Author's Note: I love my reviewers and even my silent hits… you do my heart good! This is a long chapter, but I felt like it needed to stay in one piece. Special thanks to my dear Gram and to Cynthia and Theresa. For many reasons, this chapter was especially hard to write… but as Melody Beattie says, "Sometimes we need to become frustrated to make a breakthrough in our thinking. It's all part of the process."

As I started working on this chapter, I read a poem that seemed to fit how I felt about it. Bella graciously allowed me to post it here, but please do check out her page at: fictionpress dot com forward slash tilda emeraudeirladais – for me & the Winchesters… it's a little literal, a little figurative and I hope you can feel how it fits. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Reminders
7.28.06

These moving boxes stand still,
not quite empty of the treasures they compressed.

Most are quarantined to the garage, for the disease
of transience weighs heavily upon those
who tread on half-feet, fearing to wake
the restless spirit, dusty from the road.

The rest are taught to kneel behind lustrous doors,
clinging tight to a blurry house's memories.
They will lasso this home, with the molasses slow movements
of all the rest gone by. Though they linger
at these soft-shell openings, the siren song of shifting tides
carves persuasive paths. None can resist the effortless pull
of a shiny, new chance.

Chapter Five

"So, Sammy," said Dean nonchalantly, mouth not empty of steak fries.

"Yeah?"

"Reminders?"

Sam looked at his brother for a long moment and then quite deliberately put the rest of the club sandwich in his mouth in one bite, effectively blocking any reply he might have made.

"I know where you live, dude," Dean rolled his eyes. "You can chew as long as you want but eventually big brother's gonna get it out of you."

Sam took a drink (like ice water was going to be strong enough to steady him for this conversation) and caught Katelyn's eye, requesting the check.

"Hey, man – cake?"

"No thanks… you're welcome to stay though," Sam smirked, "I'm sure Katelyn wouldn't mind."

"How old are you again?"

"It' not a matter of age, big brother, it's a matter of wisdom."

Dean glared at Sam and grumbled something under his breath, a charming smile descending quickly on his features as the waitress stopped in front of them. She ducked her head at Dean's frank gaze and giggled as she set chocolate cake in front of Dean, apple pie in front of Sam, and the bill face down under two clean forks in the center of the table.

"Um, we didn't order dessert…" Sam said quietly, interrupting the practically cooing love birds.

"On the house," Katelyn blushed, keeping her eyes on Dean's for a second longer and walking away as only one who knows she's be watched can strut.

Shaking his head at his brother, Sam began to eat the pie in front of him, avoiding the appraising look Dean gave him. As he had before, he wondered (though not particularly seriously) if Dean hadn't ended up with some freaky power of his own… his ability to read Sam like an open book went from irritating to downright problematic at times.

They finished eating and while Dean paid and paid compliments, Sam stepped outside and took a few deep breaths, trying to ease the hitch in his chest. The reality was, he could shut Dean down and end the questioning. It wouldn't be pleasant, but he'd done it more times than he could count, just as Dean had done it to him… and the world kept on turning. But was it what he really wanted? Was it really useful?

The other option was to lay himself open and tell Dean the truth… as much as Dean would take. His brother wouldn't laugh at him, he'd listened to Sam's moaning and groaning for the first eighteen years of his life without so much as a complaint. But in the past months Sam had seen how tightly Dean held his own wounds. Whenever Sam tried to delve into their shared past, or deal with emotional details… Dean cried "chick flick" and the blast doors whammed shut on big brother's soul.

Telling Dean the truth would be fine, if Dean could actually handle the truth, but Sam wasn't sure about that. His days of wanting to strike out at his brother (because he knew Dean wouldn't even flinch) had passed… and the thought of inflicting pain in order to ease his own agony seemed petty and useless. To harm his brother would be harm himself and he'd done enough damage over the years… Dean had done so much protecting and pretending to try and keep Sam safe, at the expense of his own life in a lot ways. Sam owed it to him to try and carry more of the load. And while it was a logical and sense-making choice, it choked and skinned him as he considered it. The idea of facing the darkness on his own left a lot to be desired – even if it was only the darkness in himself.

"Hey, sunshine," said Dean as he sauntered over to where Sam stood at the curb, lightly punching him on the shoulder.

"Hey."

"Want to catch a movie? Play some pool? Cruise a little? Main Street's only a few blocks long, but you never know…" Dean smirked naughtily.

Sam glanced at his brother and then took an interest in the pavement at his feet.

"What?" Dean asked in what Sam had come to think of as his easy-breezy-so-not-threatening voice, specifically designed to help Sam think his big brother wasn't concerned.

"How about we just take a walk?"

Dean showed only the briefest instant of total surprise before he nodded. "Alrighty, birthday boy – whatever you say."

Sam gave him an awkward smile. "Thanks."

"Sure, man – left or right?"

"Uh, whatever…"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okayyyy…" and started to walk the opposite direction of the motel.

Sam stumbled as he strode to catch up and then slowed his pace to match his brother's. Taking a deep breath, he spoke.

"So, you still want to know?"

There was a beat of time and then Dean replied, the same easy-breezy thing still going on.

"Reminders?"

"Yeah."

Dean was silent for a moment; the only sounds reaching Sam's ears were the rustling of the crab apple trees planted at even intervals along the sidewalk and the smack of the brothers' boots on the concrete.

"Go ahead. Let the cat out."

Sam gave Dean a fleeting look out of the corner of his eye and took a deep breath, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, trying to find his voice… hoping desperately that this wasn't the wrong thing to do. It could easily go badly and Dean could take Sam's childhood hang-ups personally (seeing as how he'd worked so hard to keep Sam from having hang-ups). Why, again, was he thinking this was a good idea?

He sighed and shook his head, trying to clear it. The fact that Dean had kept his mouth shut and hadn't said anything rude yet was evidence that the elder brother was honestly listening… and since that didn't happen often, maybe this was a sign. Onward, ever onward…

"There are a lot of … things… that I know in my head. About our family, about Mom and Jess… about me…" Sam began slowly. "And yet they don't feel true most of the time," he paused, trying to sort out what had been snaking it's way through him for weeks now (the way it did every year). "I can't seem to get it to make sense."

"What?" Dean asked, simply.

"I don't know. I mean, sometimes it's anger… and I try to deal with it… a lot of times it's guilt," he looked for Dean's reaction, but got nothing. Clearing his throat he continued. "Sadness I guess, I don't know," he laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe more like hard-core grief."

"So you do know."

"Huh?"

"You may not like it," Dean said quietly and without a trace of derision, "but you know what it is – or at least what it feels like."

Sam gaped in surprise but recovered quickly, trying to organize a sentence.

"Yeah… I suppose that's true."

They walked a little more – hitting the end of the street, crossing, and starting back along the other side by mutual (unspoken) agreement.

"Most of the time it doesn't bother me, you know? I can handle it…" Sam trailed off as Dean gave him a probing look. "I mean, I know it's still there, but… there's just so much of it… I don't know where to start. Or how to start."

"Start?"

"I don't know!" Sam said, the frustration loud and clear in his voice.

"What is it you think you need to do?"

"Get over it!" Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low as his pent –up emotion exploded.

Dean stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sam. "Get over what?" His expression seemed to be one of irritation, and Sam's stomach wriggled nervously. Dean continued, "Get over your feelings? The pain? Losing Jess? Losing Mom? Dad? Blood and guts and burning bones? Get over what?" Dean's voice was raw now, and Sam could feel the anguish rolling off his brother in waves. He'd worried Dean would take this on himself, and it seemed to be heading in that direction quickly.

"Dean, I…"

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said shortly, starting to walk again, his arms folded tightly across his chest.

The discussion ceased for a time as they reached the motel, but bypassed it (again, without a word), and began to work their way back down the sidewalk.

"I don't want you to think I'm angry at you, Dean," Sam said in a low but strong voice. "I have been," he ducked his head and peered at his brother with a grin, trying to ease the upset with humor (as he'd learned from Dean) "but I'm not. Not now."

Dean didn't respond, just looked away, the set of his face telling little about his thoughts except that they were troubled. It took another block and a side of the street change, before he spoke.

"So what's the deal with your birthday," Dean asked, his voice so flat that the intonation didn't even sound like a question.

Now Sam looked away, closing his eyes and hating the place they'd arrived at and yet wanting it … this disclosure… this opening of the sepulcher that was their history. Even a crack, some purchase in its slippery isolation would be welcome.

"I was born, Dean and everyone I've touched since then has been to Hell and most of them haven't come back. . my mother died and my father checked out," the last words were spoken with stinging resentment.

Dean's focus was still on the ground they walked and he didn't say anything, so Sam began again, hushed now.

"And then Jess… and you."

"Me?" Dean looked up, startled.

Sam stopped and waited for Dean to do the same. His brother came to a stand still a few steps ahead of him and turned, hesitating to meet his head-on gaze. Sam closed his eyes and rubbed his face roughly with both hands, as though trying to scrub away the turmoil he felt. Dean was as still as a deer caught in the blinding flash of oncoming headlights and Sam rushed his words… trying (one way or another) to put him out of his misery.

"I know what you've done for me Dean… what you've given up… what you give up every day so that I can have permission to think I'm choosing my destiny and a safety net when I realize that this freakin' destiny is choosing me." His voice was steady and calm as he spoke, and some distant part of his brain was surprised about that, considering the screaming terror that threatened to overwhelm him any second. He waited for his brother to make a wise-crack, to call him a gutter-found name and shake this all off, but it didn't come.

Face drained of color; Dean didn't recoil, but kept his gaze locked on his little brother. In the waning daylight Sam could see a brightness in Dean's eyes and a stillness enveloped the eldest, who held his breath and didn't move except for a slight tremble along his usually stubborn jaw line.

Sam spoke, praying Dean would hear no blame or rancor… would hear only what Sam had waited four years to say… would hear more than just the truth of who and what the Winchesters were. He prayed that Dean would hear that the dream his baby brother had always held the closest was the one where they were just what Dean wanted them to be… that in the end, it was what Sam wanted them to be too.

"It's hard, Dean. My birthday. It reminds me of how much I've lost… so many things I might have lost if I'd ever been given the chance to have them," he held up a hand as Dean's tried to respond. It took all his strength to speak past the panic and suffering in his big brother's expression. "Most of the time, your patience and your… snark," his grin held a little sadness, "most of the time it keeps me steady and I take it for granted, I take it as something I deserve because you've always given it and that love is the only thing I've ever been able to count on… through everything."

"Sammy," Dean whispered.

"Let me finish, Dean." It wasn't a proposal. "Most days I don't know why I was born – most days I can find a few good reasons I shouldn't have been." He gazed at the twilight sky, the first few stars appearing out of nowhere. "Jess… being with her…justified a lot for me," he said, staring and not seeing, these words almost for himself alone. "I felt I had a purpose of my own. Not just the family business… but a family. I wanted that. I wanted that with Jess."

Swallowing, he focused again on Dean's face. "And then she was gone, and again you saved me and instead of being grateful I wanted nothing more than to kill or be killed." He paused, "I know Dad loves us…but most of the time he doesn't see us, Dean. You know that. He can't. I believe Mom loved me… but she's gone, and the only memories I have are of the stories you've told me – I don't have a single one of my own. Loving her is like trying to hold the ocean," he shook his head at a remembrance, a warm smile relaxing his features.

"We spent a lot of time at the beach last summer, me and Jess. We tried, sometimes to catch a wave…and the thing is, you can't. It comes and it goes and you let it touch you – even wash over you – and then you have to let it slide away. The course it has to run, it… intersects with yours, you make each other different… but then it's done and over. You can't hold the ocean. And I can't hold Mom."

"I know it's different for you… for you and Dad, and I respect that," Sam's voice was utterly gentle now because although he could see how much this hurt his brother, he was too far in to stop it now. "But it's cold comfort, Dean – cold comfort that once upon a lifetime I don't remember I had a mother that loved me," it came out rushed and then he stopped abruptly.

"And yet. I have you. And there is no one in the world I'd rather have as family, than you. I couldn't ask for more than what you've given me, Dean. You've given me everything you've ever had," his voice gained energy "and it really has been enough – enough to see me through and carry me forward."

"You are the bittersweet conundrum of my birthday, bro," he said with a hint of lightness. "Another year of living reminds me what I've left behind… reminds me of everyone and everything I've been abandoned by," a beat went by and the final tumbler fell in place. "But you, every year – even when I shut you out – you remind me that someone out there sees a method to the universe's madness. Even if nobody else does or ever did…you wanted me and you're glad that I was born."

He saw the question in Dean's face and responded before it was asked. "It's hard to be loved sometimes… hard to let that in and let it make a difference. It's a lot… easier… to batten down the hatches and not have to actually live my life and deal with all the guilt and grief and mess. It's easier to tell myself that no one cares and all that's left is revenge and that it's fine and dandy to kill myself – death by demon… mutually assured destruction. Nothing's more important."

"And yet, there's something my big brother won't let me forget..." he smirked and this time Dean smiled back, if tentatively. So my birthday is rough. I want to jump off a bridge or throw myself to a pack of rabid werewolves… and yet you get all chick-flicky on me; let me choose the restaurant, offer to take me to the movies," Sam rolled his eyes. "What am I supposed to do? Leaves me conflicted and confused, dude."

They stared steadily at one another, Sam hoping Dean would take the offered out and let the dust settle easily around them. It's not like some massive change needed to come from this conversation… a well-healed scar to prove what they'd been through, was enough.

"Sorry," said Dean, the word of remorse checked by the sarcasm with which it was uttered.

"Sure you are. Jerk."

"And proud of it."

"Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Thanks."