Sam is one. He loves Dean, red trucks, and the wind. He babbles constantly, pats his hands against the window, laughs when Dean plays peekaboo.

Sam is two. He loves Dean, red trucks, and the wind. He is silent, pats his hands against the window, doesn't look when his dad calls his name.

Sam is three. He loves Dean, chocolate, and the wind. He is silent, pats his hands against each other, squirms in Missouri Moseley's lap and doesn't know what she means when she says sadly, "There's nothing spiritually wrong with this boy, John. Have you thought about taking him to a doctor?"

Sam is four. He loves Dean, red trucks, and the wind. He is silent except for saying "uh! uh!" when hungry, pats his hands against each other and the window, permits no one to pick him up except Dean and only then piggyback.

Sam is five. He loves Dean, red trucks, and the wind. He is silent except for saying "ah! ah!" when angry, slaps Dean's legs and whimpers when he won't pick him up, doesn't look when his dad calls his name.

Sam is six. He loves Dean, chocolate, and the wind. He is silent except for saying "mm, mm" when Dean isn't paying attention, tries to lean over the front seat to change the radio to static, cries and tugs on the blankets until Dean lets him in the same bed.

Sam is seven. He loves Dean, crayons, and the wind. He is silent except for saying "no" when his dad calls his name, draws constantly on everything with the set of crayons Dean gave him for his birthday, surprises both his dad and Dean when he writes "SAM" and "DEEN" on a child's menu.

Sam is eight. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He squirms when told to sit still and read his book, repeats words of conversations, doesn't look when his dad calls his name.

Sam is nine. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He rolls down the window and sticks his arm out until his dad says "no", steals books from libraries and houses and churches and hides them in his backpack, writes SAM on his backpack to differentiate it from Dean's.

Sam is ten. He loves Dean, colored pencils, and the wind. He draws landscapes and portraits and monsters, surprises both his dad and Dean when he recites a banishing spell perfectly, brings out the book he stole from Bobby Singer when asked how he knew it.

Sam is eleven. He loves Dean, colored pencils, and the wind. He draws in the margins of books and around the titles, writes out an exorcism in Latin on the back of a child's menu, cries and tugs on the blanket until Dean lets him in the same bed.

Sam is twelve. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He hunts a ghost with his dad and Dean with a shotgun full of rock salt in his rock-steady hands, cries and tugs on the blanket until Dean lets him in the same bed, speaks a full sentence for the first time when he says quietly "I got scared today" into Dean's ear.

Sam is thirteen. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He watches red trucks pass on the road with his palms pressed against the window, says "I'm hungry" and "I'm thirsty" and "I'm scared", says "yes sir" when his dad calls his name.

Sam is fourteen. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He draws banishing sigils and protective symbols in the margins of books and around the titles, tugs on the blanket until Dean lets him in the same bed, whispers "make it the car" so when he presses his ear against Dean's chest Dean will hum and the vibration lets him fall asleep.

Sam is fifteen. He loves Dean, throwing knives, and the wind. He says "yes sir" when his dad calls his name, practices throwing silver knives until he's perfect at it, lays awake very still in his bed until Dean sighs loudly and says "c'mere."

Sam is sixteen. He loves Dean, throwing knives, and the wind. He lays awake very still in his bed crying quietly until Dean sighs loudly and says "c'mere" and warms his painfully growing limbs and hums so the vibration lets him fall asleep, leans over the front seat to turn the radio to static, practices throwing silver knives until he can pin a fly to the tree.

Sam is seventeen. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He curls up his painfully growing limbs in the back of the car while reading a book, says "that's stupid" and "I don't want to" and "no Dad, that's wrong", lays awake very still in his bed until Dean sighs loudly and says "c'mere."

Sam is eighteen. He loves Dean, books, and the wind. He steals books from libraries and houses and churches and hides them in his backpack, watches mountains pass by with his palms pressed against the window, doesn't know why it took so long for his dad to give up and get just two beds instead of three when he and Dean have been sleeping in the same bed since he was a baby.

Sam is nineteen. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. Dean loves the Impala and he loves Dean so he learns how to wax her and clean her and fuel her up and tune her up, curls up his painfully growing limbs in the back of the car and reads a book out loud, draws landscapes and portraits and monsters in the margins of books and around the titles.

Sam is twenty. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. His world contracts when his dad leaves to hunt something particular and tells them they're old enough to hunt alone, hunts a ghost with a shotgun full of rock salt in his rock-steady hands, says "yes Dean" when his brother calls his name.

Sam is twenty one. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. He rolls down the window and Dean doesn't tell him to pull his arm back in, laughs at Dean's jokes even if he wasn't joking, permits no one to touch him except Dean.

Sam is twenty two. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. He curls up around his contracted world in the back of the Impala, carefully draws banishing sigils on the Impala and protective symbols on his brother's back, says "Dean, do you ever pray to God?"

Sam is twenty three. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. He prays protection over Dean and himself and the Impala every night in perfect Latin, sometimes wraps his arm around Dean's and leans his head on Dean's shoulder when he forgets to act like an adult, carefully draws banishing sigils on the Impala and protective symbols on his brother's back.

Sam is twenty four. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. He talks constantly in the car, presses his palms against the window when they pass a mountain or a person he wants to draw, laughs at Dean's jokes even as he says "Dean, you aren't funny."

Sam is twenty five. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind. He carves banishing sigils into the Impala and draws the protective symbol they get tattooed across their shoulders, says "I'm sorry I'm not a good brother, Dean" when he doesn't understand something and messes it up, curls up around Dean in the back of the Impala when Dean says "forget about acting like an adult and c'mere."

Sam is happy. He loves Dean, the Impala, and the wind.

A/N: Wrote this in, IDK, an hour? ::faux-relaxed shrug:: Review? (This also has a sequel in the works, darn it.)

Also, thank you so, so much to the reviewers of Bad Company! I want to especially thank K Hanna Korossy for reccing it (OMW!). I continue to work on Good Company, but it isn't coming easily. x_x However, I refuse to give up, and please know that whenever I get really discouraged I reread the reviews of Bad Company to lift my spirits. :)