Disclaimer: I do not own anything, and promise to return what I've borrowed in like new condition.

"It's an extraordinary idea, that we can restore what has been shattered. In fact it's our responsibility to try, each of us, to make our world whole again."

Myla Goldberg

Bee Season

Chapter Two

Dean polished off his second Egg McMuffin, and glanced over at Sam in the passenger seat before stuffing the wrapper back in the empty bag. They were heading up into the mountains, towards what should be a fairly easy gig with a haunted inn. Dean had actually gotten the call from Missouri Mosley, as the new owners of the inn were old friends of hers. Apparently, the spirits were harmless, mostly just frightening the guests with sounds and lights shows. It was a lot tamer than their usual work, but the owners were willing to pay for peace of mind and Dean wanted to take a step back after what happened in Michigan. Sam had been repressing so hard since last week that Dean was surprised he hadn't yet given himself a hernia. Half a sausage McMuffin sat, ignored, on the dashboard while Sam fiddled restlessly with his leather wristband. Frowning, Dean turned his face back towards the road, kneading the steering wheel in agitation.

Sam needed to start eating. Not eating better—that would imply that he was eating something, which he was not—but he had to start eating. Despite his words to Sam in that oh-so-woodsy motel room, he could tell that something was dragging the younger man under. They hadn't since mentioned the conversation they'd had about Sam's visions and Max and mysteriously mobile china hutches, but Dean had meant every word of what he'd said. Every damn word.

He knew how Sam's mind worked. By now, his memories of Max's death were probably way more horrifying than the actual event had been, and Sammy was beating himself up trying to figure a way he could have saved them all. All that, and the memory of seeing Dean shot in the head. Last night had been the first night Sam had not dreamed again of seeing his brother shot at point-blank range. More than anything Dean wished he could take that away from Sam, the memory of that vision. In a strange way, though, seeing his little brother's complete horror and trauma at what he had seen had healed the emotional wounds from the asylum that Dean hadn't realized he was still carrying. That and Sam's behavior when he was sick made Dean feel guiltily warm inside.

Sam had visibly proven that he would move heaven, earth, and china hutches to save Dean.

And while knowing that was not worth Sam's trauma, it helped Dean in more ways than he was willing to admit.

Silence reigned between them, a deep, windless, uncrossable chasm. Ever since Michigan, and especially the… ahem… dream of the night before, Sam had felt far away from Dean. He was pulling away somehow, pulling inward, going deeper inside himself than he ever had before. Dean wasn't sure he would continue to be able to reach Sam if he kept it up.

Sam was drowning somehow, and Dean felt as though he was pushing away attempts at help or rescue. Dean was willing to follow him as far down as he had to… but he was afraid that this had something to do with the visions, some strange side effect. What if there were side effects? Those headaches couldn't be natural. Somehow, something wasn't letting him reach his brother. He was afraid it was Sam, sensing in himself the falling motion, the spiraling destruction that was so apparent to Dean, and was pulling away to collapse in peace, like an animal hides when it's ill. He was attempting to shield his own vulnerability and Dean's… to spread himself to cover all the holes.

But he was spread too thin as it was, and anyway, filling the weak points was Dean's job. Taking the hits was Dean's job. Always had been.

Sammy might be psychic but Dean would be damned if he was going stand in front. If anything came, it came at Dean first.

"So, you want that last hash brown?" Dude, eat something. Seriously, NOT a request.

Sam didn't look up from his lap. "Nah, you can have it." I've taken enough from you already—keep the breakfast food.

Dean gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, watching loose snow drift lazily across the road in front of him. Focusing on the snow, thank you Wyoming mountain springtime, and on driving carefully on the steep incline lasted for about a millisecond before he yanked the wheel to the left, pulling off the deserted route.

"Fuck this shit. I don't want the hash brown. Don't try to give it to me." His green eyes were bright and dark at once, and he didn't release his grip on the steering wheel. If he was going to do this, this girly fuzzy shit, he was going to do it with a good firm grip on his Impala, which was, sadly, the most permanent element in his life.

Sam, who had slammed against his seatbelt at the sudden turn, stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "Fine, whatever, I was just saying—"

Dean couldn't look at him. "Well, don't 'just say'! I don't even like hash browns, I didn't buy it for me, it's yours, Sam, I bought it for you so eat it already!"

Sam tilted his head in the way that he'd been doing since forever, and Dean had long since realized that when Sam did that, tilted his head like that and focused his eyes just so, he was about to say something and be right about it, too. Damn him.

"This isn't about hash browns, is it?"

Lowering his head, Dean breathed deeply for a minute. He couldn't, absolutely could not, believe he was doing this. He'd be signing up for his uterus any day now. "You're not eating enough, okay? You ate, like, half a McMuffin. Who eats half a McMuffin? Hell, when you were fifteen you could eat four of those, easy."

Sam looked out the window into the blinding brightness of the snowy morning. "If this is about last night, I'm sorry. It was stupid dream and I shouldn't even have told you."

And that was the very end of Dean's patience. "Dammit, Sam! Just, dam it! Look, I know we haven't really talked about this Haley Joel shit, but you've gotta tell me this stuff. I can't—you have to—I need to know what's going on. So… so you know… tell me about it."

Sam went pale at Dean's words, and it was obvious that he'd heard each and every bit of the subtext, loud and clear. Flexing his jaw in frustration, he looked around the car as if to find something else to focus the conversation on. "You wanna talk about it? You! I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be my line."

The steering wheel creaked from the pressure being exerted on it. "Samuel."

As suddenly as the warning was issued in Dean's lowest register, the voice that had laid the steel foundations of Sam's childhood, he had his little brother's full, wide-eyed attention. There was a second of silence, and Dean could see Sam composing his words ahead of himself, something he himself had never been able to do.

"I dreamt about you, Dad, and Mom going to the house in Lawrence for the first time. You hid in an empty room and Mom pretended she couldn't find you. Mom and Dad joked you'd run away to the circus to be a monkey. She tickled you, right in the doorway of—of the nursery, and you laughed and laughed. That was it." There was a whisper of wistfulness in Sam's voice that cut Dean in a place he hadn't realized was vulnerable.

Looking over, Sam saw that Dean was pale, which reminded him of Dean dying, which led straight to his vision of Dean getting shot, and Sam wished desperately that he could turn his mind off for a while. "It was just—just a stupid dream. I don't think we're meant to do anything about it. No big deal, Dean."

Dean stared straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. "I don't remember that day. I was too young, I guess. I remember playing that game with Mom, though."

He didn't see Sam wince. "Look, it seemed pretty random. Let's just assume it was a fluke until something happens that says otherwise." Sam was pleased his voice didn't telegraph his pain for once in his life. Maybe he was getting better at lying.

Dean's reply was to pull back onto the road, still pensive. Sam waited for the other shoe to drop, knowing there was no way he'd gotten the last word. "Well… don't, you know, worry about this shit so much, kid. This job should be cake, so relax a little, okay?"

There was a pause, and then Dean looked over at Sam, his color finally coming back. "I can't believe I had to make you talk about something. Where's that sensitive Sammy I know and—you know, allow to live?" His voice was sarcastic. Normal service had apparently resumed.

Sam sighed. "You know I'm not eating that hash brown, right?"

It was nearly full dark by the time the brothers pulled into the parking lot of the Inn at Point Peter. It was snow covered, quaint, and picturesque in ways that scared Dean more than a little. The rest of the ride up had been tensely silent with a light background of Black Sabbath, for ambience. Sam knew Dean was thinking about the vision and Dean knew Sam knew that he was thinking about it, and both were thinking about how they were never going to talk about it again. Ever, if at all possible.

Sam craned his neck to see the building through the windshield and the thickly falling snow. The inn was styled after a cabin… if cabins had four stories and two expansive wings. "Geez, it's a lot bigger than I thought. If these spirits decide to hide, we could be here for weeks."

Dean seemed unimpressed, simply swinging out of the car to stretch his legs with relief. "Well, it'll be a damn sight nicer than some of the places we've been staying. C'mon, Sam, live it up a little. We're getting paid to stay somewhere for once."

Following his brother up the snowy stairs with his duffle slung over one shoulder, Sam grimaced. "Somewhere haunted," he groused.

Dean sighed, inwardly pleased that Sam had come back to himself enough to complain. "Wow, gee, Sam, haunted? Really? 'Cause we've never encountered that before." Smirking over his shoulder at his younger brother, Dean paused at the door to stomp the snow off his boots. "The owner said they were harmless ghosts, just annoying. You know, like you. Harmless and annoying."

Pushing the door open over Dean's head, say what you want I'm annoying and still taller, Sam rolled his eyes expressively. "They just haven't met you yet. You could incite a nun to violence."

Dean huffed. "Hey, I was eleven! And I wasn't taking the Lord's name in vain, I was checking to see if she was a demon!"

"Call it what you want… you still ran from a seventy year old woman with a ruler."

Spotting the front desk, Dean brushed haughtily past his still smirking brother. "Unlike you, Sam, I don't go in for that kind of thing. I seem to recall you and Sister Perpetua getting along very… very well."

Standing just off Dean's left shoulder as was his habit, Sam leaned over to mutter in his ear. "Eww, Dean, just ew."

Not bothering to reply, Dean turned on the charm for the young concierge. "Hello, miss… Beth, is it? I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my assistant, Sam. We're here to see the owner, Chris Walker. Is he here?"

Beth, who had seemed rather charmed by Dean, and who upon closer examination was way too young for either of them, looked suddenly disenchanted. "Oh… the ghostbusters. DAD! PEOPLE FOR YOU!" Sniffing at the two brothers, she retreated behind her magazine.

Dean wasn't sure who to be more annoyed at, the haughty girl or his snickering brother. As a man, presumably Walker, appeared from the back, he heard Sam's voice in his ear again. "Felony, Dean. Felony."

Yup, definitely more annoyed at Sam. "Thanks, counselor, 'cause I hadn't figured that out from her copy of Teen People." The teen in question cracked her gum as if on cue.

"The Winchesters?" The man asked, coming over to shake Dean's hand heartily. He was a giant man, easily taller than Sam, but broader and heavily muscular. He was dressed in flannel and dark jeans with boots. He looked more like a lumber jack than the owner of a prosperous inn and resort.

"Yes sir, I'm Dean and this is my brother Sam."

Sam stepped forward, extending a hand towards the older man. To the brothers' surprise, Walker looked uncomfortable and ignored the hand. "Nice to meet you both, boys," his tone was genial, glossing over the tension and unease on the brother's faces as Sam slowly withdrew his hand. "I'm Chris Walker, and I see you've met Beth, my daughter. I'm glad you could make it up here so quick. Have any troubles on the road?"

Tuning out the small talk, trusting Dean to handle it, Sam reeled silently behind his brother. Why had Walker looked at him like that? Was it possible… that maybe he could sense Sam's strangeness? Perhaps Missouri had told him when recommending them for the job? All he had wanted was to be normal, or as normal as possible… now he was being avoided by normal people, singled out like the freak he was. When had he become untouchable? How long until Dean became uncomfortable around him? Already they could barely discuss what was happening to him… and after Max…

Continuing the friendly banter that was the prelude to business of any kind west of the Mississippi, Dean could feel Sam withdrawing behind him, internalizing the blow he'd just been dealt where it could undoubtedly do the most damage. He knew Sam would be hurt by the rejection, even from a stranger, and it played into all his most vulnerable places at the moment. Damn it. He eyed Walker with anger and suspicion, not really caring that much if his emotions showed on his face. Not shaking Sam's hand was a warning bell. Sam charmed people—that's what he did, without effort or pretense, just his gangly sweet, boy without a mother looks. Usually it amused Dean to watch, but this was just weird. There's no legitimate reason—nothing honest and above board—not to shake Sam's hand. But Walker knew Missouri, knew what she did, and although Dean couldn't see her giving out their secrets, it was possible he knew about Sam.

He might be hiding something he was afraid Sam could pick up on. But what? It wasn't like Sam could do that anyway. Yet. Ugh, not going there. Why call them here if there was something to hide? Missouri wouldn't have sent them into danger.

Would she?

"Well, son, it's a bit late to get started tonight. Here's the key to your room, two double beds, like ya'll asked, just up the stairs on the first floor. We've never had any activity on that floor, so I figured you'd be the most comfortable there."

"Sounds great. Thanks. We'll get started bright and early tomorrow morning." Dean took the keys as Sam wordlessly moved towards the main staircase in the center of the lobby. Giving Walker one last annoyed look, he hurried after his brother, catching up with him as he reached the top of the stairs.

They headed down the hall to the room in silence. Dean handed the key to Sam when they reached the door, smiling slightly as his brother bent to slide the card into the slot. Waiting for just the right moment as the door swung open, Dean slapped his little brother firmly on the back of the head, before passing him into the room.

"OW! Crap, Dean, what the hell?" Sam yelped, dropping his duffle in surprise.

From inside the room, his brother's voice came, the calm, implacable, of-course-I'm-right-I'-Dean voice of Sam's earliest memories. "Just in case you thought I was afraid to touch you."

Sam was silent, warmed that Dean could so easily read him, still, always. Then Dean's voice emerged again from the depths of the room.

"SWEET! A mini-bar!"

Smiling, Sam shut the door behind him, locking it firmly against the coldness of the inn's owner. It wasn't much, but it made him feel better.