"Okay, what the hell was her problem? 'Narrow tantrum verum'?" Two steps off her porch, and already Dean was grumbling about the witch they'd had to dispel. Her and her freaky hoard of demon helpers, fresh from the Devil's Gate.

"She didn't like us trying to destroy her setup, and it's 'Narro tantum verum'," Sam corrected. "It's Latin."

"Verum means truth, right?" Dean asked, opening the door to the Impala and sliding in. "That sounds fairly Harry Potter-ish."

Sam was half in the car when he stopped, falling in while turning an incredulous look on his brother. "You read Harry Potter?"

Dean rolled his eyes and huffed, and Sam shook his head. "Yes," Dean said, then frowned. Sam gave his brother a weird look for having answered, then sighed and reached out to close his door.

"All right, now where to?"

"I don't know. Bobby said he might have a lead on a haunting in Pennsylvania. Which is just a few short hours north of here, so we'll be okay. Think we can make it by nightfall?"

"Yes, especially considering the way you drive," Sam said, then frowned, clamping his lips together. That...hadn't been what he'd meant to say. 'Probably' had been the answer he'd thought of. He knew Dean was a fast driver, and they'd have no problem making Pennsylvania by the time night rolled around, since they were in North Carolina.

Still, what the hell?

Dean looked at him oddly, then shrugged and pulled the car into reverse. After a moment Sam shrugged it off as well, and leaned back as Dean took them out of the witch's driveway. A haunting was usually just a pissed off spirit, but not one that could really hurt someone. Enough to scare the crap out of people, but that was it. Easy salt and burn, every time.

This next gig would be a piece of cake.

By dinner, they'd slid past the job being easy, gone full throttle through difficult, and were red lining towards hard. Like impossibly hard.

"Go grab dinner, but drop me at the local library first," Sam ordered. Dean nodded silently, as if afraid of his own voice, and Sam knew how he felt. As soon as Dean dropped him off, Sam headed for the section he knew every library had: one about the language of Latin. A Latin dictionary was the first thing he came across, and he whipped it out of the shelf, scanning quickly for the right words.

When he found them and put them all together, he froze, then leaned his head back against the shelf behind him and groaned. They were so screwed.

He should've known. He really should've known. Dean had been blatantly honest with him the entire way up, what Sam had thought first was sarcasm, and Sam's own attitude had quickly fallen away into surprise. Honest to goodness honesty from Dean, though Dean hadn't seemed too comfortable with it, for some odd reason.

Of course, Sam had never been more honest with Dean than in those few short hours, and once they'd figured that nugget out, that they were suddenly both being exceedingly honest, they'd shut up. The last three hours of the trip had been made in silence.

That wasn't going to work if they were going to get the job done.

Dammit.

"Did you find something?" Dean asked when Sam slid back into the car.

"Yes, and you're not going to like it," Sam answered, sighing. "So please shut up until we get to the hotel. Like no talking at all, Dean. Just shut up."

Dean shut up.

Once at the motel, the aroma of fresh pizza filling the small room almost made Sam not think about the ugly truth he was about to unleash on his brother. It wasn't going to be anything but the truth, if he was right about this.

"What did you-"

"Okay, ground rules," Sam interrupted. Dean glared at him, but Sam held up his hands. "Bear with me, Dean. We don't ask questions of each other. Everything we say has to sound like a statement, be a statement. No questions. At all."

"This isn't good, is it," Dean said, but there was no lifting of his tone to suggest a question. It was a statement, and Sam sighed.

"It's bad," he agreed. "'Narro tantum verum': it means 'speak only the truth' in Latin. She cast a truth spell on us, Dean. We can only tell the truth from here on out, so..."

"It's like that 'Liar, Liar' movie," Dean said, not looking thrilled in the slightest. "Except worse, because I don't see either of us getting the girl at the end."

Sam rolled his eyes. "We have to wait it out. One week is the usual length for these types of things. I think we can last a week. So if you're okay with us not asking each other questions, then I think we'll be good." It took a little thinking to word his question into a statement, but he managed in the end: Are you okay with this rule?

"I think that's a great idea," Dean said, slapping his hands together and rubbing them. Good. "I hear a pizza calling my name. I don't know about you, but..."

"Yeah, I could eat," Sam said, sitting down with a twinge of relief. Maybe they could last this out and be okay.

By day three, they weren't okay. Day one had found Sam inadvertently asking Dean if he really couldn't stand chick-flick movies while they'd been flipping through the television stations, and had wound up with Dean saying no, he actually sort of liked them. His face had stayed red for quite a while, though whether it had been out of embarrassment or anger, Sam hadn't been sure. He'd shut up anyways for the rest of the evening.

Day two had been Dean asking the question, wondering why Sam liked researching so much. It had been said in jest, but Sam had found himself having to answer with the whole truth: that it was how he'd met Jessica at college, when they'd decided to research a topic together for their psychology class. Plus, it reminded him of John, who'd always been buried in a book, despite his love of shooting first, asking questions later.

The silence for a good three hours after that had been nothing short of awkward.

So by day three, they weren't okay. The research was going great, though, and they had it figured out. The spirit only seemed to show up on Friday evenings, then vanish by dawn. There were records of two deaths in the house, which meant they'd have to head in Friday evening to see which one it was: Rebecca Stanley or Harrison More.

Talking was limited. They couldn't interview anyone that might've been connected to either victim, because when they asked the inevitable question of who they were, they couldn't go with a cover story. The truth was going to pop out.

Dean hadn't said much since Sam's little honesty speech the day before. Sam didn't blame him. Everything was short and to the point. "I'm taking the shower first," to "Let's go get dinner," and a thousand little other statements just like that. There were no long conversations, nothing.

Sam didn't say much either, which probably made Dean's day, considering the last time they'd really had a conversation, Sam had told Dean that he was done being nice about the deal. It was almost as if Dean wanted to die, was sort of looking forward to it. From bacon cheeseburgers at breakfast to hitting it up hard and fast with every girl who turned his eye, Dean was living life to the fullest, but for all the wrong reasons.

The truth is, I'm tired, Sam.

He'd said something similar when they'd dealt with the Croatoan virus. He was tired of everything, tired of life, and it hurt to hear. Dean was looking for a way out, and didn't even seem to care that he'd be leaving Sam behind to pick up the pieces. Once, Sam wouldn't have thought Dean would do something like that. Dean had done everything to protect Sam from something like that. Now, though, it didn't seem to matter.

Maybe he was just that tired of everything.

Prodigy. Boy King.

It made his skin crawl. The yellow-eyed demon was long dead, and yet Sam's destiny seemed to keep calling, refusing to be ignored.

"Sam."

Sam glanced up at Dean, who was frowning slightly at him from his position on the bed. "You're okay," he asked, though from the look on Dean's face it wasn't supposed to be a statement.

Sam was just thankful he hadn't made it a real question; he was giving Sam the freedom to choose his words. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said, turning back to the newspaper clippings he'd pulled up the day before. "Still don't know which one we're dealing with. Rebecca died from a heart attack, Harrison died from an electrical shock. Neither sounds like a reason for their spirit to be sticking around."

"Yeah, but both of them had deaths that could've been inflicted by someone else," Dean said, sitting up. "Think about it. Heart attacks can be caused by a drug overdose, or poison. Something that causes the heart to beat out of rhythm which then starts the cycle. And the electrical shock definitely smells of someone messing around. Toaster in the tub, live wire..."

"So it could really be either one," Sam said, sighing. "Which means we really have to go into that house tomorrow."

"They're buried in different cemeteries, I think," Dean said, and Sam nodded at the silent question.

"They are. One's in the South Memorial Cemetery, and one's buried in the Northern Heights Cemetery. The only good thing here is that they're both buried; no cremations."

"Good. I like easy," Dean said, leaning back again. "I figured we could do Chinese for dinner. I haven't had a decent Chinese in awhile, and there's some things on the menus I've never had. I might as well before the year's up."

Sam stopped, forcing himself to stare at the screen. If he glanced over at Dean, he was going to be tempted to stand up and smack him. He hated this.

He heard Dean sigh heavily, then heard the snapped, "What?" before they both froze. There was no mistaking the question in that.

Sam pinched his lips shut, refusing to answer. Besides the usual answer Dean had heard before, Sam was fairly certain it was going to lead to the answer of Dean being tired of Sam, and with good reason, because...

He hadn't told Dean about what Pride had said. Dean didn't need to hear it, and with only a year left, Sam wasn't about to drop the bomb that he was probably a demon, who was meant to rule the rest of the demon world. Dean didn't need to hear that.

Suddenly a burning sensation started in his chest, like he was holding his breath. He breathed out through his nose to make sure, but the burning only intensified. He clutched at his chest as the pain began to spread. Through his muscles, his bones, and up his neck until his body was practically vibrating with the pain of flames burning him from inside.

Distantly he felt hands grabbing at his arms, and Sam flinched away, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew if he could just take a deep breath through his mouth, it would stop. Of course, the truth would come tumbling out with his exhale, and-

"Don't answer it! Goddammit Sam, don't answer!"

The pain left in a sudden rush, and Sam gasped, falling into the hands that still held him. When he opened his eyes, Dean was gazing at him with open worry. "Holy crap, Sam," Dean said, breathing harshly. "You looked like you were having a heart attack or something."

"Or something," Sam said, taking deep breaths. "Guess we figured out what happens if you try not to tell the truth."

Dean slid back to a sitting position on the floor with a heavy sigh. "Let's not try that again," he said, still looking shaken. "You scared the crap out of me."

"Wasn't too fun from my point of view either, trust me," Sam said. He rose slowly, with Dean scrambling to his feet to follow. "I'm fine now, Dean," he said, giving his brother a smile. "I figured we could go grab dinner. Chinese actually sounds good."

"Yeah," Dean said, but he didn't look convinced. That he was worried was an understatement; Sam could see that clearly.

If he was concerned about Sam's wellbeing, then why was he okay with Sam having to go through the same thing Dean had just a year ago?

There had to be something else going on. He just had to figure out what.

"I don't think you've ever had squid before," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at Dean as he grabbed his coat.

"Okay, I don't have to try everything on the menu. That one I could die happy having never tasted."

Friday night, and the boys pulled up to the haunted house. Well, haunted mansion was more what Sam was going to call it. It was an old Victorian style house, complete with a wrap-around porch and an old wrought iron gate in front.

"THAT is the perfect haunted house," Dean said in awe, causing Sam to roll his eyes. "No dude, seriously! Look at it! This is the stuff of Hollywood legends!"

"Yeah, because we know Hollywood always gets it right," Sam said dryly, glancing over at Dean. Dean did look sheepish at the memory, and they climbed out of the car.

"C'mon, tell me this place doesn't scream 'I'm haunted, step inside so I can eat you'," Dean said, looking fairly gleeful at the prospect of hunting in the old house. "I always wanted to do a job in a house like this before I di-"

He shut up, instantly throwing Sam a wary look. Sam frowned for a second, before he realized what Dean was looking for. "I told you, it only burns when you don't tell the truth," he said, sighing. "It has nothing to do with you saying you're dying in a year."

"Right. Good," Dean said, grinning and stepping to the trunk.

Sam pursed his lips. "That doesn't mean it's okay to keep flamboyantly talking about it."

"Ooh, big word," Dean said, still grinning as he pulled out the usual shotguns.

Sam stepped between him and the trunk, causing Dean to pull back and glare at him. Sam glared right back. "I mean it, Dean. Stop it."

"I think I'm entitled; I'm headed straight to hell, Sam. Least I can do is own up to it," Dean said, reaching behind Sam to slam the trunk shut.

"Owning up to it is one thing, Dean. But to face it head on and almost look forward to it...no. So just stop already."

Dean opened his mouth to say something, but Sam threw up his hands and backed away. "I mean it. Just...stop."

Dean just shook his head with a sigh and smiled. "No problemo; I wasn't the one who brought it up, anyways. I'm happy enough to leave things the way they are. You should too, Sam." He tossed one of the shotguns at Sam, who caught it with a glare.

"Now let's say we head in there and scare up a ghost," Dean said, all grins once more. "Time's a'wastin' Sammy."

Sam stood and watched him go, clutching the shotgun so hard he was afraid he was going to bend the metal. Then he stepped forward to follow Dean into the house.

"That...huff...didn't go...huff...like I planned."

"No crap. Tell me the door's locked."

"Yeah, it's locked. Not that I think it's gonna stop Harrison any, but we'll take what we can get."

"You're okay though."

Dean nodded, sliding down the wall into a seated position on the wood floor. "Yeah," he said, still panting slightly. "I'm okay. You are too."

"Yeah, I'm all right," Sam said, letting his head lean back to hit the wall behind him with a small thunk. That had so not gone the way they'd planned.

It had wound up being Harrison after all. He'd appeared as they'd checked out the bathroom, sopping wet and hair sticking up from the electrical charge he'd received. He'd headed towards them, placing a hand on the door as he'd stepped in. The wood had been instantly scorched, and that had been all the brothers had needed to see. They'd managed to get out, and had taken shelter in the upstairs on the opposite end of the house.

Apparently, Harrison who hadn't hurt anyone before had perceived them as a threat.

"Now we'll..." Sam started, gazing across the room at his brother.

Dean shrugged and laid his shotgun against the wall next to him. "We wait for dawn. Harrison can't pull his electrical stunt with us at that point, and we'll head out to burn his bones."

"Dawn's a ways off," Sam stated.

"Yeah, I know. About three hours at least."

Sam sighed. "We've got nothing to do."

"You're bored already."

"No, but you will be, within ten minutes or less. I guarantee it."

Dean made a face. "Fine. We'll play a game."

Sam raised his eyebrows at him. "A game."

"Yeah. Truth or dare. Except for no dare," Dean said with a grin, and Sam tensed.

"Dean, that's exactly what we've been trying to avoid. The whole telling the truth thing only lasts for another three days or so, and then we're okay."

"We have nothing else to do," Dean stressed. "Besides, perfect time to play. The other person will definitely cough up the truth. They sort of have to."

"Fine," Sam said, crossing his arms. "I'll start. Did you kiss my prom date during my senior year?"

Dean glared at him, before muttering, "Yes."

"I knew it," Sam said, shaking his head at him. "I knew it."

"Yeah, well, she was hot," Dean defended. "And you weren't taking advantage of it. My turn: do you like the music I play?"

Sam scowled. "Yes I do."

Dean gave a triumphant grin. "Knew it. You protest too much."

"Whatever," Sam said, then sat back and thought about his next question. He'd wondered about it a few times, and he actually did want to know the answer. "Have you talked to Cassie since we last saw her?"

Dean stiffened, then slumped, the sudden rise to fight gone. "No."

"But you still love her, right?" Sam asked, and Dean gave him an annoyed look.

"Yes, and that's two questions. If we're going to ask serious questions, then here's mine: when were you going to propose to Jessica?" Despite the tone he'd started with, Dean's voice was soft when the question was finally laid out.

Sam breathed in slowly, then let it out with a shaky exhale. "Christmas Eve. I was waiting for Christmas Eve, but if I couldn't wait, I'd have done it on Thanksgiving. With Christmas Eve, though, there'd have been snow. She loved the snow," he added wistfully. "I wanted to give her another reason to love it."

"Would you have asked me and Dad to be there for the wedding?"

Sam jerked himself out of his thoughts at that, staring at Dean incredulously. "Are you kidding?" he said, before he snorted, a smile on his lips. "Dean, I wanted you to be my best man. Yes, I wanted you both there."

Dean gazed at him for a minute, before he began to smile. "I would've been there," he said quietly. "And I know Dad wouldn't have missed it for the world."

A small part of Sam seemed to slide back into place at that. On the topic of John, Sam asked another question. One he'd wondered about for months while Dean had fallen to pieces. "Did I...did I help at all, last year? Help you with...you know."

Dean met his gaze steadily from across the room. "Sammy, if you hadn't been there, I wouldn't be here now," he said. Even despite the lurch in his chest at the thought of Dean dying, another part of him seemed finally, finally settle.

God, why didn't they just sit down and talk?

"Do you remember anything after Jake..." Dean swallowed hard, and Sam didn't make him finish.

"No. White noise in my ears, white hot pain in my back, and then everything just...faded out," he said, shrugging helplessly. "I don't know what else to call it. But no, I don't remember dying, Dean. I really don't remember much of anything except seeing you running for me."

Dean nodded, and the concern he was showing again made Sam want to rip his hair out. He was concerned that Sam had remembered something about that horrible moment. He was concerned when Sam talked about Jessica. He was concerned when Sam was in pain, but he was okay with the deal?

No. No way. Time to find out what was really going on in his brother's head, and he knew exactly how to do it.

"Why are you so gung-ho about dying in a year?" Sam said, and watched the worry slam straight into a glare. Sam didn't care. "You can't help but shove it in my face every chance you get, like you're-"

"Sam," Dean said warningly.

"-happy to be going, almost freakin' ecstatic. I don't remember dying, Dean, but I know it can't be fun."

"Sam," in a louder tone with more force behind it.

"No. Answer the question, Dean. Why are you practically enamoured with the idea of dying in a year?"

"I'm not!" Dean exploded, shooting up from the floor. "Dammit the hell Sam! I'm not looking forward to it, and no matter what I do, I'm not enjoying this year. Each stupid little thing I do, like the twin girls or the other half a dozen things I've done up to this point? It's just another step towards the end."

"Then why-"

"Because I'm scared shitless, Sam," Dean said, gesturing wildly. "I don't want to die. I want to live until I'm 80 and I get to have a cane to smack people in the knees with. But I will not do it without you. I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. You're stronger than I am: you walked away to college, left us behind, not even a back glance. You were strong enough to manage without us Sam, but I'm not. Wasn't last year any indication of that to you?"

"You think I didn't miss you both while I was at Stanford?" Sam said, nostrils flaring. "God, Dean, every little thing I did or saw reminded me of something to do with you or Dad until it all just hurt. I'm not stronger, Dean. I just pretended I was."

"Yeah, well I can't even do that," Dean said, fists now clenched by his side. "I know bringing you back was selfish and I'm sorry, I truly am. I'm not just scared of dying: I'm scared of what I'm sending you straight into in a year. I already told you Sam: if you hadn't been there, I'd have placed a single bullet in the chamber and finished it. But you were there for me, Sam. I'm not going to be there for you." His eyes were wide with rage, but moisture was beginning to pool in them. "And it scares me to even think about you doing that, because I'm not stupid, Sam. I know you would. And even though I won't be here if and when you do it, I know now that you would, and that's killing me faster than her deal ever could.

"So I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being selfish enough to make the deal, I'm sorry for leaving you in a year, but I'm not sorry you're alive and here." His lower lip trembled, and Sam was afraid his was going to do the exact same thing in a second. "I might be afraid of dying. I might be afraid of you dying," Dean said, biting his lip as he tried to get it to stop. "But god help me, I'm ten times more scared of you not being here anymore."

Silence descended on the room. They stared at each other for a few moments, before Sam slowly rose, placing his own shotgun on the floor. He took two short steps, stopping right in front of Dean, before reaching out and pulling Dean in. "Don't even start about the chick-flick moment," Sam murmured. "I know now that you like them."

"The movies, Sam, not the moments," Dean mumbled, but he held on anyways, his arms wrapped tight around him like he had after Sam had awakened alone in that grungy old room.

"It scares me too, you know," Sam whispered.

"What does?"

"You not being here."

Dean's answer was to pull him in closer, becoming the comforter once more. The thought of Dean not being there to do that anymore made tears burn suddenly in Sam's eyes, and he dug his fingers into Dean's jacket.

They had Harrison's bones salted and burned before anyone was really awake and moving in the town. The grave was filled back in silently, before the two trudged back to the Impala.

Sam couldn't take the silence for much longer. "I, um..."

Dean just stopped where he was, giving Sam a look that said he'd been waiting for this. "It means a lot that you told me that, truth spell or not," Sam finally said.

Dean relaxed a bit at that. "I never meant to shove it in your face," he admitted. "The more I said it, the easier it got to accept it."

"Really?" Sam asked skeptically.

Dean gave him a look. "No, and thanks for knocking my illusions over. Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam said, and Dean grinned. With his own lips twitching Sam turned for the Impala once more, knowing Dean would be right beside him.

And he'd damn well fight Hell to make sure it stayed that way.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah Sam?"

"How did you trap Lust a week and a half ago?"

"...You suck, man."

"I know."

END