Disclaimer: I own nothing Supernatural.

Author's Note: Sorry it took so long to update, I was kind of blocked, still am a little, hence the shortness of this chapter. But it is a chapter none the less. So please, do read and enjoy!

Dean's POV:

$650,000. Six hundred and fifty, thousand dollars.

That's enough money to put Sammy through school with no worries. Hell, it's enough to put all the dozens of doe-eyed kids I'm sure he wants to have through school. Hell, it's enough…

"Dean!"

Huh, what? "Why're you yelling?"

"Because you didn't answer the first ten times I said your name." Ten times, yeah, sure Sammy, whatever you say.

"Well, maybe I didn't hear you."

"Maybe."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Maybe."

"That's what I said."

"Whatever."

I don't get it. He just won a shit load of money and now he's standing in front of me all moody and mopey with his arms crossed over his chest like some kind of pouty kindergartner. And why? Because I wasn't paying attention? Hello, bigger things going on here, Champ. "What?" I ask. "What is that look for?"

He shakes his head at me and finally sits down, which is a relief because he's been pacing back and forth for like twenty minutes. "You're such an ass."

How's that now? "Excuse me?"

"Fine, maybe not an ass – "

"Yeah, maybe," I interrupt.

But as usual, he doesn't seem to think I'm very funny. "Then again, maybe you are," he says under his breath. And before I can respond he shoots out, "You're definitely the most immature – no, juvenile – person that I know."

"Yeah, well, you don't get out much."

This time when he starts shaking his head at me I can tell it's because he's trying to hide a smile. "What I was going to say," he starts while unfolding his arms and stretching them out towards the table, "is that it's not all my money." He puts his hands down and starts tapping his fingers. Tap, tap, tappity tap. It's one of those things he does when he gets nervous. Over the years I've figured out what beats mean what. The slow and sharp taps come when he's scared. Fast and hectic are for antsy. Short and hard sign a mix between anger and impatience. This was light and actually had a tempo. This was excitement. This was him barely being able to contain some kind of secret.

I cock my head in his direction and say the only thing that comes to mind, even though I know it's not right. "You mean taxes?" He shakes his head no and looks up at me. What the hell are you up to, Sam?

"Half that money's yours, man."

Come again? Hey I'm all for sharing. Don't think I wasn't ready and willing to mooch off the kid a little. But half? No way, it's not my ticket. "No way, it's not my ticket."

"Oh, come on," he says getting up again and moving over to me. "You didn't really think I'd keep it all, did you?"

"Not all."

"Dean I never even would have bought that ticket if it wasn't for you."

"What?"

"If you wouldn't have been such an ass to that girl behind the counter, I never would have tried to make her feel better by playing the lotto." I can't believe this logic.

"So you gonna give her some too. I mean you wouldn't have done it if not for trying to cheer her up."

"Good point," he says, and for a minute I feel ready to slap him. But then he laughs and I know he's not serious, thank God. "Look," he sputters through chuckles, "you're my brother and I want you to have the money. So you're going to take the money."

I look at him seriously. I don't take charity, never do, never would, especially not from Sam. But there's something in his face, in his eyes. It's like those times when we were kids and he'd give me some kind of horrible little noodle necklace or construction paper penguin or something, crap he made at school and was told to take home and give to his parents. Only Dad just would have thrown it away, and we both knew it. So he gave them to me, and I kept it all and patted him on the back, and told him how great it was and how much I appreciated it. And every time he'd look at me like he's looking at me now, like he's giving me this great gift and now he's just waiting to see how I'll react, if I'll like it as much as he hopes I will.

I can't crush his spirit like that, right? It would be…wrong. So I take my turn at the self-conscious head shaking and look over to him, his face all expectant smiles. "So, I treat a kid like crap and you want to give me a few hundred thousand dollars for it? Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. You're like the worst Karma cop on the planet."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"Does to me."

He bites his lip and I know he's relieved. Maybe he thought I'd say no, wouldn't accept it. Or maybe he thought I'd get really excited and give him a big weepy hug or something. Nah, he wouldn't be relieved about that, he'd probably like it, the big girl. "I have to collect the money, obviously. And I won't get it all at once. So I'll just keep your share until whenever and then send it your way."

"Oh, you'll keep my share? What are you, my pimp?"

He rolls his eyes. "I just think it would be a little suspicious if I went and cashed in half the money every time I got a payment and sent it to someone who, let's face it, doesn't even exist."

"I resent that. I exist. I just happen to be dead." According to the cops in St. Louis, anyway.

"You know," he says, narrowing his eyes like he's got some kind of idea, "it might not be a good idea for me to send it to you anyway. I mean that would be suspicious, sending thousands of dollars to some P.O. Box every month. Nope, you'd better just come out to California to get it, you know, whenever you feel like visiting." You little shit.

"Now you're bribing me? Sammy, where did you learn such things?"

He shrugs and heads to the fridge, pulls out a couple beers. "I gotta be sure you'll come and see me sometime," he says while handing one to me.

"And you think the only way I'll go visit is if you offer me cash?" I admit, it doesn't hurt, but still. He shrugs again and downs a swig. "Seriously?" He looks at me and I see that he is serious. He doesn't think I'll come out there to see him. And I don't know, maybe he's right. Truthfully, I hadn't really given it much thought. I mean, he's the one leaving, so he must not really want me around that much anyway. Right?

"It's just…you never really came out the first time around, when I was at Stanford. And I know you were probably close enough at least a few times, hunting in the area. But you never came." I couldn't. I thought he knew that. I couldn't go see him and see his new life, that I wasn't a part of, and then go back to mine when the visit was over. I just couldn't. It was easier to do without, just put him out of my mind as much as possible and move on.

I open my beer but can't quite muster the strength to bring the bottle to my mouth for a drink. So I just stand there, beer in one hand, bottle cap in the other, and say nothing. What do I say?

Things are different this time, yeah. His leaving, it's not as…tense. And I won't have Dad hounding me about cutting him out of my life. Hell, he'll probably even visit him from time to time, once he gets out of rehab. He might even stay for a while, if he really manages to give up hunting like he says. But me? It'd just be too hard I think. As much as I don't want him to leave, I know he has to go, I know it's what's best for him. And I know the life he'll lead, the one he'll build, it'll be something great, no matter what. Because Sammy's meant for greatness. I've always known that.

And I know I have to let him go, even if I don't want to. But then to come back and visit? See him and his perfect little life – 'cause I'm sure it'll be perfect – and watch everything from the outside. Cause that's where I'll be, you know, on the outside, looking in. And there's no way around it. We share too much of a past. We've been too close to ever be those weekend barbecue kind of brothers, the ones who sit around every few months and talk about nothing over some beers. Then they say goodbye and don't even feel it, and go on with everything, not even remembering to call, not even thinking about it, until a few more months pass. Then they'll do it all over again. That'll never be us.

But I look over at him now, my baby brother, and his shoulders are slumped like he's the most beaten down person in the world. And I know it's because of me, of us. Because he knows it too, that we won't ever have a 'normal' sibling relationship. We're either together or apart, there's no in between. He knows that as well as I do.

"Sam," I say without really thinking through where I'm headed, "you don't have to bribe me. I'll visit you all the time." I don't know where it came from, I don't even know if it's really a lie. I know it's not entirely the truth, for whatever that's worth. But he looks up at me with that hopeful little puppy face and I hear myself saying, "Don't worry, we'll make it work."

And his face splits into an awkward kind of forced smile. And I feel mine do the same. And we spend the next, I don't know how long, drinking our beers in silence.