Author's Note: To those, especially Ty, who encouraged me to work on this story again. Many thanks to Rob for his invaluable assistance in regards to shotguns and daggers. Any inaccuracies are mine, not his. Thanks to those who take their callings as readers seriously and review – especially spuffyshipper – if I knew how to reach you I'd thank you! Sam gets this chapter and the next (he's got a lot to say) and then it's John's turn, then Dean's and then… we'll see (we really might be done). I'll probably alternate which story I update between this and "In a Place Like This" until I finish one or the other, so those of you waiting for "Worry & Care" need to either start a letter writing campaign (LOL) or be patient. Thanks again people - your praise, faint or earth-shattering, makes my day!

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Four

Sam lay in bed, staring at a grouping of water spots on the ceiling which looked (tonight) like Santa Claus. If asked last night, he would have voted fire engine. He could hear Dean in the bathroom humming "Fairies Wear Boots". Sad that he could recognize Black Sabbath so easily these days. From the tell-tale sound of the water turning on and then off, Dean was shaving. Sam smiled to himself. His big brother was so weird about shaving… he'd only shave at night. Swore his face needed time to "breathe".

Sam Winchester had awoken this morning ill-rested and unprepared to face his twenty-third birthday. He'd been steeling himself since the end of March and yet, as it did every year, his mental preparation was in vain. He'd tossed and turned, spending much of the night staring into the darkness and wishing he could turn off his brain.

In his mind, there was no clearly defined event that caused this birthday dread… he supposed it was really a lifetime of little things that added up to a day in May he tried to ignore. And since the Winchester family was not exactly big on holiday bashes, it wasn't as though he had a lot of reminders so it seemed to … creep up on him like a supernatural nasty.

The first birthday memory that he had was turning five. Dean had woken him up before leaving for school with a whispered happy birthday and asked what he wanted for his birthday dinner. John didn't cook often; usually it was Dean that made sure there was something to eat.

"McDonalds!" Sammy whispered back, the excitement in his eyes visible in the dim morning light.

"Are you sure?" asked Dean, and Sam hesitated a moment, remembering how hard it was to get money from Dad for groceries or anything else... fast food was expensive He should have been too young to notice, but he wasn't.

"Well, maybe… spaghetti? With meatballs? And lettuce with tomatoes?"

Dean ruffled Sammy's hair, which had needed a cut several months back. Hair though, was way down Dad's list of important stuff. Might not even be on the list at all.

"Sure kid," Dean said with a quiet laugh. "But I think you're the only five-year-old in the universe who wants salad for his birthday dinner." With a kiss on his baby brother's forehead, Dean was up and to the door and Sam watched drowsily, feeling the longing and prickles of fear that always came when he watched Dean leave.

The rest of the day had been ordinary. Dad didn't mention his birthday (or anything else for that matter) as he dropped Sam off at daycare. This small town had a kindergarten, but they wouldn't take Sam so late in the year – too hard for little kids to adjust in so short a time, the school claimed. So he spent his days in a flat, khaki-colored house they'd found by responding to a handwritten 3x5 card which had been posted on the mini-mart's weather-beaten tack board, over by the newspapers and chewing gum. The babysitter didn't say anything – Fawn, the smelly, pudgy, worn-down lady who fed them folded sandwiches of bologna on a bare slice of Wonder Bread, and locked them in the backyard so she would watch her Soaps.

As soon as Dean got home from school (late, which caused trouble), Dad went out. Usually Dean made Sammy keep the TV off until after dinner, but today as Dad walked out the door, he gave Sam a grin and a nod towards the small black and white set in the corner of the small living/dining area. Dean told him there was a surprise, so not to look.

Curious at first, he was soon lost in the cartoon universe of Inspector Gadget (Dean wouldn't let him watch anything with scary stuff in it) and Sam didn't stir until Dean called him for dinner. Unlike Dad, who made them turn it off right in the middle, Dean let him finish the show and in appreciation Sam turned it off as soon as it was over.

He looked at Dean with absolute awe as he saw the kitchen table. Red streamers hung from the backs of the chairs and Dean had blown up balloons and taped them all over the tiny space – walls, ceiling and even the floor. The table had the dinner he'd asked for laid out on it and in the center was a cube of white cardboard about the size of a lunchbox. He ran to his brother and flung himself into Dean's arms, words failing him, a sob nearly bursting from his throat.

"Whoa Sammy," Dean said. "What's wrong?" the nine-year-old asked, concern on his face. It took a moment for the younger boy to respond.

"Thanks, Dean."

"You're welcome, buddy."

And so they ate, and on Sam's chair was a book about trains wrapped in tractor paper and in the box on the table was a slice of chocolate cake with a candle in it. When they cleaned up, Dean took the streamers and balloons and hung them in their room, and they stayed until Dad decided it was time to move on.

Sam could count on less than a hand the times in his (now) twenty-three years that his father had appeared to notice his birthday one way or the other. At eight, Dean fought with John about a birthday cake for Sam and when Dean made one anyway John threw it against a wall in a less-than-sober rage. At thirteen, John gave him a silver-handled dagger and let him skip school, only to enforce target practice with said present until the sun went down and he couldn't see the side of the barn. Sam's hand had blisters and his shoulder burned for a week.

At sixteen, the gift was an antique Winchester M-21 double barrel shotgun and (again) the "party" consisted of a full day of tactical practice in muggy North Carolina forest that left Sam barely able to move for several days. At eighteen, Dean and John fought about Sam's future, and Dean stomped out and John slammed out, and while Dean came back in two hours and apologized… John didn't come back for three days, and well, apologies weren't something Daddy Winchester really "did".

So much for happy, fun-filled, family celebrations. Dean opened the door and wandered out of the bathroom, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Where do you want to eat, birthday boy?" Dean asked.

"Wherever… you choose," said Sam listlessly, a hint of petulance in his voice.

"C'mon dude – you know if I choose, they won't serve bunny food," Dean snarked.

Sam sighed and sat up. "You don't have to do this Dean, really."

"What?"

"This…" he waved a hand in frustration. "I got over the birthday thing years ago. I'm not a kid anymore. I don't need parties and I don't need reminders."

"Reminders?"

Sam groaned inwardly. Leave it to Dean to latch on to the one part of the short rant that Sam didn't want to get into.

"Forget it," he snapped, standing and snatching his jacket from the room's single chair. "Diner, three blocks down. Let's just eat and get this over with."

He felt a twinge of guilt as he watched Dean's grin fade into a mask of puzzlement; the open, relaxed look replaced with a wall. It wasn't Dean's fault, and Sam knew it wasn't fair to take it out on his big brother. Dean was the only person that had ever… always… gone out of his way to celebrate Sam's birth. And while it was in Dean's nature to be on the look out for an excuse to party… it was more than that when it came to Sam's birthday.

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Okayyy – lead on, oh grouchy bro," he muttered, stepping back and letting Sam pass as he went for the door.

There was silence between them as they headed across the parking lot, and when Dean paused at the Impala, Sam gave a jerk of his head and they kept on walking. It was a comfortably warm evening with a soft cool breeze and as they walked, Sam tried to blow off the steam he felt scrambling around inside of himself and consciously release the stress building in his shoulders. He could feel Dean watching him, but he stared ahead, avoiding conversation during the less than ten minute walk.

Grateful for a brother who knew when to quit pushing (and occasionally did), Sam made an attempt to turn the silence into a comfortable one. He gave Dean a sheepish smile as Katelyn the waitress headed off with their order and felt relief wash over him as Dean returned the smile. He watched as Dean shifted in the booth to lean against the wall so his eyes could more easily follow Katelyn, his battle-worn hands quietly beating a heavy metal riff on the Formica table that Sam couldn't quite place.

"Sorry for… back at the room…" he began, looking down at the palms of his own less-scarred hands and then out the greasy window.

"S'okay, man – no worries," Dean said, glancing at Sam and than back at the waitress.

"I just…"

"Have some issues?" Dean finished for him, eyebrow cocked.

Sam grinned, "I guess you could say that."

As the tension between them dissipated, Katelyn brought drinks, the stuffed jalapeños Dean had ordered and Sam's house salad with Ranch. Then she lingered over the elder Winchester's "thanks for the appetizer" flirt (not to be confused with the entrée flirt or the dessert flirt). Sam ignored them and started on his salad… he always felt a little voyeuristic at moments like this and he wondered for the gazillionth time why it was so easy and painless for Dean to connect with women, or for that matter, people in general.

Despite his own good looks and relative self-confidence… Sam was a worrier and he always had been. Mostly, he worried what Dean and Dad thought about him, but he also worried what others thought at times, and this made social situations awkward. He didn't warm up to people quickly, and he hated the false sort of "so, how's the weather" relationships that appeared a strangely necessary precursor to anything more. Generally, he trusted his instincts when it came to people, but it was hard to understand how to build friendships and trusting relationships when the length of time you spent in one place ranged from twenty-four hours to seven months.

Seven months had been the longest until Stanford, and it was there that Sam had figured out how to have friends, had figured out what it was like for love to not be twisted up in grief and guilt. It was Jess that had made Sam truly grateful for his big brother… grateful for what Dean had sacrificed to teach him.

He'd been with Jessica almost a year before he realized it, one night while holding her, soft and sleeping in his arms. The love he had for her welled up inside of him so big it brought tears to his eyes and he tried to analyze his feelings (a coping mechanism he couldn't remember not having). As it clicked he nearly gasped from the shock, and Jess sighed in her dreaming and moved in his embrace, turning over and leaving him to himself.

He realized now that love wasn't unfamiliar, as he often told himself it was, drawing up in his mind the arguments against a dead mother and an absent father. What he had with Jess, the safety, the love so engulfing that it was almost pain, the fear of loss so hot it threatened to bring him to his knees. He loved his brother this much. Differently of course, but as much. The devotion in his sweetheart's eyes was matched notch for notch with that in Dean's and like his life flashing before his eyes he saw what Dean and given… and Sam knew that he'd never have been able to take Jess' love without having taken Dean's all those years.

Sam and Jessica were happy because Dean had taught him how to be devoted to your family. And even though it meant he'd be left behind, Dean hadn't pleaded for Sam to stay… he'd let Sam have this life, this chance for a family of different kind than the one he'd been born into. In that instant Sam knew the price his dream had cost his brother. It hadn't been a wrong dream, but as he thought of how even after so short a time the idea of living without the woman laying next to him took his breath away, he could conceive the anguish that his leaving - his abandonment - had dealt his brother and it cut him deep.

Standing silently, he looked at Jess and then went to the window, staring out at the shadowy night, unable to see the still autumn beauty without searching unconsciously for the shimmer of lurking evil. Sam had realized before that first December at Stanford came that Dean had been angry because of the secrets, not because of the aspirations… angry because Sam hadn't trusted him and John couldn't be bothered to care about someone besides himself… but not angry because of what Sam wanted. And as this piece of the puzzle fell into place he understood a little more of the sacrifice that Dean had made, and why he'd done it.

The ache was unbearable and he stood there paralyzed by midnight's pallid moon and the blood he'd shed and lost and disregarded. Jess found him as the dawn began to break and led him back to rumpled sheets and her own soothing sandalwood smell, but it was the end of his childhood (the one that had been slipping away for years).

Gazing at the Palo Alto stars he'd had the first conversation in his mind that didn't end with him leaving Dean at a dead run and words that trailed to nothing. The first conversation where he stopped the blame and fury in its tracks and had his brother back and had his brother's back. Somehow he'd make it right…someday when he could end the conversation and not just start it.

Slowly he'd built a life without Dean and John and gory goblin armies. Slowly he'd found a sense of equilibrium at Stanford; California dreamin' that when the time was right he'd know it and he'd fix this mess with Dean and maybe even Dad… but not just yet... he wanted a little more time. Then his brother showed up, and all the misty-eyed sentiment he'd felt so good about crumbled around him and he backed away, uneasy and ill-prepared. He wasn't ready yet to face this music and the surety he'd felt (so sure he'd been that he could turn them in to just another family) dissolved amid the crashing waves of twenty-years' emotion, dammed up tight but leaking slow enough to lull him into happily ever after.

Then fire, blood and leaving with the ring in his pocket and the goblin armies racing after… Another year had passed and he didn't have the guts or the strength to tell his brother everything he'd learned about himself and the universe and love. And though Dean had (to his credit) tried, Sam wouldn't give him permission to ask. Losing Jess had orphaned him in a million ways and he didn't need reminding.