So, I'm having serious writer's block. I get out, like, one sentence in a fic and then I'm like WHAT THE HELLLLLLLLLLLLL. And I delete it. And the process starts all over again. Part of my solution to this problem is listening to music. Also, the E/O Challenges save my soul from Hell XD - but my point is, I was listening to the song "Some of Us", Starsailor, when this idea came to me. Thank GOD for a muse breakthrough of SOME kind! Spoilers for Season 1 (But if this spoils anything for you it's because you haven't even seen the first episode yet!)

For those of you who care, I promise I'm trying my darndest to get out chappies in my fics. For now, this is all I've got. *tears up*

Wandering Souls

"...Dean?"

The soft whisper barely breaks the silence of night, so quiet it's almost inaudible. But Dean is a hunter; has been for the past twelve years of his life. Even in sleep, he has learned to keep alert, to expect the unexpected. His father has taught him well.

"...Hm..?" He grunts into his pillow, partially hoping it's only his imagination, already succumbing to the soothing arms of sleep.

"I can't sleep."

Guess again.

He raises his head slowly, directing bleary eyes toward the sound of his younger brother's voice. A thin slice of moonlight illuminates the room, the curtain having been drawn slightly away from the window at some point during the night.

Sam perches at the edge of his bed, knees tucked into his chest, chin resting atop the light blue flannel material of his pyjama bottoms.

"'Sup?" Dean mumbles, his voice rough from sleep. He sits up in bed, propping himself up against the headboard with the softer of the two pillows available to him. When his question goes unanswered, he tries again. Adds a little life to his words. "Look, man. Jolie and I were just about to heat things up, so if there's nothing you wanna talk about-"

"-Do you think Mom's like one of them?"

This silences him. It's been years since the topic of their mother was brought up. It's not that they've forgotten about her; No, quite the contrary. Dean still remembers every moment about that night, every feeling, every smell. The sound of sirens, the heat of the fire.

The smell of burnt flesh.

These memories are the very reason Dean is never able to talk about it. About her. He can't keep them away, can't block them out. And it kills him that these are the strongest memories he has of his mother.

"...One of who, Sammy?" He finally manages to ask, pushing away the images still floating around in his mind. He focuses on his brother's voice.

"The spirits you and Dad hunt. The ghosts."

His heart tightens in his chest, a sharp gasp of air shooting out of his mouth at the very thought.

He's been such a fool. A damn, selfish fool.

All these years, he's been pitying himself. He's stonewalled Sam's attempts to talk about their mother, to let the pain out. He's wanted to be a man, to deal with the pain himself.

But what about Sam? Their father sure as hell couldn't console them then, nor can he do it now. The man is filled with anger, a thirst for revenge. Sam could never turn to him for comfort.

And Dean shut him out, too. His only door, slammed in his face.

He vows now to never shut that door again.

"No, Sammy," he whispers, his voice betraying his emotions. He feels the tears in his eyes, the lump forming in his throat. Before Sam can catch his momentary lapse of character, he clears his throat. Brushes the tears away before they get the chance to fall, before they stain his cheeks. "Mom...Wherever she is, she's happy. And she's watchin' out for us."

Sam raises his head slightly, turning to check out his brother's expression. Searching his face for any tell-tale sign that he is lying. Sees none.

"You really think so?" He asks, voice earnest, expression hopeful.

It breaks Dean's heart.

"'Course." He mutters, turning away so that his brother's perceptive eyes miss the tears he can't keep in. "Now shut up, will 'ya? I wanna get at least a couple hours' sleep before Dad gets back." He snags the pillow from behind him, plopping it down and laying his head against it. Holds his breath to keep from whimpering, the tears now streaming down his face.

"Okay... If you say so."

He hears Sam scoot back to the head of his bed, the rustling of sheets, the creak of the mattress. For a moment, there's silence. He closes his eyes, his cheek damp, his pillow soaked with fresh tears.

"Dean?"

He grunts in reply, unable to speak.

"...You're the best older brother in the world. I...I just wanted you to know."

:/

Okay, so you guys might notice that I've started to write in "Present" form. Why, do you ask? Well, I recently came upon some old Bones drabbles and shots that I wrote up, and the one that I actually LOVE (I mean, really, I read it and was like OHMYGODWHEREHAVEYOUBEEN!) was written in "Present". I thought I'd give it a spin :P