When we were little, Sam and me, he asked question, after question, after question. He always wanted to know more, wanted to know how things worked, why things were the way they were, he just wanted to know everything. I used to take him to the library and we would sit on the floor in the kids section and I would pull books out about butterflies, and bugs, and dinosaurs, anything fun, kid like, things I saw the other kids reading at school, the normal kids, kids who didn't have to worry whether or not the big fuglies of the world were going to bust down their door at night and take their kid brother, kill their father, destroy you.

He enjoyed that. Loved the process of learning, loved trivia loved all forms of knowledge. I helped him every chance I got. He started reading when he was four because that was when I finally got the hang of reading and taught him. We would sit in the Impala for hours while Dad was on a hunt, and I would help him with the words, teach him how to sound them out, try to drown out the sounds of the monster and Dad screaming in the forest, the abandoned house, the alleyway, didn't matter, I could read louder than Dad could scream. I helped to keep Sammy as innocent as possible for as long as possible.

Sammy fell behind at school because we moved around so much, and it got to a point that he was smarter than me. So, I found other ways to help him with his homework. I cut a deal with this rich kid, because at this time we were going to a primarily rich kid school, and I worked in their yard in order to pay off tutoring for my brother. Sam never knew and he will still never know that I was wanded with a hand held metal detector before I went into their house and when I left, something about being a poor hoodlum. I sucked up the humiliation, I pretended to think it was funny, but I did it all because it would help Sammy.

I even helped the kid score for the first time. God she was a beautiful girl. Taught him everything he knows. Well, actually, I taught him how to use a condom, told him to be careful, and spent the whole night worrying that she was going to hurt him, tell him he was too tall and lanky, that oh God maybe that IT was too small. But he came back to our crap ass motel room that night after prom happy and satisfied. I guess when two people lose their virginity together, there is no worry about being good at it.

I even helped him get into college. I knew he was smart enough, and I knew he wanted normal, I knew all of that, and I knew that Dad would hear nothing of it. I hustled more pool, got into more fist fights because of hustling, and gambling and the like that year, Sammy's senior year, than he will ever know. I was black and blue the majority of that year. But I was there sitting on the edge of the car, when Dad finally gave that ultimatum, I was there when he stormed out of the house we had been renting, I was the one who stopped him, reached into my pocket and pulled out eight thousand sixty eight dollars and gave it to my brother. I knew he had a full ride, but that didn't cover the little things and I wanted to make sure he was taken care of, had the little things, had clothes and the like. I had to be able to help him. I also didn't talk to him for four years, left him out of the loop. I wanted him to be consumed with normal, I had to help force him into normal. It worked, a little too well I think sometimes.

When I got him back, when he was with me again, and we were just two brothers hunting evil shit, I helped him recover from the loss of the girl he loved. He raged at me, hit me once, he said lots of things he didn't mean, left once, and finally, after a year, he calmed back down, he was falling back into himself. I helped my brother survive with as much of his sanity in tact as possible.

I've helped my brother through everything. Through Madison, through hunts, through his whole destiny issues, through me going to hell. I tried to help him realize that he didn't need me to be himself, to be a person, to continue hunting, that he was stronger and more capable than I to handle the loss of a loved one, which he had done before, and came back out of each time with his heart and his life intact. It would be like that again.

"Dean! Help me!" I wish he would quit screaming that. I am trying to help him. Sam continued to scream and my hands continued to shake. He's been in the panic room for six hours, all he has done is scream. He is in so much pain, but I'm trying to help him, trying to save him, because I most certainly will not kill him, I can't follow that order from Dad, hell, I don't care if the order comes from God himself. I can not kill my baby brother. I have to help him, I have to save him…

"Dean!!" sobs. "Dean! Please help me." he is crying now. Sobbing. He sounds like when he was little and he was tired and scared, that heartbreaking sound. Those sobs that come from his toes and make his chest shake, once that small fragile chest, and now I'm sure that big hulking chest is shaking in very much the same way. Wiping the tears from my eyes I straighten up, put my hand on the panic room door and whisper "I'm sorry Sammy. I'll fix this. I'll help you." How can I fix this? How can I make this better? I have to make this better, I have to fix this. Bobby will know. Bobby will have the answers. And if he doesn't Cass will. I stood up and straightened myself, willed my body to move forward as my brother screamed my name sobbed and wailed. I was going to help him, just like I always had.