Author's note: The T rating is (according to the rating people) for "minor suggestive adult themes". Which aren't really present in this chapter, but will be in the next and were in the last. In case you were worried, Dean's dirt will be delved into, deeply, in the next chapter – yippee! I'm really sorry this chapter ends in an awkward place – I desperately tried to avoid it… the muse comes, the muse goes, what can we do? I'll try to update in the next day or so. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and put me on their alert list! Please do continue to read and review - after only 24 hours as an author on this website, I am already a feedback junkie. I keep hitting that Stats button like I'm down to 22 seconds on an eBay auction!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean. Sad, but true.

Chapter Two

The marksman hitteth the mark partly by pulling, partly by letting go. –Egyptian Proverb

Sam slammed the door, and threw himself on the bed. He got up and paced. He brushed his teeth. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a stack of books. He picked up a chair and threw it at the wall (Dean wasn't the only one who knew how to trash a motel room).

Why does living with Dean have to be so hard? Why does he make me so crazy? How is it possible that living without Dean worse than living with him? Sam needed air and opening the door, leaned on the jamb, his eyes closed and his hands clasped behind is head. He breathed deeply and listened to the night sounds.

There was a warm breeze and as it touched his face, he thought of Jess and his eyes began to burn. He swallowed hard and tried to close the door on those feelings… loss was like Pandora's Box. There had been so many losses in the barely two decades of Sam Winchester's life that he couldn't just grieve for one. Mom. Dad. Dean. Jess. And those were just the big ones. Some losses permanent, some losses… pending. A million little things had been sacrificed and some days Sam knew why, but that lucidity was fleeting and the pain grated his soul fresh at moments like this.

He felt a sob tearing at the pit of his stomach and he turned toward the room, shutting the door behind him and sliding to the floor. He leaned his head back against the door and brought his knees tight to his chest. He didn't want the tears to come, but he couldn't stop them – he could never stop them, and he hated that – he was a baby. The baby. Why couldn't he stop this feeling, this fear, this pain? He was an adult now, (technically). Why did it have to be him that broke? Dean didn't break. Even nearly dead, Dean didn't break… and here was baby Sammy, falling apart 'cause his big brother didn't want to sit home with him all night. Of course that wasn't truly the problem – a trigger, but not the problem.

The voice mostly taunted and yet still, with that mocking, Dean's voice always made him feel safer. Even if the voice and the safety were only in his head. Sam leaned forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Stop it Sam," he whispered raggedly, and then a little louder; "Stop it." He felt his heartbeat slowing as he lost himself in a memory – a collection of memories.

It's okay Sammy, it's okay… don't cry anymore…

Breathe baby brother, we're gonna be alright…

I'm here Sammy, we'll get through this, I promise…

Hang in there buddy… we're a team, remember...

I've got you boy… you're safe little Sam, you're safe…

Don't be scared, Sammy… brother's got you…

I'll never leave you Sammy boy, never never never …

"Oh, Dean…" Sam whispered "I'm sorry it's like this, I'm sorry you have to take care of me and I can't seem to take care of you. I'm sorry we don't know each other anymore." He was empty now, the rage was gone and Sam was too numb to feel anything except a wisp of sorrow. His heart was too tired for more. Funny how heads don't always listen to hearts. He dried his damp cheeks and leaned his head against the door again, breathing slow. The wheels in his head kept grinding, cranking out the analysis which had long been his most successful coping mechanism.

After joining Dean again in the hunt it hadn't taken Sam long to realize how much he needed his big brother – how much safer he felt knowing Dean had his back, Dean was in the next room, Dean was driving while he slept. "Well, maybe not so much the last one." He muttered to himself wryly. In Sam's mind, Dean was oblivious to his brother's need for family & stability, and clueless that it was Dean himself who had provided those things for as long as Sam could remember – for his entire, remembered existence. Until Jess, Sam had believed that Dean would be all he ever had and now… well, Sam was back to square one in that regard. Sam had realized in that first week together again what his greatest fear in life was – his two greatest fears. First, that Dean didn't know how much Sam needed him. Last, was that Dean didn't need his baby brother at all.

Every expedition brought those questions to the surface for Sam. The consuming physical and psychological task of not just enduring, but conquering, turned his insides out. He had never had the emotional defenses Dean was capable of – probably because he'd always had a big brother to turn to. Dean had needed the walls to hold back the pain and keep himself alive… a safe haven for his soul hadn't been available. The first Winchester son had been sucking it up and moving on since he was in kindergarten – with a father and a baby brother to take care of, he didn't know there was a choice except to just… be okay. Sam couldn't comprehend it very well. He understood it logically, but he couldn't put himself in Dean's shoes. He wouldn't have survived Dean's childhood. He'd barely survived his own, and there was not a question but that he owed said survival to his brother.

Sam had considered recently, that while on the surface Dean appeared to be much more like their father then Sam himself was (rough and tumble and terrifying)… maybe it wasn't all that true. Hunting haunted John Winchester and drove him to serious drink and despair. His life consisted of two things; he hunted and then he drowned the whys and wherefores out using whatever creative substance was closest at hand (sometimes very creative Sam could attest to). He loved his sons desperately, but that love couldn't redeem him from the darkness that enveloped his existence when Mary died. And while he knew it was an awful thing for a child to know, John had not been able to hide it from the boys for long.

Sam knew, in that part of him which saw the reality of his own weaknesses (the part most can't bear to look at), that without Dean to steady his nerves, Sam would be his father. Without Dean, Sam would have needed to find something else to steady his nerves – and the similarities between father and youngest son would then be brilliantly clear.

Sam got ready for bed, leaving only the lamp on the nightstand lit and picked a novel from the stack on the pillow beside him. He glanced at the clock radio across the room, out of habit, and then at the door. The heat was there again, behind his eyes for just a second and then he smiled to himself. "Time to grow up Sammy boy – you should be grateful Dean's not back to see your puffy eyes and your red nose. You need to jusr sleep it off as usual." And then, out loud to scare the lingering spirits away, sarcastic like Dean, "You've got your hobbies, and I've got mine." Sam didn't intend for his big brother to ever find out that winding down from hunt meant a near emotional break down for little Sammy – every single time.

Dean wasn't afraid of anything and to be with him, to destroy what killed Mom and Jess… well; Sam would get himself a good shrink when this was all over. Until then, he'd save the fallout from his childhood traumas for these special occasions. If Dean could get through this without a split-second of terror, Sam would at least try and pretend he felt the same way. He was in this 'til it was done, and that meant… that meant no paid leave.

Dean sat in the 7-11 parking lot around the corner from the StarNight Motel. The Impala was running, but the music was off, and Dean closed his eyes and listened to the baby purr. It was another ongoing point of ribbing – Sam called it obnoxious thunder, but Dean insisted she was all purr.

"What do you know about cats?" scowled Sam.

"What do you know about thunder, stupid?" replied Dean, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"More than you know about cats, jerk – we never had a pet, and we never went to the zoo." Sam said wth scorn. "Thunder, I've heard and this beast makes enough noise to permanently damage the ability to speak in a normal tone."

"Watch the language dude –" warned Dean "don't badmouth my baby unless you feel like walking the next hundred miles." He smirked. "You're just jealous."

"Jealous? Sure Dean, whatever. It's a sweet car if your point is to show off, but it's mighty uncomfortable for those of us that have to sleep in it on a regular basis."

"What do you mean 'those of us'? I've slept in this car as much as you have."

"Hardly." Said Sam, glaring out the window.

"Hardly? You sound like a butler, Sammy." said Dean with a laugh.

"You drive, I sleep – like nine-hundred percent of the time, Dean, and I'm ready for a CD player and adjustable seats." Sam's frustration manifested itself in a sulk (as it usually did).

Dean was quiet for a minute and then spoke with solemn mock incredulity, "You'd give up this classic purring princess for a couple more inches of leg room and some new-fangled music machine?"

"It doesn't purr!" exploded Sam, and there was dead silence for nearly sixty seconds.

"How do you know –" replied Dean carefully "we never had a cat and we never went to the zoo Sammy."

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. Dean smiled. Sam laughed. Sometimes they knew how to let it go, sometimes they could.