AN: Here guys, I hope you like this. I was just feeling some weechester brotherly schmoop. I'm not too sure about it. Let me know what you think!

I always looked forward to going to Bobby's house. I felt safe there, I could protect Sam, and Bobby treated me like I was a real person. He didn't treat me like a hoodlum like the teachers at school did, he didn't whisper about how I wasn't going to amount to anything in life, like some of the adults around me did, and he didn't have a bet with other hunters on what age I was going to end up in prison. He cuffed me on the back of the head, worked on cars with me, asked me my opinion on stuff, and treated me special. I always liked it. It was the one place on earth where I was better than Sam, or at least where I was as important as my little brother.

Bobby never made fun of me or yelled at me because I didn't make good grades in school, didn't ask me what in the hell was wrong with me when I couldn't read books very fast, and he didn't make me feel stupid when I asked questions. The best thing was that he didn't make me read, didn't make me do the stuff I wasn't really good at. He asked me, he helped me, but he didn't make me. I liked that. I liked that because every once in a while, when I was with Bobby, I didn't feel stupid or worthless.

But, I should have known, that all of that would end eventually, that one of these days Bobby was going to become like the rest and like my little brother more than me, and want to do things with him rather than help me, or talk to me. I was simply too much work. Everyone said that when they didn't think I was around to hear. At my last school, I heard more than I wanted to. "Dean Winchester. What are we going to do with him?

"Him? Is he even capable of anything?" My science teacher asked. "I mean he never turns anything in." I didn't have paper or the crayons or stuff that she wanted me to have to color that cell. I understood it, I just didn't have the stuff she needed. "He's just lazy." I'm not lazy but I can't tell her that.

"Well, that boy is just more work than he's worth, in my opinion." My history teacher had said. They didn't like me, and they thought I was as worthless as they come. I doubt Sam's teachers ever talk about him like that. But then again, I make sure he has paper and coloring stuff and pens and pencils. I want him to be able to do whatever the teachers ask. He's smart. Really smart. I wish I was half as smart.

We left that school and came to Bobby's, and he enrolled us in school, and I thought that it was going to be great. I thought that I could finally have some attention, because no matter how I appear, I do want it, and that he would help me. I should have known better, Sam was older now, more talkative, nicer, and smarter. I should have known that Bobby was going to want to spend more time with him than me. I mean, I'm too much work, and I shouldn't expect Bobby to work at me forever.

I didn't think it would happen quite so soon after we got there though. I expected maybe a couple of days of Bobby time. I was wrong. It happened a couple of hours after we got there. I was all excited talking to Bobby about the classic car show that I managed to get dad to stop at long enough for me to just look at a couple of the really neat cars, when Sam had wandered to the back of the living room and picked up a book. I took a breath and Sam asked if he could read it. Bobby looked at me for a brief second before Sam informed him that he knew the family secret. That was all it took. Bobby got up and went to Sam. It shouldn't have been a shock to me that he and Bobby would hit it off. I mean, look around the guy's house. Books everywhere. And Sam wanted to read them. Wanted Bobby to explain which ones were best and he wanted to read them all. So, naturally, he and Bobby shared something that I would never understand. I can't read that well. And that settled the deal. Bobby would like Sam more than me. Just like everyone else. Just because I expected it doesn't mean it didn't hurt a little.

I watched the two of them talk about the books and researching, and I felt so outside. For the first time ever at Bobby's house I felt like I didn't belong. I managed to slip to bed undetected. I'm ashamed to admit, but I think I cried.

The next morning the two of us got up and ready for school, I was determined to do well, determined to learn to read better so I could sit with them and read the books and learn how to do more research. So I can be useful, important.

I worked hard for the next couple of weeks, harder than I've ever worked for anything in my whole 14 years of life. I asked for extra reading homework, I asked for teachers to stay after school with me, I did everything I could think of. And nothing seemed to work. I still struggled and Sam still spent time with Bobby every night going over stuff that no 10 year old should be smart enough to know about or be able to read. I kept trying though. Every day, every night, whatever I could do I tried.


"Bobby, Dean's locked himself in the room upstairs." Sam informed me one evening.

"What did he say when you knocked?" Dean was probably up there with a skin mag doing something he shouldn't and just didn't want his little brother intruding on his private time.

"Just said go away Sam."

"He says that a lot son. No need to worry."

"But he sounded like he was crying. Dean never sounds like he cries. Dean doesn't cry." Sam's brows were knit together in confusion and worry. He looked up the stairs and back at me, his eyes were so full of worry that it sort of got me worried. "Can you do something?"

"I'll get your brother's ass back in gear. Don't you worry Sam. Go on and get the book on ghosts that we were reading last night. Start without me." Sam nodded and slowly moved towards the living room glancing back towards the stairs every now and then.

I trudged my way up the stairs, mumbling about how that kid needed to be more considerate of others and how he needed to not worry his kid brother. I got to the door and knocked.

"Go away Sam." Dean called. Sam was right, Dean did sound like he was crying.

"Dean it's Bobby." I heard a giant sniff. "Can I come in?"

"It's your house." So it was. I opened the door, and in the center of a tornado of paper and books was Dean, red eyed and sad.

"What in the hell happened here?" and with that tears, tears I didn't know Dean Winchester knew how to shed, rolled down his face and he frustratedly threw the pencil in his hands down on the floor and looked up at me.

"I can't be like Sam!" he yelled. "I'm not smart like Sam. I'll never be good at reading. I'll never be as nice as Sam, I'll never be anything like him! I've tried and tried. I tried making friends, the one kid I thought I'd made friends with, invited me over to his house and his mom pulled him aside and asked him loud enough for me to hear why he brought home a hoodlum, I just left and didn't talk to him again. I've tried being smart. I've asked to stay after school, I've gotten as much help from Mrs. Tander as she can take. I've made that woman stay after school for hours and hours and I still cant' bring home a grade better than a C!" he threw paper and began throwing text books screaming wordlessly as he did so. I moved into the center of the tornado, dodging paper, pens, pencils, books anything that Dean could use as a projectile. I grabbed him pinning his arms and pulling him into my chest.

"Son. Son. Calm down." Dean took several deep breaths and calmed down. He pulled away and looked up at me with eyes so green that they rivaled the grass outside. He rubbed a fist into them and took a deep shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry." He said and looked around the room. "I'll clean up my mess."


"I'm sorry." He repeated and dropped to his knees and began to clean the room. He wasn't going to say another word. I noticed the last time he was here that he was learning how to lock down his emotions, and what scares me most is that he is getting really good at it.

I struggled to find things to say, and finally, lamely said "Dinner will be ready in an hour." Dean nodded.

"I'll have the room cleaned up by then." He said and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. I watched him for a moment, sighed, and left the room. Sam was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. He had heard Dean screaming.

"Is he okay?"

"He says he is." Sam looked back up the stairs and then at me. "Come on kiddo, let's get that book, and you read it to me while I make supper. Sam reluctantly nodded and followed me into the kitchen.


Just like every night Dean reminded me to brush my teeth before bed, like I was too small to remember to do it on my own. Tonight I didn't make a fuss, I just did as I was told. Dean had lost something today. There wasn't fight to him anymore, he was like a balloon that the air had been let out of, and I didn't like it. My brother was big, bigger than everything, and today he looked small. I wonder if it had anything to do with that paper he was holding when I met him to walk home. He kept starring at it like something on the page was going to jump off of it. When I asked he said it was nothing, when I grabbed for it he shoved it in his bookbag and told me to mind my own business. I'm always supposed to tell him what's wrong with me, why won't he tell me what's wrong with him? I got into my bed and pulled the covers up. Dean did the same and turned out the light.


"What Sammy?"

"What's wrong."

"Nothing Sam. Mind your own damn business."

That was not the answer I wanted. I sighed. Rolled over, mad that he wouldn't talk to me. Then I thought about it, and remembered some of what Dean had been yelling when Bobby was up here. He said he wasn't like me, that no matter how hard he tried he wouldn't be like me. I didn't want my big brother to be like me. I wanted him to be like him. I wanted him to be loud and annoying and the one who will protect me. I don't want him scared, and worried, and feeling like he's a freak all of the time. I don't want him to be like me.

"Dean?" I tried again.

He sighed loudly and replied. "What Sammy?"

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to say something to make him feel better. He always made me feel better when I was sad. He always knew exactly what to say. I wish I was that smart. I wish I knew how to make people feel better, how to take someone's sadness away.

I thought back to what I heard him screaming when Bobby went up to see him, and all I could think to say was, "I wish I was smart like you." Dean didn't say anything, he just huddled down into his sheets. I guess that wasn't the right thing to say either. But I really do wish that I was smart like Dean.