Thanks for all the reviews! The last chapter will be posted soon.

Dean whirled Sam off that porch and had him in the car, down the driveway in under a minute after the Moore's door closed. He stomped the gas as soon as they reached the highway. All he wanted was to get Sam away from all the pain, the memories.

"Dean, slow down" Sam stated calmly. "I'm fine." But Dean saw the way his hands held tight to that little box.

After a couple hours, Dean pulled off into a gas station. He stuck the nozzle in the tank, paid and went into the convenient store, returning with a sack-full of food. He parked the car a couple hundred feet over. He bounded out of the car with the food, gesturing Sam to follow. Sam, still clutching his box, jogged over to the small picnic table Dean found.

"Time for food!" Dean ginned and poured everything out of the bag. "Look" he said, holding up a salad, "I even picked up some of your rabbit food crap."

"Thanks Dean" he laughed. He snatched it from him and instantly started eating. Dean took it as a good sign.

"So…uh Sam…"

"Stop. You don't have to do that Dean."

"Do what?"

"Dean, we don't have to talk. I'm fine."

"Like hell you are" Dean muttered under his breath. Though, he had to admit, Sam was handling the situation much better than he expected. In fact, to anyone who didn't know him, Sam did look fine. But Dean knew Sam was going to crack; it was just a matter of time.

"You mean Sam, our Sam, turned down the chance to talk about mushy feelings?" Bobby questioned.

"That's what I'm sayin'. And I still don't know what is inside that damn box of his. I don't think he's even gone through it yet. He just keeps hanging onto it for dear life."

"He's gonna deal with it, Dean. Just in his own time. You and I both have watched him make it through the bad, the worse, and the crazy."

Dean resolved to sleep on the couch for the night. If it was space Sam wanted, then space he was gonna get.

This was how it normally went whenever one of them was upset. Growing up in motel rooms, space was something difficult to come by. So when they were upset at Bobby's, they gave the other as much room as they needed. They tried to respect the other's feelings, but mostly they just tried to stay out of the way until they were ready to talk.

But what bothered Dean was that normally if he allowed feelings to be spoken of, Sam turned to putty. Everyone and their dog knew of Sam's love of bringing up the subject. After all they'd been through the only difficultly was getting the tears to stop once he got going.

Dean was the stoic one. Dean was the one who bottled up everything, only to let it all explode every once in a while in one shockwave. Not this time.

Two days had passed and Sam still wasn't talking. And, as if that weren't odd enough, he seemed…happy. Dean could tell it was mostly show, but damn-it all if he wasn't putting on a good one.

Sam cooked, cleaned, read. He even offered to make the round for groceries. He was joking and smiling. But every time, just before he turned to leave a room, Dean could practically see the joy sliding off his face.

Bobby insisted that he not pressure Sam into talking. It probably didn't help that Dean was holding a pistol when he argued how persuasive he could be.

So he was back out where he always seemed to be: stretched out under the hood of the Impala clanking away. There was something so calming about it to Dean. Sam once told him it was because the Impala had problems he could fix.

He sat back on the workbench and popped open another beer. Everything led back to Sammy. They had shared so much together, it was nearly impossible to find something that didn't remind him of his little brother- who was currently at the upstairs window crying?

Dean flew off the bench so fast the pieces of his ratchet set fell, clattering every which way. His beer lay shattered on the floor, but Dean barely registered the noise. All he thought was Sammy.

He raced back into the house flying past Bobby in the yard, only to freeze at the staircase. Would Sam even want him there? This was such a personal topic from his Stanford years. He and Dean never really discussed Jessica except when she related to his nightmares.

"Ughhhh!" Dean threw his hands in the air and flopped down into a chair.

Bobby walked past him, heading for the kitchen.

"Idgit."

Dean was not a patient person, but he sure was curious.

Sam had gone out a while earlier in full on running gear with the claim of needing some air. The first time Dean passed by their room he couldn't help but notice the opened shoebox sitting on Sam's bed. Its contents were spread across the comforter. He resisted the temptation, shut the door and returned to helping Bobby move books around.

But every time he passed by the door with an armload of books, he stared it down.

"Alright that's good enough for now. I'm gonna go finish dinner. Sam ought to be back soon…" Bobby said with a knowing look.

"He'd better be. I'm not waiting on him for grub! I'm just gonna go wash up." Dean skittered up the stairs before Bobby could say any more.

He washed the dust from his hands in the little bathroom across the hall and splashed some water on his face. Drying his hands, he kept his eyes glued to the door. He checked his watch.

"Aw screw it!"

He dashed over to the door and swung it open to reveal the box. He carefully shut it behind him. He stood over Sam's bed looking down at it all. Dean was amazed at the amount that little box could hold.

The bed was littered with photographs, drawing and several books, diaries he assumed. Most of the pictures were ones of Jessica when she was younger. Lots of unfamiliar faces stared back at him. However, Sam was in quite a few, Dean realized as he sifted through them. The couple was in front of lots of different backdrops: a mall, a couple parties, tourist stops, classrooms, the apartment. Their whole life together spilled out before Dean's eyes. In the middle of it all lay the picture from Jessica's mom's house on top of a piece of paper.

"Snooping much?" a dark voice came from behind him.