"Dad, can you help me?" Sam asked. He just got home from school and he needs help with some algebra, even though he doesn't need to do the work, and plus he's a smart kid. He doesn't need any help, does he?

John looked at his boy and looked back at the newspaper in his hand, colored with red circles everywhere. He takes the cap of his red pen out of his mouth and starts speaking, "Why don't you ask Dean?" he asked, his voice sounding deep and gruff as usual. The way he asked made the look on Sam's face waver, even though John was seriously wondering why he didn't ask Dean. He would usually ask Dean, wouldn't he?

"He said he's busy." John gave a light scoff.

"Busy with what?" Sam shrugged.

"He was busy filling the bullets with rock salt. Anyways, can you help me . . . Please?" Sam asked. He gave his father the puppy-dog eyes and we all know that no one can resist Sammy Winchester's puppy-dog eyes, though it's too bad, because his older brother used to be a sucker for 'em.

John sighed, a small smile drawing across his face. "Alright, kiddo. Take a seat." Sam wanted to jump excitedly but he knew it'd be childish, and his dad could probably only stand his cuteness once a day, or maybe never. He knows Dean cannot and would not stand for it anymore. He tells him to get down to business, or even worse, when Dean stared at him with a cold, icy glare.

Which sucks because, every time when Sam looked into his brother's eyes, a perfect green that matches the leaves in the sunlight, he used to feel relaxed and safe and comforted. Now, you know, he still feels safe, it's just that his brother doesn't seem like the type of person who would console him anymore.

Sam was able to finish his math problem in two seconds-tops. John gave a small smirk of pride. He knew his son knew the answer, honestly, he wondered why a fourteen-year-old would receive such a hard question as that. But he knew Sam was smarter than a regular fourteen-year-old . . . he almost felt guilty that his son had become so smart, that he has to pretend he doesn't know things. And he's ashamed because he knows why Sam pretends.

The boy just wants to get his brother's attention.

Sam leaves the table, just before giving his dad a playful salute but then turning all serious he says, "Thank you, Sir," and heads off to the main room of their motel to put away his homework. He quickly decides to pull on his boots and heads outside to the parking lot to chill with the Impala. Since Dean was busy with the guns, Sam might as well give their baby a nice wash, 'cause on the last hunt they've been on, JEEZ—the mudslide they've been through!

Sam borrows a bucket from the main desk and dish detergent from the janitor's closet. He grabs the rag from the trunk used to clean the Impala and then he starts to dip and splat on the hood while humming one of the songs he's learned by heart from the one and only Dean Winchester who taught him how to sing it and wing it.

It takes him almost two hours to scrub off all of the dried mud and he just hopes that when Baby dries, she's spotless and shiny but that doesn't look like it's going to be the case. So Sam spends another hour rewashing the Impala, going over every single part, including the edge of the windows with the crusty parts, and the insides of her beautiful wheels.

By the time he's called back into their motel room, he notices that it's already 8:30 p.m. and Dean had already made them dinner: lasagna with two bottles of beer and one glass of milk. Sam knows not to keep Dean waiting, but the only gratitude he's received from his brother was a look in the eye that wasn't as fearful as he'd thought it'd be. He was glad, which meant that Dean let him off the hook for keeping them waiting for half an hour to eat. The Impala meant everything to the Winchesters, she was family. Cleaning her was not only a job, it was a given, and a treatment, a spa treatment, let her relax and purr as her engines roar!

After dinner, Sam stayed up for another hour or two watching old cartoons on the cheap TV they had. Dad had already gone to bed and Dean was sitting in the corner reading a book. Sam would glance from time to time at his brother and silently wish for him to come and watch TV with him, or sit down next to him, at least a little bit of acknowledgement from him. But he got nothing.

Dean had sneezed once and Sam said, "God bless you," and then Dean sent a glare at him. His older brother looked back at his page in his book before saying, "There is no God." Sam became sad instantly and turned the volume down as he slumped on the couch, trying to hide his head from his brother's line of vision.

"Sorry," he muttered, "'Forgot."

And once again, back to square one, getting nowhere near Dean, not even close. In fact, he had just pushed him away again. Of course Dean would say there is no God. They've lost a couple of people over the years, but the most important was their mom. Sam doesn't even know her, but she meant a lot to Dean. He could only imagine nights where Dean had prayed to God, hoping the Big Man would hear him and bring his mother back. But that never happened.

Sam would sometimes and almost all the time, pray to God, hoping for some chance to one day click a connection between him and Dean again. They were brothers, yes, but that connection, that brotherly bond, Dean threw it out. But then once a while, Sam would just look at his brother and smile sadly.

"At least he still has my amulet," Sam would say, giving one last look to the small pendent around his brother's neck before walking away.

Sam snaps out of his little daze before standing up slowly, stretching out his tired body. He looks at Dean. Even though they both share a room, a simple conversation never holds up for even five minutes before its lights out. Sam's hand is on the knob for the door to their bedroom. "G'night, Dean," he says. His brother just nods, not looking away from his book. Sam opens the door and looks back at his brother. "Love you," he says softly. Dean nods again. Sam looks down at the floor as he walks into the dark room and flops onto his bed, welcoming his soft pillow to help him dream of times where he and Dean were buddy-buddy and even cuddly-cuddly.

Well, I've been under a rock for a very long time! This is it for now but there will be a part two to this chapter. I want to thank Carrie (Guest) for your review, I loved it and I made this as soon as I read your review. You, *wink*, are an inspiration! I hope I can make this as much to your liking but since I like your suggestion as well, I'm not going to hold back (maybe a little, but, you know!).

Please! Review! Favorite! And Follow!

Tell me some more about what you think of "Distant Soldier" or "Distant Dean!" Any suggestions? Anything you like? Let me know, por favor! All ears!