It was the man at the pawn shop who gave Dean his first solid lead. He'd flashed the photo of Sam, and the man had immediately pointed to the ring. Dean's jaw dropped when he saw it, when he heard what it was worth.

Then he thought about his brother - all those years and still carrying around the engagement ring meant for his dead girlfriend - and his stomach churned.

"He didn't happen to say why he needed the money?" Dean gambled.

"First and last month's rent and security deposit."

Dean's eyes grew large, "He give an address?"

The man dug for his registry, flipping back to the day Sam had made his transaction. "39 South McKellen." The man looked up at Dean over his bifocals. "That's downtown. Shitty area, but damned cheap."

Dean nodded, "How long ago?"

The man double-checked the date on the registry. "Two weeks tomorrow."

"Thanks." Dean replied curtly and slipped out the door. Weeks of searching Sioux Falls for his brother had finally paid off, and Dean had a nibble.

It was about damned time.

He climbed back into the Impala and headed for McKellen Street.

###

Sam climbed the two flights of stairs to his apartment and let himself inside. He'd dug the trench by hand today, and the cold and the hours of wrestling with the half-frozen ground had taken its toll. Sam was wrecked. His hands were cracked and bleeding, his face raw and red, and he was covered head-to-toe with grime and dirt. Working as a pipeliner paid decent, but the work sucked ass. Sam locked the door behind him, dropped his lunch bag on the floor and drifted over to the makeshift pallet next to the heat grate. Sam had bought two towels for the bathroom that doubled as a mattress when they were dry. He stumbled over and collapsed, too tired to shower or change. Just a quick nap and then he'd feel good enough to go through the necessary motions like cleaning up and eating something.

As soon as his head hit the duffle bag that acted as his pillow, Sam was out. He never heard the knock on his door or the surreptitious sound of his determined brother picking the lock.

###

Dean glanced around frowning. This place was … unimpressive. He was even more unimpressed when his roving eyes found one little brother, curled up and looking half beat to death on the floor in the corner. Dean walked over, noting the single heat vent next to Sam's head. He knelt down and hovered a hand over it to find it barely giving off heat - probably why the whole place was freezing.

And Dean was pretty sure the kid was stretched out on ... towels?

Dean's anger piqued. The place was a dive - certainly not worth $1,200. All the kid had was two appliances. He took a peek inside and found milk, cheese and beer. He slammed the door unnecessarily hard, setting the bottles on the door to clinking. And that's when the picture slapped him in the face.

"Shit, Sam." He growled, staring at the girl in her cap and gown, half hoping his anger would wake the kid, but Sam slept on, oblivious, with Dean staring down at him guiltily.

"I guess it's a good thing I ain't a ghost or a shifter, hunh, Sammy?" Dean asked in his regular speaking voice. He plopped down on the floor beside his brother, nudging the kid's shoulder. "Sam! Wake up!"

Sam rocketed into a sitting position instantly, fists up and ready. He glared at Dean.

"You can't stay here, Sammy."

Sam relaxed, scooting back to lean against the wall. His hand wandered to the vent, and he frowned to find it putting off its usual mediocre warmth. He huddled into himself and shivered, tucking his cold hands into his pockets.

"What are you doing here, Dean?"

Dean smirked, "I think they call this a rescue."

Sam stared, offended. "I don't need rescuing. Go find someone who does."

"Oh, Sammy, if this place is any indication of where your head is at right now, trust me. You need rescuin'." His eyes found Sam's chapped hands and face and the dirt that looked as though it might be the only thing holding him together. "What the hell happened to you, anyway?"

Sam sighed, struggling tiredly to his feet. "Just go, Dean." He pleaded, padding into the kitchen. He picked his lunchbox up from where he'd dropped it and began cleaning it out.

Dean followed, watching him shove a few zipper-seal baggies in the trash, then wipe out the inside of the box with a wet dishrag. He let the water run hot and set the Thermos in the sink, filling it and adding a squirt of dish detergent.

"That a lunchbox?" Dean asked, confused. No Winchester had ever been the lunchbox type.

"Yes, Dean. It's a lunchbox. I got a job. Pays good money. You wanna comment on that too?"

Dean was silent, taking in the carnage. Then he spoke, quietly, "Thought I threw that damned picture away."

Sam froze, his eyes going unbidden to Lillie's forever smile. "Yeah, well. I un-threw it away."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam …" he started, ready to reassure his brother, yet again, that he wasn't a monster.

"Dean. Just stop, alright? We both know any platitudes you spout at me right now are gonna be lies. Just … just stop it with the act."

Dean looked away, angry. He fished Sam's phone from his pocket. "You left this, by the way."

Sam glanced over, his face paling instantly. His eyes traveled upward to connect with his brother's before he looked away. The sudden sad look on his face was haunting.

"I don't want it."

"Sammy, you gotta know something."

Sam shook his head, upending the lunchbox to dry in the dish drainer.

"I … I listened to the message. It wasn't me."

Sam stopped in his three-step trek across the kitchen. He looked at his brother, irritated. If Dean was going to stand there a lie to him again … "Yeah, it was." Sam said, hard.

Dean swallowed, seeing where this was going. "No. It wasn't, Sam. Listen, I did call you that night. I left you a message, but Ruby …"

Sam suddenly laughed out loud, and the noise was grating, hurtful. "Seriously, Dean? You're gonna stand there and lie to me to my face? Oh wait, that's right. That's what you do, isn't it? Kinda your move."

"Sam, dammit. I'm not lying. I would never say shit like that to you! How could you even think I would?"

"Oh, I don't know, Dean. Maybe cause you called me FROM YOUR PHONE and left it ON MINE! Don't see how anyone else could be responsible, unless someone had a gun to your head. Did someone have a gun to your head when you told me I was a bloodsucking freak, Dean? How about when old man Merrill contracted with you to kill me? He have a gun? Hunh, Dean?"

Dean was suddenly angry. "Dammit, Sam …"

"Just go! You shouldn't have come here. Nothing you could say will change anything. I'll still have done the things I've done, and you'll still think I'm a m-monster. So just go." Sam strode to the tiny bathroom, locking himself in. It was childish, yes. But Winchesters were well practiced at seeking solace in itty bitty bathrooms.

"I don't think you're a monster!" Dean called after him, pissed. "Sasquatch!" He added for good measure.

"Whatever!" Sam returned, his voice muffled.

Dean leaned against the sink, his eyes wandering around the bare room as he fought to get his thoughts in order. "And if you're makin' so much money, how come you're fucking sleeping on towels!" He yelled, satisfyingly.

"Cause I only get paid once a month, and it hasn't come around yet!" Sam exploded from behind the door. "And what's it any of your business anyway?"

"You ARE my business, Sam. Like it or not!" Dean confronted him. "I just can't shut off 30-odd years of lookin' after your annoying ass!"

"Oh, that's rich, Dean! Real rich! So did that come into play when you had your meeting with Merrill? Hunh? Were you looking after my annoying ass then?"

"Sam, I swear to …"

"Get out."

Dean flinched, physically flinched. "What?"

"Out. Get out. This is my home, and I want you out."

Dean felt his face draining of color. In all the fights they'd ever had, none had ever resulted in Sam actually throwing him out. Sure, maybe he'd thrown him across the room a time or two - but never … out.

"You throwing me out, Sam?"

Sam swallowed hard, unable to meet his brother's eyes. He nodded.

"You want me to go? Really go? Cause make no mistake, Sam. I'll go. You don't need me? That's fine. You think I'm interfering? I can stop. Is that what you want, Sammy? You want me to stop interfering in your life?"

Sam nodded. "That's what I want, Dean."

Dean stared hard at his brother, willing the younger boy to meet his eyes and see how deeply those words had cut him. Sam wouldn't though.

Dean defined himself in a lot of different ways. Nearly 40 years of the lonely hunter's life had left him plenty of time for introspection. He was a classic rock fan, a classic cars fan, a lover of classy ladies and cold beer, a loyal son, even a son of a bitch when the situation warranted it.

First and foremost though, he was an older brother. That had always been the number one job that made Dean Winchester who he was. Everyone who knew him knew how fiercely protective he'd always been of Sam. He willed his brother to understand that. Otherwise …

"You want me to just turn it off? That's what you're saying?"

Sam looked him straight in the eye. "I want you to go away, Dean. Go away and don't come back."

Dean blinked. He bit his lower lip to stop the tremble he felt beginning there. Then he turned on his heel and walked out Sam's door, boots thudding like heartbeats on the rickety wooden steps beneath him.

Sam closed the door silently behind him and moved to the window that overlooked the street, watching as his brother reached the pavement and strode determinedly away without looking back.