AN: This was a hard chapter to write, but I think I did what I wanted to. I'm curious to hear what y'all brilliant readers think (she said, shamelessly trolling for reviews). If you want to read about my inspiration for some of it, there's an additional note at the end of the chapter. It's not cheerful, and it's a bit personal, so no pressure to go there when you really came here just to enjoy a day in the life of those two gorgeous heroes!

sfaulkenberry: That made me laugh! It's getting' real up in here, up in here.

sylvia37: When you're right, you're right!

Stormysea-breaks: Merci beaucoup! I love every single thing about your comment and am flattered by your praise.

Secretwrittenword: It's not a real lighthearted read, is it? But I think you're like me – sometimes you want to read a story that "hurts so good." Maybe it makes me a twisted person, but I take your comments as a compliment. Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think!

Dean had found a warding symbol that the angels used against the Morrigan and he'd drawn it on all the exits. Hadn't he? Except he was sure there was one more exit he had to cover. He could hear crows trying to get in, trying to get to Sam, and he had to hurry. Only the corridors seemed to stretch on forever, and he kept losing his way. He ran faster and faster, but knew in his gut that he'd be too late. Should he run back to Sam to defend him? Try to get to the door? And was Robin laughing at him from inside the incinerator?

Dean jerked awake with a particularly scatological Japanese curse that he'd learned from Bobby. He had found a warding symbol against the Morrigan. And he'd put it on all the doors before coming back and finally stretching out to sleep a while. He had not found anything on reversing curses, only how to avoid the entire Morrigan family. And he discovered that a robin macnabreanna was less a name that a kind. It denoted a trickster type, like a less powerful Loki, or maybe Pan.

Dean scratched at his chest, feeling better rested than he'd expected, nightmare notwithstanding. That meant Sam had had a nice, quiet night too. Dean sat up, and his phone fell off his chest. His grab for it barely missed, and it clattered loudly to the floor. He leaned over and grabbed it, cursing again.

"Et conturbavit me?"

The scratchy voice startled Dean so much he very nearly dropped the phone again. "S-sam?"

"Dean, quad annos est? Quot annorum sum?" Sam sounded tired and bewildered. But he was talking.

"My name is literally the only part of that I understood. Care to try it in English?" Yup, Dean was grinning like an idiot. No, he didn't care. Didn't care that there was a bear rug his throat and sand in his eyes. Sammy was talking.

Sam frowned at him. Then frowned harder in concentration. "Um. How old am I?"

And we have English! Dean shook his head at the absurdity of the question. But okay, he'd play. He'd talk about Ozzy Osbourne's sex life if that's what Sam wanted to talk about. "Thirty-two. You know who you are? You know who I am?"

Sam sat up and looked around the room intently, like he was looking for clues. "I am Sam and you are Dean," he said, almost formally. "You are…we are…brothers."

Another wave of emotion threatened to swamp Dean, and he couldn't answer for a moment. It didn't even dim when Sam added a tentative, "Right?"

"That's right, Sam. Everything else we can work on, but that's what you really need to know." Two breaths. Put it away, focus on the concrete. "Breakfast?"

"Sh-shower first," Sam decided. His nose wrinkled. "You should, too."

Dean laughed. And laughed again. Not because it was so funny, but because it sounded so like Sam. Ordinary Sam. It sounded a little bit like hope.

Sam needed help finding the bathroom, apparently completely turned around in the bunker. And he seemed to take an inordinate amount of time showering and getting dressed, but Dean gave him space. At least, he stayed outside the bathroom. That was as much space as he could stand. And Sam even gave him a bitchface when he finally emerged. When Dean found Cas sitting listlessly in the hub, he even took his own shower, trusting the angel to baby-sit.

When Dean came back, Sam began to ask questions. He paused often, but it was all English and it made sense. Sam's voice was hesitant, his words oddly careful and precise. It reminded Dean of something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Sam asked questions through pancakes, through dish washing, through cleaning up the kitty litter and trying to find every last feather left behind. It became clear that his memories were there, but in fragments, out of order, and very confusing to him. The questions were confusing too, since they had so little context. Dean could only imagine that everything Sam remembered was like that right now.

"You are older than I am?" Sam had asked over breakfast, speaking slowly. At Dean's nod, Sam's face creased in confusion. "But I remember you as a young teenager, and you were smaller than I was. I was driving because you weren't old enough?"

It had taken Dean a minute, but then he remembered the witch that liked children. "Have you ever heard of Hansel and Gretel?" Sam listened intently to every word, every explanation Dean gave. He could almost see his younger brother cataloging his answers, organizing his mind. It was, Dean thought, like he was archiving his own life for easy retrieval. Sam said something to that affect while Dean was pouring them both coffee.

"It's like my memories are supposed to be…long, um, long lines, all connected. But the lines are all cut up, all out of order, like a puzzle without edges," Sam had said.

Internally, Dean was cheering Sam's use of longer sentences, the evidence that his reasoning skills were intact. That's right, lawyer boy. Your big brain will figure it out; I know it will. But all he said was, "We'll put 'em back in order together."

Sam nodded solemnly. "I know." And didn't that make Dean's heart swell like that fuzzy green Christmas guy's had? But Sam didn't lose his serious expression. "Dean, did shadows…almost kill us?"

It hit Dean suddenly why this felt so familiar and a smile flitted across his face. Tiny Sammy, always so serious, asked questions pretty much every minute he was awake. De, why does Tommy's hair make circles? My hair doesn't make circles. De, how come cats don't wag their tails when you pet 'em? De, how come em ems come in lotsa colors and carrots on'y come in orange?

"I am trying to remember," Sam stiffly interrupted Dean's reverie, misunderstanding the smile. Unfortunately for him, his frown only reinforced the memories. As a tot, Sam had hated it when people hadn't taken him seriously, hated it with a passion. Sadly for his cause, he'd been a rosy-cheeked child with big eyes and silky curls and it was the rare adult who could look at him without smiling, especially when his little voice used too-big words.

Present day Dean forced his own smile away with effort. The last thing he wanted was for Sam to think he was making fun of him or being condescending. "No, no, I was just thinking about how you used to ask so many questions when you were little. Remember when Bobby told you that you could only ask six questions every hour?" Dean held his breath as soon as his own words registered. Remember when questions weren't fair right now.

"No," admitted Sam simply, not upset by the question. "But I remember missing him." Well, didn't that bring the lump right back to Dean's throat. "I don't remember all the details, but I remember what people make me feel. Like, I think Castiel – no, Cas – did something like th-this to me one time, but I am not angry. I must have forgiven him."

Dean knew that Sam had forgotten that their friend was in the room, or he'd never have said it.

Cas found a reason to go back to his room shortly after that.

And Dean calmly answered Sam's earlier question about the Daeva.

A few minutes later, while Dean was sweeping yet again, trying to get the last of the kitty litter, it occurred to him that Sam had fallen silent. Instincts pinging, Dean looked over. Sam was holding a single crow feather, staring at it like a man transfixed. Dean went back to work and let his brother puzzle for a few moments. Then, casually, he asked, "Think it's one of Robin's?" They hadn't discussed the reason behind Sam's situation yet.

"Robin was…your first kiss," offered Sam slowly, his tone making it clear that he knew that wasn't the answer.

"Yup. But not that Robin. Crow man."

"Cro-Magnon," muttered Sam, and Dean felt something loosen that he didn't know was tight. Sam was making a joke. A smart joke.

"Something like that," Dean offered, turning his face away. "I just called him asshole."

AN (part 2): I'm rarely serious (like, ever), but I'm going to be for just a sec. This chapter's for my mom. She was a woman of words. She loved to read, and she was one of the most articulate people I've ever known or known of. When she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, we thought it would steal her voice, but she not only lived with that disease for eighteen years, she never completely lost her words. The last time I saw her, I kissed her and said 'I love you, Mommy,' to tease her because she never liked being called that. And she looked at me and said, 'I love you too.' She hadn't known my name or birthday for years, but she knew how she felt about me, and gave me an amazing gift.