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It was 1992, the middle of winter, and they were deep in the heart of Alabama, holed up in a crappy little motel room that didn't even have a working T.V. If Dean jiggled the antenna just right they could get one channel, and it was a stupid religious one with some pastor talking to a crowd of people about salvation and the love of Jesus Christ.

Dean just rolled his eyes because the night before, Sammy had seemed to be halfway interested in it. He wanted to tell his little brother that it was all a load of bullshit, that there was no such thing as a greater good or a God or even angels—just evil and chaos; but when he looked at Sam's-still-sort-of-innocent face, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

1992—Dean would remember that year for a lot of reasons; it was the year he did his first salt and burn by himself—well, almost—Dad still supervised; the year he broke his shooting record during target practice; and the year he kissed three girls in the same town; but most importantly, it was the one year he felt like Sam's hero. Sure, Sam had always looked up to him and would for many years to come, but this year was still special. Anything Dean did that year was awesome, anything he said taken as fact, and anywhere he went Sam was right behind him.

It wasn't clear to him then, but looking back he realized that Sam's devotion was probably a combination of several things; Sam was starting to think of Dad as a prison warden or drill sergeant instead of a father; Dean was becoming his cool, teenage brother—who let him get away with just the right amount of stuff; and their dad hadn't started comparing Sam's ideals and actions to Dean's yet.

"Not bad, Sammy. Let's try it again. This time try to remember not to leave yourself open, even if ya think you've got the upper hand."

"Got it."

It was just past Christmas. Dean was one month away from being fourteen and he'd hit his first big growth spurt, giving him several more inches on Sam. It made sparring with his brother seem a little uneven, but he figured it wasn't much different than Dean sparring with their dad. He went easier on Sam than their father had gone on him, but he didn't tell either of them that—Dad would be mad because Dean was 'babying' Sammy again, and Sam would be mad because Dean was 'treating him like a little kid'—which, in Dean's opinion, Sam was a little kid.

Sam was a quick learner though—at pretty much anything he ever tried. Dean figured it was a combination of how smart, stubborn, and focused he was. It also didn't hurt that everything he did now he wanted Dean to see and applaud him for, which didn't bother Dean at all, really. In fact he sort of loved it, but he tried to redirect Sammy to Dad when he was home because of the face that their father made; Dean wouldn't call it sad, exactly, more like resigned, but Dean still hated it.

"I did it! Did you see? Well of course you saw..."

Dean smiled. "Yeah, Sammy, I saw. Nice job, dude. You'll have to show Dad your badass right hook."

Sam just grinned, soaking in the praise. Their dad would be proud of Sam for practicing, but Dean could just hear him picking at some of the mistakes his little brother had made. Sam would take it personally and probably sulk because it'd hurt his feelings, and Dad would be oblivious because Dean took criticism so well and he'd just assume Sam did too.

It wasn't to be mean, really. It was just that he was so preoccupied with 'the job,' that he wouldn't notice. Even if he did, Dean was pretty sure it'd just cause an argument because he just wanted them to be the best; it was the only way they'd be safe. So Dean would make sure Sam had it one hundred percent before he'd let him show their dad.

They had plenty of time for Sam to perfect it; their dad was away on yet another hunting trip, which wasn't unusual. There was a clear pattern; the older they got, the more time their dad spent hunting and training, and less time staying home, with them. This time he said it was going to be a quick one, so he didn't bother getting them an apartment, just shuffled them into the first motel they saw when they got into town. Dean was fine with that; Alabama sucked, except for the fact that the girl's accents were kinda cute.

He'd actually wanted to go with their dad but he figured he should stay behind this time; Sammy wouldn't admit it, but he was still needy from the first time Dean went with Dad. As soon as they'd gotten back Dean had found himself with an armful of Sammy, and he'd been a little clingy ever since. When Dean said he was staying this time around their dad gave Dean 'the look,' which meant he didn't approve, not really, but it wasn't important enough to push it.

Dean's excuse had been that he wanted to make sure he didn't have to miss school in case the hunt ran longer than expected. The three of them knew it was crap, but luckily Sam didn't push either—which was exactly how Dean knew for sure it was the right decision; normally Sammy would accuse Dean of infantilizing him. But this time he'd visibly sighed with relief, and he'd been stuck like superglue go Dean ever since.

Dean ruffled Sam's hair, not at all eager to do what he had to do next. "I'll be back in a few hours, Sam. You know the drill."

"Wait, where are you goin?" He was a little breathless, sweat dripping down his forehead because of the sparring session. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and continued to stare up at Dean.

"I got a couple of things I need to do—like get dinner for you."

"I'll come too."

Sam was across the room and grabbing his sneakers. "Not this time, dude."

Sam paused but didn't drop the shoe, just held it up to his foot, considering. The look he gave Dean was, at this point, perfectly patented and ridiculously sad and cute at the same time. "Why not?"

Dean sighed. He didn't have a good lie for this and he hate lying to Sam anyway. "Because, Sammy..." Sam just looked at him, expectantly. Dean figured he should probably just tell Sam the truth, but for some reason he didn't want to.

"Why, Dean?" He repeated.

"Okay, here's the deal. I need to get some money before I can get us food, okay?"

Sam stared at him with the same face, but cocked an eyebrow slightly. Dean tried to keep this stuff to himself, he really did. It was just easier to let Sammy think that everything was taken care of, because honestly it was—Dean always took care of it. The hunt their dad was on was already taking longer than expected; it was supposed to be two days max, and it was already bordering on four. Dad had left them enough food for three days and pretty much no money because he hadn't intended to be gone long. He hadn't even left them any emergency funds. Dean was trying his best not to worry, because honestly this wasn't the first time, but it still made him uneasy.

It just happened sometimes; it was just that Sam didn't know it. Dean was good at keeping his extracurricular money-making activities a secret. He usually accomplished it by cutting class or going out at lunch, times when Sam was otherwise occupied. He was kinda stuck right now—he didn't wanna hurt Sam's feelings by saying he just didn't want him there because that wasn't true anyway, but he also didn't want Sam to be there in case things went south. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been punched in the face over a pool game, but that didn't mean he wanted Sam to see it or risk his brother being sucked into a fight with older kids.

He sighed—truth. "Look, I'm gonna go hustle some pool."

"Hustle pool...why?" Sam said slowly, like he didn't understand or there was a crucial piece missing to this puzzle.

"Come on, Sammy you're smart. We need food—that costs money. So I'm gonna go get us some money."

Sam looked unsatisfied with the answer but didn't say anything. Instead, he started putting on his shoes again. "Sam, you're not going. You heard what I said."

"But Dean I—"

"No. That's it—end of discussion. I won't have you getting hurt, Sam. It'll probably be fine, but in case things go bad I don't want you there. Stay here and do your homework."

"I don't have homework—I already did it."

Dean sighed. Of course he did. "Read then...or build a snowman."

The look Sam gave him then could've melted metal. "But what if you get hurt? I'd need to be there to help you...or help you fight if you get in trouble."

"Sam," it came out a little harsher than he'd intended, and Sam flinched. He felt bad immediately and softened his voice. "I know you wanna help, but this isn't the first time I've had to do this and it won't be the last. Don't worry about it, okay? I'll be back in a couple hours."

He ignored Sam's glare, muttered a 'bye,' and waited until he heard Sam lay the salt line at the door before he left. He wanted to make sure Sam was safe and that he didn't follow Dean, which was total Sam thing to do. Dean hated leaving him behind, especially since he was probably going to stay worried, but really he didn't have another choice.

Dean was lucky; there was one pool hall in the entire town, and it was only about a two mile walk from the motel. He really wished they had busses in this town, but then again it wasn't like he had the money for the fare, so it was just as well. Dean hoped that there would be people there—it was shitty outside and he wasn't sure that the kids in this town understood what fun was; it just seemed like the go-to-church-come-home-and-tip-some-cows-and-call-it-a-day kind of place.

Luckily there were people there—a few teens his age and one young adult duo in the corner of the room. He didn't exactly clean house, but he didn't do too badly either—one hundred bucks. Dean could've stretched it for at least a week if he wouldn't have had to pay for another night at the hotel. Still, it was enough to feed them for at least two more days so Dean would take it.

He shivered, pulling his jacket tighter around him. He didn't have a coat anymore, he'd outgrown it, and he didn't want to ask his dad for another one yet. It'd been a tough year for them and he figured he could deal with it for a little while longer. But it was starting to get dark and the sun was going down, the snow falling briskly. Dean knew he needed to hurry, or Sammy would freak out—plus he was freezing.

"Dean! It's snowing like crazy out there and you've been gone forever."

"Chill, Sammy."

"Did you have ta fight?"

Dean grinned. "No, just had to win this time."

Outside the window Dean saw that Sam was right, it was snowing hard. He hadn't noticed it so much on the way home because he was preoccupied with getting back quickly. Well, shit. How was he supposed to get them dinner now? There was no way they could go out in that weather, and Sam would flip if he left without him again.

"Did you take a shower?"

"No...I was reading research in case Dad called. Have you heard from him?"

"Not in a coupla days. He's okay, Sammy. Probably just busy right now."

Sam looked skeptical. "Yeah, I guess. So how much do you do that? Hustle pool for us?"

"Just when we run low. Don't worry about it, dude. I got it covered." Dean didn't want Sam worrying about stuff like that; those were his problems—it was his job to look after Sammy, not the other way around.

"I know, but I wanna help."

"You know how you can help?"

Sam perked up, listening intently. "Yeah."

"Take a shower. You totally stink."

"Dean, I'm n—"

"Not a little kid," Dean finished for him. "I know, Sam. Now for real, get in the shower before I decide to take all the hot water." Sam grumbled but did it. Dean sighed, thankful his little brother didn't keep going with it—this was Dean's lucky year, after all.

When Dean heard the water start he made his way into the kitchen, hoping they had something he could make for dinner. They didn't have the money to order a pizza and pay a delivery fee, not really, unless Dean wanted to hustle again, but he really didn't like pushing his luck for two days in a row. Plus he was pretty sure he'd get his ass kicked if he tried to do it too soon. He pulled off the cute, lucky kid today, but it wouldn't work twice—he knew that from experience.

After digging through the fridge and the one cabinet in the room, prospects were low; they had one can of Spaghetti-o's, two pieces of bread, an apple, and a half a gallon of orange juice. Dean sighed. They'd want breakfast, so he'd save the bread for toast in the morning and split the apple between them. At least they'd have orange juice, but it sucked that there wasn't any butter.

He made the Spaghetti-o's in the microwave and dropped the bowl onto the table with a glass of water just as Sam was coming out of the bathroom. He was wearing another pair of Dean's old pajama's; they were flannel and warm, even though they were old, but they almost swallowed his little brother. Sammy was still small for his age and Dean just kept growing. He figured it was just a matter of time before his brother caught up with him, but he enjoyed Sammy being that size.

"Eat up. I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam looked from the bowl to Dean, a confused and concerned expression on his face. "What are you gonna eat?"

"Dude I already ate. Grabbed a sandwich at the pool hall," Dean lied.

A look of relief flashed on Sam's face and Dean smiled. Sam dropped into the chair and started shoveling the soup into his mouth, clearly hungry. Dean thought about it—they hadn't skipped lunch, but it'd been a small one, and Sammy worked out pretty hard with him earlier. Dean put his hand on his own stomach, coughing loudly when it growled, hoping to mask the sound. If Sam knew Dean wasn't eating just so that he could, he'd refuse and make a big deal out of it. Luckily Sam didn't seem to notice and for that Dean was thankful.

He'd only had to go without food a couple times, but it was pretty terrible for Dean—he liked to eat; scratch that, he loved to eat. But there was no way he was going to watch Sam go hungry because he wanted the last can of soup. No way. Besides, he'd have toast in the morning, and then they'd go shopping for some groceries. He could hold out until then.

When he got out of the shower Sam was sitting on the bed, cleaning the weapons. "Dean! Check it out—look how fast I can assemble the shotgun. I've been practicing like you showed me."

"That's awesome, Sammy."

Sam was still a little clumsy at it, but he was getting a lot faster. Pretty soon he'd be able to do it as fast as Dean. Dean smiled as he watched his brother work, pride swelling inside him knowing he was the one who taught Sam that particular skill and now he was close to mastering it. Dad would be happy too.

Twenty minutes later they were sprawled out on the floor watching an old VHS copy of Star Wars that Dean had lifted from a pawn shop. He smiled at the memory. Sammy wanted it for his birthday one year, but Dad got mixed up and bought him Star Trek instead. Dean swiped it later that day and gave it to Sam in secret; their dad never found out because he wasn't super invested in either movie, so they just pretended it was the one he'd bought in the first place. It was a win win; Dad thought he bought the perfect gift, and Sam received the perfect gift.

"Dean," Sam said, interrupting Princess Leia's plea for help. "Will you teach me to hustle pool?"

"Sure."

"When?"

"I dunno, soon I guess." He considered it carefully. He'd teach Sam, but he still wouldn't bring Sam. He'd save that argument for later though. Sam grinned, clearly satisfied, and turned his attention back to the movie.

Dad had taught Dean to play the game when he was really little—he hadn't taught Dean to hustle. Dean figured that out on his own through some painful trial and error, but Dad and Sammy didn't need to know that. Dean didn't know what their dad thought when it came to the money stuff—he'd come back from hunts and they'd still have food and a little extra money, but Dad never asked questions and Dean never offered any explanations.

"I wish I had a lightsaber."

"I wish I had princess Leia." Or Han Solo. Dean wasn't going to entertain that line of thought, and let it slide into the darkest, deepest crevices of his mind.

"Gross, Dean."

Dean smirked. "Someday you'll understand, sport."

Sam turned around and gave him a bitch face. "Don't call me sport, Dean-o."

He was on top of Sam instantly. Clearly he was too fast for Sam to realize what was going on, because he stared up at his brother with pure shock written across his face. Dean pinned his wrists down with one hand and used the other to dig lightly into Sam's ribs. Sam yelped, hysterical laughter escaping his lips, his smaller body wriggling around as he tried desperately to get away.

"Stop. It. Dean," he squealed, his words interrupted by the laughter.

"Say give."

"I give!"

Dean paused. "Say Dean's cooler than Han Solo."

When Sam didn't respond, just looked up at him with pseudo defiance, Dean started tickling again. "Okay, okay!" Dean waited. "You're cooler than Han Solo."

Dean grinned, satisfied, and let Sam get up. They didn't talk much after that, just some commentary here and there on the movie, and a few arguments on who would be Luke and who would be Han. Dean said Sammy would be C3PU—Sam wasn't impressed.

It wasn't a surprise when Sam's eyes started to droop three quarters of the way through, but Dean didn't say anything, just let him fall asleep in front of the T.V. He finished the movie and checked to make sure Sam was sound asleep. Satisfied by the sound of light snoring, Dean made his way over to the hotel phone. He called his dad's cell—he still couldn't believe his dad splurged on one of those—and was only slightly disappointed when he got the voicemail. He left a quick message and hung up.

Sighing, he scooped Sammy up and laid him on the bed, tucking him in. He went back into the kitchen to wash the dishes and smiled when he saw that Sam must've done it while he was in the shower. Dean was glad because he was exhausted. He literally fell into bed, not bother to change into pajamas. Sam was sleeping soundly in the bed next to him and he smiled, but it was small, rueful, and it didn't quite reach his eyes.

He told himself not to worry about their dad, that he would come back because he always did. Dean knew that was true, but he still hated the wait. He just wished Dad would at least check in or something—mostly because it freaked Sam out pretty bad. He looked over at his brother. Dad or no Dad, they'd survive as long as they needed to—he'd make sure of it.