Dean finished tying off the last of the "purification bags" and dropped them into his duffel bag. He'd made Missouri Moseley write down the ingredients for him before they left Kansas. Missouri had been happy to oblige, and Dean suspected it was probably because the thought of Dean poring over a piece of pink flowered stationery every time they prepared for a purification ritual would amuse the older woman immensely. Dean refolded the offending piece of paper and tucked it into John's journal, which he also put into the duffel. Straightening, he checked the clock. 3 p.m. He did a quick mental calculation--he'd taken four ibuprofen at 10 a.m. so technically he wasn't supposed to have any more until 6, but that would be after dark and at the rate they were wearing off...

He reached for his jacket and began to put it on, throwing a quick glance in Sam's direction as he did so. Dean knew that Sam had been monitoring how many pills he was taking, or trying to, anyway, by occasionally giving the ibuprofen bottle a casual shake under the guise of "looking for something" in their toiletry/medical kit. Dean smirked. His little brother was so transparent sometimes. And so easily fooled. Dean had simply bought a couple of large bottles while doing "research," had emptied the contents into a ziploc bag in his jacket pocket and was taking those pills instead. It was good to be the oldest--a permanent four-year head start on a sibling was a great advantage. Well, unless your younger brother had spent four years in egghead training and then suddenly turned into Psychic Boy. It occurred to Dean that most of his advantages over his brother had probably run out long ago. His smirk disappeared.

As if on cue, Sam looked up from the printouts of old newspaper articles he'd been putting away. His brow furrowed. "What?" he asked. Dean's eyebrows rose in an expression of innocence. "What d'ya mean, what? Get a move on, bro. Daylight's burning."

Sam sighed but complied, grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. He paused at the exit and turned to look at Dean. "Well, Mr. Get a Move On? You coming?"

Dean started and replied, "Right behind you." As Sam shrugged and left, Dean reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew four more ibuprofen which he quickly dry swallowed.

It was a thirty minute drive from their motel to the old plantation. Dean maneuvered the Impala carefully down the rutted dirt driveway that turned off of the main road. Fortunately for them, the driveway was on the "dry side" of the property, but they still had to park about 100 yards away from the main house and trudge across a soggy lawn to reach their destination. Finally they stood on the front porch, shaking the mud off of their shoes.

Sam looked over at his brother as they prepared to go in. He was frankly worried--Dean looked pale and his eyes were tired. The whole "give Dean his space" thing wasn't working out, but he was reluctant to bring it up because Dean would probably just deny that he still had a headache and then try doubly hard to prove that he was fine. "Coward," said his conscience. "You're afraid that he's sick because of what you did to him at the asylum, and you just want it to go away. And you say Dean's the master of avoidance and repression." Sam was jerked back to reality by Dean's hand on his shoulder, and the realization that this was the first time Dean had really touched him since Illinois.

"You with me, Sammy?" Dean looked concerned. Up close, the dark circles under his older brother's eyes were more apparent.

Sam forced himself to focus on the present and met Dean's eyes. "Are you?" he asked. Dean's hand fell away and the older Winchester took a step back, looking guarded.

"I'm fine, Sam."

Sam fixed his brother with an "I don't believe you glare" and started to protest, but Dean cut him off. "Look, the floors in here haven't been replaced, and the ground under this place has been soggy for years. Step carefully--you don't want to go through the floor, all right?"

"Dean, we've got to talk about this."

Dean looked puzzled. "Something wrong with the plan?"

Sam shook his head and gestured around them. "No, Dean. All of this. I've tried this your way, tried to be quiet and give you your space and focus on the job, but this is ridiculous, okay? Dad's not here, again. You've been...off...and I'm worried about you. How many ibuprofen have you had today, anyway?"

Dean threw his head back and blew out an exasperated breath, then looked back at his brother, visibly annoyed. "What is it with you, Sam? You have absolutely the worst timing of anyone I have ever known! Why do you only want to have some soul-searching heart to heart Oprah group encounter session when we're about to go on a hunt? Why not when we're in the car, or a diner, or a motel or even a freaking laundromat, huh? The sun is setting, we're about to go up against a homicidal spirit, NOW is not a good time for this, okay?"

"Dean..."

"I know, Sam. Believe me. I know. And after this is over, I'll give you a coupon for one free Oprah moment, okay? But NOT. NOW."

"I'm just..." Sam sighed and dipped his head. "I'm sorry, you know?"

Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing he felt better, wishing he could give his brother the reassurance he needed, wishing he was still the guy with all the answers, but none of that was reality and Dean never lied to family when it mattered. After a moment he looked back up at Sam, letting some of his sadness show. "Me too, Sammy." Then he straightened up and clapped Sam on the shoulder, all business. "Job. Then Oprah. Right?"

Sam gave a ghost of a smile. "Right."