A/N - Thank you again and again for the reviews. And now, chapter 14, wherein our heroes have a conversation and Dean finds out what happened to his jacket. Straightforward action will resume in the next chapters.

Sarah went to get the upstairs guest room prepared for Sam, and left the brothers to their own devices. After his joke at Sam's expense, Dean had fallen silent, and after a few moments Sam decided to try and draw him out.

"So, whaddya think?"

Dean looked over at Sam from under lowered brows. "I know what you're doing," he said.

Sam wasn't a good liar, mainly because he was really bad at feigning innocence. "What?" he said, eyes open just a bit too wide to be believeable.

Dean sighed. "You think that I'm sitting here wondering if any of the jobs we thought dad sent us have been from dad."

Sam was genuinely surprised. "Actually, that wasn't it, but now that you mention it.."

"Well then what were you asking?" Dean interrupted.

"You're changing the subject."

"You're the one who had a subject to bring up--I'm just asking about it!"

"Dean..." Sam tilted his head and looked at his brother, exasperated.

"Sam..." Dean mocked Sam's pose and inflection.

Sam grunted in frustration and gave in. "I just wanted to know what you thought about this whole--aura thing."

Dean grimaced. "I'd rather discuss whether or not we've been getting jerked around by a demon for the past six months."

Sam merely looked at him.

"Oh, all right. Let's do this before your head explodes."

"Do what?"

"Your Oprah thing--the whole touchy-feely sharing thing! Let's just get it over with!"

"I'm not some emotionally needy loser, you know," said Sam defensively, "it's just that after...well..."

Dean could be remarkably astute when he wanted to be, or when he was trying to get an emotional discussion over with as quickly as possible. "After the asylum. You want to know if you hurt my feelings? 'Cause maybe deep down you know you meant all that stuff, and you want to know if I think you meant it."

"No, Dean! I didn't..." Sam gave up trying to lie and wiped his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans, nodding.

"Listen to me, because I will say this once and only once and then we will never speak of it again." Dean waited until Sam met his eyes.

"I know you would never deliberately try to hurt me. I also know that you resent the hell out of me, because I'm the big brother and I do what dad asks and most of the time I like doing it. And I'm beginning to think that maybe somewhere inside you, somewhere you don't want to think about, you're blaming me for Jess," he held up a hand to stop Sam's protest, "because you were with me when that thing killed her. Does that hurt? What do you think?"

"But you saved me, too, Sam. Got me away from that demon and pulled my ass out of the fire, and you're family, so I'll get over it." Sam didn't say anything, and Dean drew in a breath, preparing for the rest of it.

Dean's expression was pained as he continued, "And all I can say is I'm sorry, Sam. I'm sorry you didn't have a perfect normal life, and that you never knew mom and that Jessica died, but what did you expect? We aren't normal, we never were, and I'm tired of hearing about how gypped you feel. I lost mom too, you know? And I remember some of what that meant, so I'm tired of hearing you run dad down. He did the best he could, and so did I, and if that's not enough--if you hate this life and us that much, then go back to Stanford, pick up the pieces, and let me handle the fighting. You know I won't stop until I find the thing that killed mom and Jess and destroy it."

Anger crossed Sam's features as he replied, "Do you think I don't want to find dad and destroy that thing? And after all that's happened--you know I can't go back to Stanford!"

"Of course you could if you really wanted to, Sam. You'd study law, have weird dreams, call my cellphone and I'd go kill the bad things." Dean sighed. "It's not a contest over who's the better hunter or more loyal son. You need to decide what you really want, Sam. We do good. We help people that no one else can help, and that's enough for me. If you're gonna stay, then I need to know that you're really with me--your head's in the game and you're watching my back--and not just counting the days until you can go back to your real life."

"Dean..." Sam dropped his head for a moment and ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "I don't hate you, man. I never could. It's just so damn unfair and it makes me so angry and guilty and scared and I just want--I want to finish it, and then I look at you and you're actually enjoying this life and I can't stand it sometimes!" He stood still after his tirade, waiting for his brother's reaction.

"What can I say? I'm an optimist. And as I keep reminding you, this life does have its perks."

"Dean, I'm being serious."

"So am I. You're my brother. Bottom line, I want you to be happy. But you've gotta figure out what's gonna make you that way yourself."

Sam looked away, eyes stinging, and nodded. "So we're okay?"

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat, looking relieved. "And the next time we have a conversation like that will be over my dead body--although I reserve the right to haunt your ass if you get all weepy on me."

"How will you know if I do? You'll be dead!"

"Big brothers always know these things, young padawan."

"If you don't stop with the Star Wars references that dead body thing is going to happen a lot sooner than you think."

"Says you, string bean. I can kick your ass from here."

"Yeah, right."

"Wanna try me?"

Sarah walked in just as Sam was preparing to pounce. "What are you doing? When I said you bounced back quickly I didn't mean you should start wrestling immediately after a near-death experience!" She pointed a finger at Sam. "You! The upstairs guest room is ready, your clothes are clean and the bathroom is empty. Get moving!" Sam looked sheepish and complied, but waited until Sarah's back was to him and then flipped his brother off, grinning at the knowledge that Dean couldn't retaliate. Dean glared at his retreating back.

The psychic looked at Dean. "You guys cleared the air, I see," she said, and smiled at Dean's discomfort. "Don't worry, I won't pry. Just wanted to let you know that the downstairs bathroom is free if you feel up to a shower. Clean clothes are already in there--I washed what you arrived in."

Dean's eyes widened. "My jacket?"

"What jacket?"

"The leather jacket I had on in Charleston--you didn't wash it, did you?"

"You can't wash leather, Dean," Sarah said, looking puzzled and then alarmed. "Oh, you don't mean..."

"Where's my jacket?"

"Well, Sam had a couple of bags filled with blood soaked clothing that couldn't be salvaged, so I took the liberty of disposing of it for him--had Keith run it out to the dump so as not to arouse the suspicions of any nosy garbage collectors or neighbors."

"Oh, man. I loved that jacket."

"Sorry, Dean, but there will be other leather jackets."

"Not like that one." Dean's expression grew hard. "I am so burning down that house in Charleston."