Author's Note: Thanks to Theresa and Cynthia (again) and to all of my reviewers. It really does help to know that you're reading and enjoying. Not a lot to say about this chapter. One more for sure (that would be Daddy Winchester) and then maybe a bonus at the end. I haven't decided about that. Anyone interested in a final Mary chapter? Oh, and while there seems to be debate on how long exactly Sam was away at school and how long he and Dean were estranged... I think Sam was gone four, but it was only the most recent two that they weren't talking, so that's what is reflected here : )

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Six

They stood grinning for a minute or two – a pair of twins despite their differences – each resisting (for the sake of the other's masculinity of course) the embrace which would have seemed natural if cameras were rolling.

Interrupted by the letting out of a movie at the end of the block, they started walking, separated some as the street was flooded with people. They drifted back toward the motel, each in their own space.

Dean took a deep breath and almost uttered an audible sound of bliss. It wasn't often he was outdoors at this time of night – unless he was killing something – and he reveled in the warm, sweet evening air. As he stepped off the curb, jaywalking towards the motel's parking lot, his eyes found Sam in the crowd and he felt a surge of adoration rush through him. For once, he didn't shut it off – just let it run like a warming engine, letting it fill his chest and push a content smile to the surface.

His brother's disclosure had brought on a sense of freedom for the moment – freedom from worrying about whether Sam would be okay and whether or not they'd be okay. He couldn't remember the last time that'd been the case. If he wasn't thinking about Sammy living through the next hunt or dealing with Jessica's death or fighting with Dad, he was worrying about whether or not his relationship with Sam would ever completely recover from the time they'd spent apart, and the fight(s) that had kept them from talking to one another for two years.

Most of the time things seemed alright between them, but Sam mouthed off more – if that was possible – than he used to and Dean was still figuring out how to deal with Sam's argumentativeness without causing World War Three to take place in the Impala (or a diner, motel, rest stop, haunted house, etc.). In the past, Sam's anger had been directed at Dad and Dean was the one Sam came to in order to cool off or find back up. Now, Dean bore the brunt of his little brother's frustrated explosions and he was trying to work himself back into that head space where he could be the big brother and blow Sam's tantrums off and love him anyway – instead of wanting to hog tie him with duct tape and toss him in the trunk, which is what currently came more quickly to his mind.

Ah, how things change. Dean had spent pretty much his whole life being in the middle until Sam left, and then all of the sudden there was nothing more for him to mediate. When Dad needed an excuse to go ballistic and let off some steam, Dean was the only one left to be that excuse and he'd wished for an older brother to get between him and his father on more than a couple occasions. John had never been physically violent towards his children – well, no more than the average lonely, demon-hunting widower. But he could be pretty scary at times since for it, he substituted violence towards inanimate objects and a self-destructive streak that he only managed to pull back from at what seemed, to those who cared about him, the last possible second.

Then Dad was gone, and Dean enjoyed an autonomy and liberty that he'd never really experienced before. Terror and loneliness? Yes. Delight in going as fast and as far as he wanted to? Totally. And with Dad only a phone call away, Dean hadn't recognized how much the safety-net of his father's strength had cradled him during this fledgling foray from the nest until it was too late and John was nowhere to be found.

So he went to Sam, fully intending to order him away from whatever new life he'd found – or alternately, plead in desperation for his help. Looking back, Dean wasn't sure any tactic would have worked short of rendering Sammy unconscious, kidnapping him and keeping him handcuffed to the seat until they were a thousand miles from Stanford. Which wasn't Dean's first choice, but not outside the realm of what he'd been ready to do.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Sam would not have left Jessica willingly, not even for Dean, not even for their father. Thus, he had some moments of real guilt about Jess. Dean had petitioned the heavens mightily for Jess to be removed from the picture so Sam would choose to join him again. Of course... dripping blood and a fire on the ceiling weren't at all what he had in mind, but still. He knew it wasn't rational and that helped him deal with it some, yet here was a part of him that wished he hadn't wished her away – even if it wasn't his wish that did the deed.

Now, with John dropping in and out – mostly out – Dean was left to pick up the pieces of their familial dysfunction and try to make things work. He was back to being in the middle, protecting both Sam and John from themselves, each other and, oh, any supernatural shadow that happened to fall across their path. Back to holding it in because there was only room in this freakin' fraternity for so much misery and given the choice between shouldering his father's grief and his brother's agony or shrugging the atlas for the energy to face his own – there was no choice. He'd rather struggle to hold this dangerous heartache by himself, surrounded by his family, than heal himself while they imploded like the supernova of a massive, dying star.

He'd spent a long time avoiding his feelings – submerging the pain and loneliness and fear in the murky depths of an admittedly less-than-healthy psyche. Dean had found a formula for survival that worked and he spent an enormous amount of energy on it. More time, he'd considered lately, than he was sure he wanted to spend. And things were changing – Sammy was about grown up, and Dean had begun to wonder if maybe it wasn't time he did a little more of that himself.

Staying at least one developmental step ahead of your genius kid brother isn't always easy, even for someone who's a genius in their own right. While Sam seemed always to crave to be bigger and older and smarter – from the time Dean took over as parent and protector – Dean had longed constantly for time to slow down or even come to a full stop. There were a lot of things he simply had to skip over or dash through because he needed to be there for his baby brother. While he didn't resent Sam, Dean definitely held an awful lot of resentment toward various and assorted other individuals.

Consciously, he focused on the acid-eyed demon, and in recent months had come to include its creepy-freak "children" in that lump-sum of hatred… particularly Meg of the Eternally Bad Hair Day. Sam may have been a reason behind the demon's choice of victims, but Dean had been certain that if it wasn't Sam it would be someone else's family being terrorized. He really didn't take the demonic interest personally and did everything he could to keep Sammy from doing it either. It wasn't anyone's fault that their family had been marked except the demon's and taking on the blame wasn't useful for anyone, in Dean's opinion.

Finding out that it was happening to other people had been both a blessing and curse for the Winchesters. It's nice to know you're not the only evil-magnets in the world – nobody likes that kind of celebrity status – and yet the recognition of the magnitude of the problem and the suffering of others was something hard to take, for both brothers.

Opening the door to their room, Dean stepped carefully over the salt line on the floor and glanced around for Sam. The bathroom door was shut and so he assumed his brother was probably occupying it. He sighed at the untidiness that a week of Winchesters created in the small space but decided firmly not to think about it until at least tomorrow.

Sitting down on the bed, he shoved the clothes and towels off the foot of it and then reached down to unlace his boots. He hesitated a minute and leaned toward the bathroom.

"Hey, Birthday boy – did you want to go out tonight?"

"Dude. In the bathroom. No talking," came Sam's muffled voice.

Dean lay back on the bed, keeping his feet on the floor, and chuckled. Sammy had privacy issues. He refused to talk while he was in a restroom with a closed door, and Dean pondered the last time he'd purposely aggravated Sam by chatting with him in a public men's room while Sam was locked in a stall.

The place had been full, and Sam had nearly died of embarrassment from the looks of sympathy he'd gotten on the way out. And Dean had snickered for days. Men did not talk to one another in bathrooms. Dean found amusement in switching roles with Sam at the most surprising moments – most would think it was Sam the Sensitive who wouldn't mind powder room conversation while Dean the Macho would be cringing and cursing. Dean the macho, however, was willing to stoop pretty low sometimes for a little sibling humiliation – the reward often outweighed the cost when you didn't have a reputation to maintain while passing through a nameless Podunk, population: 128.

"Welcome back, Sammy," said Dean with a snicker as his brother exited the bathroom.

"Whatever, man," Sam replied, irritation evident in tone and expression.

"So, what're you up for tonight? This looks like one of those places where they bury the proper pool playing establishments on the outskirts of town –" he paused and sat up, grinning, "or I can let you choose a movie – anything you've been wanting to see? We got Pay-Per-View or…" he snapped his fingers, trying to remember, "that chick flick playing at the local place."

"Last showing started twenty minutes ago… thanks anyway," Sam said rolling his eyes. "I'd rather just stay in I think. Been a long day."

Dean nodded and gave a sigh, reaching again for the laces of his steel-toed boots. "Toss me the remote – let's see what's on TV. We've got all kinds of season finales comin' up in the next little while," he said, practically rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Laughing, Sam threw the controller to his brother. "Need to catch up on your soaps?"

"No daytime TV, bro – that stuff will rot your brain," Dean deadpanned. "Educational television only," he said seriously.

"CSI? Law & Order? Stargate?"

"Dude. Those guys have impeccable skills of deduction and investigation. I learn something new every time."

"Impeccable?" Sam smirked.

"You're not the only one who can use four-syllable words, college boy."

"Sorry. Just more used to hearing the four-letter ones from you."

Dean looked insulted. "There's more than one way to get an education – and I'd bet good money my vocabulary is larger than yours."

"More creative at least."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Dean, unable to keep a smirk of his own off of his face.

Sitting against the headboard, Dean channel surfed at a pace Sam considered dizzying. He stopped on the X-Files. "Ah, the good old Chupacabra."

"You've seen this one a million times, Dean."

"I know – and every time it just gets better. You gotta admire people who can deal with extra-terrestrial mold. Nasty."

"Demons and poltergeists, but no mold?"

"Nope. That's what we've got Mulder and Scully for. And they're so cute together," he sighed, grabbing another pillow and stuffing it behind him as he settled in.

"I did not just hear you say that," gasped Sam.

"What?"

"You're a 'shipper!"

"Huh?"

"For Jess it was Bobby and Alex … I really never pegged you, man." Sam was laughing, hard.

Dean looked at him as though he'd grown a second set of arms and turned back to the television. "Whatever, dude." A commercial came on, and Dean began to flip again.

"Change your mind?"

"What?"

Sam shook his head. Dean's almost super-human powers of observation where definitely dulled when the remote was in his hand. "I thought you were gonna watch X-Files."

"Gotta have a back up, Sammy," Dean said, giving his little brother a look of disgust. "Didn't Dad teach you anything?"

Sam gave Dean a blank look, totally lost.

"Well, he might not have realized it applied to my viewing habits, but I hate wasting my life on commercials – so I always have a back up show. During X-Files commercials, I watch something else, and during those commercials, I watch X-Files. Perfect," he smiled at Sam, who was completely speechless.

"You're sick," said Sam, finding his voice.

"Hey, I offered to let you choose – if you're not gonna vote, shut up."

"Whatever," Sam muttered, reaching for the laptop. "Happy birthday to me."

"And many more, on channel four and Scooby Doo, on channel two…"

Following the X-Files re-run and Bones, Dean had moved on to Charmed and CSI:Miami re-runs, followed by a creepy Sci-Fi Channel original movie and Crossing Jordan. Turning the TV off, he stretched and stood up. Glancing over at Sam, who was focused on the computer screen, he noted that his little brother's head was nodding.

"Ready for sleep, bro?"

Sam's huge yawn seemed to swallow his face and then he nodded and sat up. " Yeah." He reached over and grabbed his duffle, setting it on the bed and rifling for something to wear to bed. "How early do you want to get out of here tomorrow?"

"As soon as we can. The road is callin', man," Dean grinned. "Go ahead and do your thing first," he said, motioning toward the bathroom. "I'm gonna check my email.

Sam's eyebrows shut up, hiding themselves in his artistically shaggy hair. "Your email?"

"Yes. Even I've got mail, dude – now go brush your teeth," Dean said with a testy tone.

Shaking with not-so-silent laughter, Sam walked by as Dean picked up the laptop and settled himself on the bed with it.

"I won't be long, so if you need any help…"

Dean glared at him and threw a pillow, only to have it hit the door as it closed on Sam's smirk. He sighed and waited for a moment, listening for the sink to turn on and when he heard it, he set the laptop on the table and was over at his own duffle in two strides. Looking at his watch he moved quickly, removing a flat package wrapped in plain blue paper, a silver ribbon tied simply around it. Furtively checking the door, he retrieved his own flannel pajama bottoms and shed his jeans and t-shirt in favor of them.

He stuck the gift under the far pillow on Sam's bed, hit the lights and climbed into his own bed, hunkering down and pulling the covers up high, waiting for the sound of the bathroom door.

Even the years that Sam was at Stanford – even the years they were not speaking – this ritual had been a bottom-line, grounding ritual for Dean. It had started when Sammy was five and had told Dean he wanted a particular book while they hung out at Wal-Mart one Saturday in April. It was wrapped and on the table for the boy's birthday a few weeks later, and the delight on his little brother's face was something Dean would never forget. And it was something he strove to duplicate every year for Sam's birthday.

He didn't know if it mattered to Sam as much as it did to him – but after today, he had the feeling that it had made a difference. Especially those years while they were apart, and the plain, brown paper packages had arrived at wherever Sam was living…no return address, no card. It had been the only way Dean could think of to wedge the door between them open when it seemed to him that Sam was using every ounce of muscle he had to lock that door up tight. Dean loved his family and he let himself remember that with a flourish of rare sentimentality on Sam's birthday.

A sliver of light shone briefly and then it went out and Dean heard Sam padding quietly across the carpet, the springs of the bed creaking as he climbed in. He listened to the sounds of Sam settling in – his baby brother was like a bird building a nest at bedtime. Everything had to be just so, or Sam couldn't get a night's rest worth a hill of beans. Dean smiled to himself and thought for the thousandth time that someday, he'd buy Sammy a bed sized especially for giants so that the kid didn't have to sleep diagonally.

"Dean? You awake?"

Not answering, Dean focused on keeping his breath even and himself still.

"Dean?"

Still no answer.

"Goodnight, man."

Dean began to snore softly, just enough to prove the point, not enough to sound fake.

"Thanks for the day, bro," Sam chuckled quietly.

Dean waited, counting seconds, and right on cue, he heard a stifled exclamation of pain. Sam had turned over. The bedside light came on and he heard the sound of the wrapping paper being opened stealthily. Such a considerate guy, that Sam. The silence that ensued was broken only but the rustling of turning pages, and Dean allowed himself a satisfied grin as he heard Sam adjust the pillows and the light burned on.