Disclaimer: If I owned them the last thing they would be is brothers.

Rating: PG. This is probably the tamest fic I've ever written.

Warnings: Not much: mentions of violence, but not really; spoilers for Asylum; Dean Angst (not that there's anything wrong with angst when someone's that pretty).

Notes:

- A friend of mine mentioned that Dean's sort of just a little bit pathetic and I couldn't help but think that, yea, he kind of is. And somehow that thought led to this. I'm not insulting Dean! He is still sexy in an 'I want to cry myself to sleep because I can't have him' kind of way. But facts are facts.

- I don't think this is wincest, although I was thinking vaguely along those lines when I wrote it. All of my intentions aside, I don't think it turned up unless you really, really want to squint. For all readers who find that squicky (and I'm one of you and I still can't stop!) I really don't think you have to worry.

Dean keeps a picture of Sam in his wallet – a picture of the two them, really, but he hasn't kept it this long out of vanity. Sam's arm is slung around his shoulders and there's the biggest grin on his face, one Dean hasn't seen since Jessica and college and don't come back. He thinks maybe he should have stepped in at that; told Sam 'no, don't listen to him, he's just angry' or even 'abandon him if you have to but don't leave me, too'. He didn't, of course, but Dean's not the only one who stopped making phone calls and it is what it is. Sam may not even know how to smile like that anymore so he really shouldn't take it personally.

He likes to think of the snapshot as a reminder of happier times, only that's not entirely true because Sam must have been seventeen when that picture was taken and just about any time after he hit puberty can hardly be classified as happy. Feelings of resentment as strong as Sam's don't just appear overnight; you don't wake up one morning and decide, out of the blue, that not only do you hate your own brother enough to want him dead, but enough to pull the trigger yourself.

Dean remembers that in the photograph Sam is so happy because he's gotten his first term report card back and it looks like he does stand a chance of attaining that college dream after all. Dean's proud even when Dad wouldn't be, although neither of them would know because they're hardly stupid enough to tell him. But Dean's gruffly sincere 'good job, little bro,' is enough to send Sammy over the moon and, studying himself for a change, Dean wonders if he always smiles that way around Sam, like he's made of glass as thin as saran wrap. One strong gust of wind and …

Dean keeps a picture of Sam in his wallet, a reminder of happier times, and drives away from Roosevelt Asylum with a chest full of rock salt and invisible bullets, wondering how the hell they got to this point.

Fin.