! Now, Dean! Go!"

And that was the night it all began; the night his life's responsibility settled onto him: protect Sam. Dean would learn later that their house was set ablaze on purpose – with his mother's death being the arsonist's motive and intent. Sadly, it was a success. This act of malice would change the Winchester family forever and set the three remaining members on dark and challenging paths.

Dean was still conscious, his balance starting to waver as he sat on the side of his bed. As he let these memories replay, and replay and replay in his mind, he continued drinking. That fire ultimately drove their father insane – John Winchester became a man possessed, driven by one goal: find the monster who killed his wife and the mother of his sons. Dean's alcohol-addled mind remembered how the person responsible was eventually found, only to stage an impressive jailbreak, which drove his father right off the edge. John – with his Marine background and service in Vietnam- became a ruthlessly effective bounty hunter, collecting the most dangerous and volatile fugitives that crossed his path while traipsing all over the country with Sam and Dean in tow following leads, tips and breadcrumbs to capture the only fugitive he actually cared about finding – his wife Mary's murderer.

Dean was forced to be Sam's big brother, his father and his mother all at once; their dad was too consumed with hunting, with revenge, to be much of a parent. Their childhood and adolescent years were spent in one seedy motel after the other, switching schools every few weeks, from one end of the country and back again, going wherever John's leads took them.

He knew he was just a kid himself, but Dean was consumed with shame – if he'd just been able to provide more stability for Sam, maybe he wouldn't be so angry and violent now.

Finally, Dean felt his consciousness slipping. He gave into it, clumsily flinging his legs up on the bed and letting his head tumble towards the pillow. As he surrendered to the dreamless peace that waited for him, his mind made one final journey through his memories, replaying one, particular night with terrifying clarity…

"All right, you know the drill, Dean," John said, checking to make sure his gun was loaded and slinging a duffel bag onto the tiny table in the motel kitchen before looking at his young son. "Anybody calls, you don't pick up. If it's me, it'll ring once, and I'll call back. You got that?"

"Mmm-hmm. Don't answer the phone unless it rings once first," Dean nodded, sounding bored.

"Come on Dean, look alive. This stuff's important."

"I know, it's just, we've gone over this stuff a million times and, you know I'm not stupid."

"I know you're not, but it only takes one mistake – you got that? All right, if I'm not back Sunday night…"

"Call Pastor Jim."

"Lock the doors and the windows, close the shades. And most important…" John trailed off. He knew Dean knew the answer, but he wanted to make sure the point stuck.

"Watch out for Sammy," Dean answered, looking back over his shoulder at his younger brother watching cartoons. Fleetingly, he thought about how easy Sam had it – his brother was actually allowed to be a kid every once and a while, and it would be an experience he would be able to remember. Had their mom not been killed, Dean would've been able to be a kid too. But instead, here he was, burdened with adult responsibility when his age had barely cracked double digits. It wasn't Sam's fault, but Dean couldn't help but resent his little brother, ever so slightly; as soon as it crossed his mind, he felt immediately ashamed and turned his attention back to his dad. "I know, Dad."

"And if someone tries to bust in?" John asked, entirely oblivious to the inner conflict running through Dean's mind.

"Shoot first, ask questions later."

"That's my man."

"When's Dad gonna get back?" Sam asked, later that evening as Dean poured him a glass of milk.

"Tomorrow," Dean answered, grabbing the pot of Spaghetti-O's off the hotplate.

"When?"

"I don't know. He usually comes in late though," Dean said, filling Sam's bowl. "Now, eat your dinner."

"I'm sick of Spaghetti-O's," Sam complained.

"Well, you're the one who wanted them!"

"I want Lucky Charms!"

"There's no more Lucky Charms."

"I saw the box!"

Dean sighed, "Okay, maybe there is. But there's only enough for one bowl and I haven't had any yet!"

Sam looked up at Dean with wide, sad eyes. Dean clenched his jaw and wordlessly grabbed Sam's bowl of Spaghetti-O's and dumped it in the trash, before slamming a clean bowl, along with the box of Lucky Charms, down in front of his brother.

Sam picked up the cereal box and dug around with his hand to find, for Dean, a peace offering. "Do you want the prize?"

They'd been in that motel in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin for days, and by the third night with no word from his dad, Dean had been climbing the walls, needing to get some air. After Sam fell asleep, Dean snuck out to a local arcade, playing games until the owner kicked him out to close up.

He returned to the motel and found Sam's door slightly ajar – not the way he left it. He timidly approached the door and found a strange man in Sam's room. Dean felt a lump of fear bubble up and close in on his throat, as he felt around in the dark for the shotgun his father left him for protection. Just as he found it and was trying to calm himself enough to pinpoint his aim and take a shot, John burst through the door, saw the commotion in Sam's bedroom and yelled at Dean to get out of the way before firing off ten shots – the final three after the assailant had flung himself through the window to get away, landing on the grass below in a heap of blood and broken glass.

John threw his spent gun on the bed and frantically assessed Sam. "Sammy! Sammy! Sammy!" he repeated, wrapping his young son in his arms. "You okay?"

"Dad, what's going on?" Sam asked in a small, shaking voice.

Dean was standing just on the other side of the doorframe and peeked around to see his father cradling his younger brother.

"Are you all right?" John asked Sam, his voice trembling with worry. By the time he turned to acknowledge Dean standing in the doorway, his calm, commanding tone had returned "What happened?"

"I – I just went out," Dean replied quickly, shrinkingly.

"What?" his father demanded sternly.

"Just for a second! I'm sorry."

"I told you not to leave this room! I told you not to let him out of your sight!"

Dean watched, as John returned his full attention to Sam, disappointment casting a dark pallor across his features.

"It's probably my fault. I had one – one goddamn job and I couldn't do it. I couldn't even protect my baby brother right, and look at him now," Dean mumbled to himself drunkenly as sleep overtook him.