They were in Massachusetts the year that Sammy turned five. It was August, but it wasn't hot—Dad said it was because they were so close to the water. Dean figured he was right, because the breeze blew cool against his skin right off the harbor as he and Sammy walked down the main strip of town. It was a small place, comfortable, full of little shops and elderly people. Dean thought it was one of the most boring towns they'd ever been too, but if it meant that he and Sammy didn't have to stay in the house the whole time they were there than he wouldn't complain.

It was also Sammy's first day of school ever and he was visibly nervous, even though he'd gabbed all night about how excited he was to finally meet some kids his own age. But now, in the sleepy morning air, he was extra quiet, the only sounds between them the birds by the bay. His palm was sweaty and it was slick against Dean's own hand, and Dean gripped it tighter, looking down at him.

"What's the matter, Sammy?"

"Can we go back home, Dee?"

Sammy rarely called him that anymore; only when he was scared, or upset, or when he'd done something he didn't want Dean to find out about. Dean stopped where they were on the sidewalk, pulling his little brother gently toward the brick buildings. Sammy looked up at him with tear-stained cheeks and bit his lip, which was slowly starting to tremble.

"Why? I thought you were excited about your first day of school."

Sammy shook his head. "Not anymore."

Dean sat down on the sidewalk and pulled Sammy into his lap. He realized it probably looked weird, but no one was out at this hour anyway and he honestly didn't care if there was. Dean's shirt soaked up some of the excess moisture when Sammy laid his head on Dean's chest, the tears seeping through the fabric and onto his skin. Dean remembered his first day of school; he was terrified. But it was definitely not for the reasons that Sammy was. On Dean's first day of school he cried the whole bus ride there because he was worried that Uncle Bobby wouldn't know how to take care of Sammy the right way, and that something bad might happen to him while Dean was gone.

"Why not?"

Sam shrugged. "Cause what if nobody'll play with me?"

Dean smiled; Sam's worries were so far from the anxiety that he'd experienced on his first day that it was hard to believe they were talking about the same scenario—but little Sammy was obviously scared so Dean had to pull him in closer, hugged him a little tighter. Sam's muscles relaxed a little and his breathing started to smooth out, and Dean blamed it all on Sesame Street for filling the kid's brain with unreasonable expectations about friends.

He kissed Sam on the top of the head and pulled them both to their feet. "Sammy, you're gonna have the best first day ever."

"How do you know?"

"Remember when you said you were too scared to play in the water when we went to the beach? And I told you to trust me, that you'd love it?"

"Yeah..."

"Well, Sammy, I know this is scary, but you have to trust me again. I know you'll like it. You'll have tons of other kids to play with and if it gets too bad you can have a teacher come and get me. I'll just be right down the hall."

He didn't say anything, but wiped his eyes. "Okay, Dean."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, and Sam's hand was still just as sweaty, but he wasn't crying anymore. When they got into the building Sam's grip tightened as Dean walked him to his classroom. The teacher was standing outside, greeting the parents and new children with a big smile. She gave Dean a questioning look but didn't say anything, and Dean knew it was because she was wondering where Sammy's parents were—Dean was getting used to these situations.

"Hi there! What's your name?"

Sam didn't respond, just looked down at his shoes. Dean nudged him. "Hey buddy, she asked you a question."

"Sammy," he muttered.

"Well hi, Sammy. It's very nice to meet you. Why don't you go inside and hang up your backpack, and then you can play with the other kids until we get started."

Sammy turned and squeezed Dean around the legs, his head resting on Dean's stomach. "Promise you'll be here to get me when it's over?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I promise I'll be here. You know I will."

Sammy nodded and walked inside slowly, like he was marching on death row. Dean was slightly worried but he had to smile. Sammy was dramatic, way more than Dean ever was. But Sammy was also going to have a blast—lately all he talked about was meeting a friend, and now he was gonna get that opportunity.

After school Dean walked to Sammy's classroom and grinned when he saw him talking to another little boy. He was showing Sammy his backpack, his hands moving excitedly as he no doubt explained how awesome he thought E.T. was. Sammy was nodding his head intently, listening to everything the other boy said, smiling quietly. He didn't notice when Dean walked up and put his hand on his shoulder.

"Dean!" Sam turned around and waved goodbye to his new friend. "This is my big brother, Dean. He's here to get me."

"Okay, bye Sammy!"

"See ya, Mark!"

"So, how was your first day?" he asked, taking Sam by the hand.

"You were right, Dean. It was great! I'm gonna learn all my numbers and how to read and stuff. But I already know my letters cause you showed me and some of the other kids didn't," he said, clearly proud of himself.

"See, told you. I'm always right, squirt. Remember that."

"Shut up," he grinned. "Oh, and one of my new friends knows karate. Cool, huh? Do you think I could do karate?"

"I dunno, Sammy, you're pretty scrawny."

He gave Dean a dirty look, but it didn't last. They walked home like that, Sammy gushing nonstop about his first day of school and all the new friends he met, how he liked his teacher and that they had a pet turtle—which led to the question of 'why can't we have a pet turtle?' and on and on.

"Hey Dean, did you make any new friends?"

"Sure, lots of 'em," he lied.

Dean thought about his first day of school, and how he hadn't really talked to anybody; he wasn't sure how to relate to other kids. They spent their free time playing games and eating candy. Dean on the hand, he spent his free time taking care of his little brother, running laps, and, when his dad was home, practicing his shooting on old bottles. Sammy hated when they did that because he wasn't allowed to do it yet. To keep him quiet Dean bought him a squirt gun to 'practice' with. That satisfied him for the time being, and it kept him from getting lectured by their dad when he repeatedly questioned why he wasn't allowed to do what Dean did.

Sam slung his backpack and jacket on the chair when he came in, immediately running toward the television. He liked to watch Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Dean thought it was stupid, and he'd said so a few times, but he didn't have the heart to make Sammy change the channel. But seriously, what kid prefers that weirdo show to something cool like G.I. Joe? Sammy did.

"What do you want? Peanut butter and jelly or a T.V. Dinner?"

"Will you make me a grilled cheese?"

Dean sighed. "Not tonight, Sammy. I have some homework I need to get done, plus Dad wants me to run a few laps."

"But Dean...I really want one."

"Sorry, kiddo. And don't whine—you know Dad hates it when you whine."

"Dad's not here." He grumbled. "And I don't whine."

Dean rolled his eyes, mostly because Sammy was the king of whining right now. "Yes, you do princess."

"I'll make my own grilled cheese."

"No you won't—stay outta the kitchen. I don't want to be homeless till Dad gets back because you burned the place down."

"You cooked when you were my age."

"I did a lot of things when I was your age."

"I know, that's my point."

"It's perks of being the big brother." But in fact it didn't feel much like perks to Dean sometimes.

Sam groaned, muttering something about how terrible it was to be the youngest. "I'm not hungry, then."

"Sammy, you have to eat something."

He sighed, a look on his face like he'd just been denied parole. "Okay, Dean. I'll have a T.V. dinner."

Sam could already be argumentative, but he usually caved if Dean kept an even tone with him. The problem was that when Sammy caved, Dean caved too—those big hazel eyes could make him give Sammy anything when they welled up with sadness. If Sammy had thrown a fit, he would've gotten a damn T.V. dinner; but since he was so sullen and cute, Dean was gonna make him that stupid grilled cheese, even though he really, really didn't want to.

Dean glanced into the living room. Sammy was watching that silly cartoon, a hint of defeat on his face. Dean rolled his eyes—usually Sam would demand to help in the kitchen, and he was getting better at not getting in Dean's way as much, but now he was mad. So Dean left him alone—he didn't like it when Sammy got near the stove anyway, ever since that one time he burned his fingers reaching for a hot pan when Dean wasn't looking.

"Dinner, Sammy."

Sam sulked to the table until he saw the sandwich sitting there, steam rolling off the bread. He looked up at Dean then, his smile bright, like Dean had just gotten him the pet he'd always wanted or something, and Dean smiled back, unable to feel any more annoyance at his little brother. Sammy ran up to him and circled his little arms around Dean. Dean hugged him back.

"Okay, enough hugging. Eat, midget."

"Thanks, Dean!"

"Yeah, yeah."

Dean made himself a T.V. dinner. He slid into a chair beside Sammy, eating the mashed potatoes and corn with a grin on his face. He was thankful Sammy wasn't so messy at dinner anymore. Sometimes his face would get a little dirty, but at least everything stayed on his plate now—for the most part. Dean was amazed he could keep his food in his mouth, since Sammy was talking the entire time he ate, relaying to Dean really important things, like how a little girl peed her pants in class because she was so nervous, and how he was the only kid whose big brother would be caught dead walking them to class, and how everyone else was so jealous.

Dean smiled. "Okay, Sammy. I gotta run a few laps. I want you to make sure the salt lines are good and don't move from that couch until I get back. Understand?"

"What if I have to go to the bathroom?"

"Go now."

"I don't have to go now."

"Sammy—please be good while I'm gone. I won't be long, okay?"

"Okay, Dean."

Dean waited until he heard Sam pour salt along the door frame before he left. He liked running; when he ran he could pretend he didn't have any responsibilities, and he could be alone for a little while—which, even though it made him feel a little guilty, he liked it sometimes. He didn't need to talk; he could just listen to the crunch of the gravel beneath his worn-out sneakers, the thud of his heart inside his chest, and his breathing, controlled and steady, as the houses blurred around him.

When he got back Sammy was sitting in the living room floor, playing with Dean's old army men. He had them set up in rows, facing each other, poised for battle. He looked up when Dean came in and smiled brightly. Dean wiped the sweat off his forehead, re-laid a salt line, and sat down on the couch. He wanted to get his homework done asap—it wasn't much, but homework always sucked.

"Will you play with me, Dean?"

"In a little bit."

"But my men are going to war now. I need backup. You have to be the bad guys, kay?"

"Go put the dishes in the sink and wipe off the table while you wait on me. I'll be done in a minute."

Sam stomped his foot and crossed his arms. "This is real important, Dean. I can do that stuff later."

Dean arched his eyebrow. "Sam, you're old enough to clean up a little. I said I'd play with you when I'm done."

He opened his mouth like he might protest, but Dean gave him the look, which was a new face he'd developed when Sam turned four. It usually worked, though Dean didn't really know why—it wasn't like he ever followed it up with anything—but he wasn't complaining. He just planned to milk it while it lasted, since he had no idea how long it would.

Sam sulked into the kitchen. He made sure to be extra loud and whiney, but Dean just ignored him. Sammy would get over it as soon as Dean started playing with him. Besides—it wasn't like Dean wanted to do his homework. He had to, or their dad would get a phone call and Dean would get—well, Dean didn't like thinking about what he'd get. His dad said they had to keep a low profile, and that mean not getting noticed for dumb things like not doing homework.

Since Sammy was so cranky he was deliberately slow, which gave Dean plenty of time to finish up. He sat down in the floor next to the 'bad guys,' and started setting up more men. Dean was right; when Sammy came back he already had a smile on his face at the sight of Dean ready to play.

Dean liked these times with his little brother; they were easy and they were fun, and he knew that as Sammy got older they would become few and further between, because Dad didn't expect just Dean to become skilled and practiced—he'd expect it from Sammy too. Sometimes that made Dean sad to think about. There was something dark between him and his father, a secret that they loathed, that ate them up at night. But Sammy didn't share it yet. And because he didn't, Dean could be different around him. There was no need to be sad, or angry, or scared around Sammy—because Sammy wouldn't understand it even if he was.

"Dean, you have to die—everybody knows the bad guys always lose."

"That's not always true, Sammy."

He said it before he could stop himself, and the bitter truth of it made his mouth dry. He pictured his mom on the ceiling, something he hadn't done in a long time, and it made him want to cry. But Sammy didn't seem to notice, just arched an eyebrow at Dean, and sighted every cartoon or movie he'd seen as evidence to back up his point. Dean didn't want to be right about it anyway, and there was no need for Sammy to know that Dean had a point, so he conceded that his brother was right. Sammy was pleased to say the least.

"Okay, dude. Clean this up and I'll go run some bath water."

Sam sighed. "Okay...will you make lots of bubbles?"

"Yep."

Dean still loved taking a bath with Sammy. Now mostly because he knew he wouldn't be able to do it for much longer, because they were getting older. Their dad didn't really like them doing it right now, but he let them anyway—Dean thought it was mostly because he didn't want to wash Sammy's hair. Dad always managed to get the soap in his eyes and Sammy would cry, and so he always wanted Dean to do it. Dean didn't mind it so much.

They set some army men that Sammy had smuggled into the bathroom along the edge of the tub. Dean threw a 'grenade' and made them fly into the water, because they made little plopping sounds and splashed them in the face. Sammy loved it. Sometimes they would have contests at who could hold their breath the longest—Dean always won and he told Sammy it was because he was the biggest, and the biggest always wins. Sammy would argue that one day he might be the biggest, but Dean would just laugh and tell him no way.

"Okay, Sammy, let's wash your hair."

"I can do it, Dean."

"Sure, just let me help, okay?"

"Dean, I'm a big kid now. I go to school."

"I know dude," he said, as he squirted a dollop of shampoo into Sammy's hand.

Sam lifted his hand up and a thing, gooey line of it ran down his arm. He glanced at Dean, perplexed, but unwilling to ask for help out loud. Dean rolled his eyes and scraped it off Sammy's body and plopped it into his hair. He nodded, indicating to his little brother to start rubbing it in. Sammy grinned because he was still doing it mostly by himself. Dean scrubbed the parts he missed, and rinsed it out. At least Sammy didn't fight him on washing his hair lately. Ugh, the terrible threes and fours.

Sammy insisted on washing his body alone, and Dean let him—for the most part. He wouldn't get behind his ears or his face if it was up to him, but Dean made sure it got done. When they got out Dean wrapped a towel around himself and held one open for Sammy, who walked into it shivering. Sammy could dry himself off now, but still needed help with his hair—their dad was threatening to make him cute it but he hadn't yet, because every time he mentioned it Sammy put on his saddest face. It was like kryptonite for both of them.

They put on their pajamas—Sammy's once belonged to Dean, and Dean's once belonged to whoever had donated them to the army surplus store. But Sammy liked them because they had pictures of the ninja turtles on them, which was probably one of the only cool shows he liked to watch. Sammy was kind of a dork, after all.

"Make sure you brush behind your teeth too, Sammy."

"I know, Dean," he grumbled. "I don't like this toothpaste."

"Too bad."

"It's gross...can we get a different kind? I'll brush my teeth then."

"Sammy, you know we can't afford it. Dad buys whatever's on sale."

"But Tommy has Thundercat toothpaste."

"Sorry, dude. It's what we got. Now hold out your toothbrush."

"I can do it, Dean. Let me try."

"No, I don't feel like cleaning it up when you squirt too much."

"I won't, just let me do it."

Sammy was trying so hard to be independent these days. Dean hated it—he wasn't sure if it was because he felt like Sammy didn't need him as much, or if it was because it was more trouble than if Dean just did it for him. But Sammy was looking up at him again, pouting just enough to be cute, so Dean relented.

"Okay, but don't make a mess."

He grinned and grabbed the tube from Dean's hands, eagerly opening it. "Uh, oh."

Sammy's eyes grew wide as he looked back from Dean to his hand. A glob of toothpaste dropped from his brush to the floor, making a plop as it landed in a little puddle. Sammy had toothpaste on his fingers too. He just sat there staring at it, biting his lip. Dean resisted the urge to yell at him, knowing that Sammy didn't deal very well when their dad yelled. Instead he just sighed and grabbed a rag.

"Sorry, Dee."

"It's okay, Sammy."

After Dean cleaned everything up they finished brushing their teeth. He ushered Sammy into the bedroom, eager for him to go to sleep so that he could go watch some T.V. If he tried to do it while his little brother was awake, Sammy would either throw a fit about being big enough to stay up too, or he would wine that he was too scared to sleep alone.

"Will you read me a story? I got to get a book from the library."

"It's time for us to go to bed."

"Please, Dee? You've never read me a story before."

He knew he wasn't really going to say no, even though he was going to miss Saved by the Bell. He nodded a 'yes,' and Sammy jumped off the bed, grinning widely. Dean smiled when he saw what book Sammy had. It was Harold and the Purple Crayon. Dean loved that book when he was a kid. Harold could do whatever he wanted—all he had to do was draw it. When Dean was Sammy's age he'd wished he was Harold. Sammy crawled into bed beside Dean and handed him the book, resting his head on Dean's chest as he did.

"One day, Harold decided to go for a walk in the moonlight—"

Dean got to page six before he heard Sammy's breathing getting deeper. When he looked down his little brother was out, a little slither of drool on the corner of his mouth. Dean shook his head and smiled, wiping the drool away with his finger. He decided maybe he wouldn't watch Saved by the Bell after all. He didn't want to wake Sammy, and it was a good excuse for them to not have to sleep in separate beds. Even though Dean was a big kid, he still missed his mom at night sometimes, especially when their dad was gone for more than a couple of days.

He sat the book down on the nightstand and flicked off the light, snuggling into the covers. Sammy's head was still resting in the crook of his arm and he liked it. He could smell the shampoo in his hair every time he breathed in, and it made him feel a little better. It wasn't so lonely with a warm body next to him. He also secretly relished their closeness, knowing that sooner or later Sammy would get too big for this kind of thing. But right now he was still little, and Dean was going to enjoy it while it lasted.