It took Sam a long time to calm down. By the time he pulled away, wiping furiously at his wet cheeks, Dean's whole body had cramped and stiffened. He stifled a moan as he sat back and stretched, his back popping.

"You okay, Sam?" he asked softly. Sam's breath hitched but he nodded shakily and darted a quick look at Dean. He looked terrible – drained and beaten down – and Dean's insides twisted with apprehension.

"Good. Now you have to tell me what's going on, Sammy. I gotta say, man, you're freakin' me out. I can't take this anymore – you hafta talk to me."

Sam's eyes closed briefly, and Dean could see him gathering his resolve. When his eyes opened, they darted to the side, staring at something under the bed. He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

"It was a vision, right? Was it the same one you had earlier?"

"No, not the same vision, but they were…. similar." Sam replied, his voice thick and hoarse. Dean raised his eyebrows at him expectantly, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I – uh, I've been having these dreams – visions – of stuff that's already happened. Things I can't change or do anything about. And they're, uh – not really supernatural in nature, besides being visions, I mean."

"How long has this been going on?" Dean questioned, a sudden suspicion growing in him. Sam ducked his head guiltily, and Dean's unease increased.

"A while, now, I geuss…" Sam trailed off, avoiding his eyes.

"How long, Sam?"

"A few months…"

"Goddamnit, Sam! Why didn't you tell me?" Dean exploded, frustration and hurt coursing though him. "A few months! You have no idea what's causing these things, what they could do to you, and you hide them from me?"

"Dean, I-"

"Look what happened tonight, Sam. I had to leave you exposed and vulnerable in order to save both our hides – you could have been killed!"

"Don't you think I know that! I don't know why I didn't tell you! I'm just tired of being a fucking freak! I don't want to see this shit anymore!" Sam staggered to his feet, his face tight with an angry despair. Dean scrambled up after his brother, reaching out a steadying hand.

"Whoa, Tiger, calm down. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak out, I'm just – worried." Sam was obviously in a sensitive state, and Dean didn't want him to loose it again.

The anger suddenly drained from Sam's body and his head drooped wearily.

"Dean-" he pleaded softly, "It was… horrible. A man, he-" his voice broke and he took a shuddering breath. Dean rested his palm on the back of Sam's neck, squeezing gently.

"He killed a little boy, in this room. He- he kicked him to death. For playing with his tools…" Sam finally looked up, his eyes full of sickness and grief. Dean sighed, his heart aching for the boy and for his brother. Why did it have to be Sam who saw this shit? He took everything to heart, surrendered to empathy too easily. Maybe that's why, Dean thought wryly, steering his brother towards the front door.

"Come on, Sam. Let's get out of here, okay? Go back to the motel, get some rest." Sam didn't respond, but he offered no resistance as Dean led him outside to the Impala and buckled him in the passenger seat. He was quiet the entire ride back, but he twitched and shifted restlessly in the seat, and Dean suspected he was flinching from the memories of violence he'd been forced to witness.

Once back in the motel room, Sam stalked wordlessly into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Hearing the shower turn on, Dean sat heavily on his bed and stared at the closed bathroom door.

He had no idea how to help his brother, and it was pissing him off. This wasn't something he could solve with fists and guns. Dean was an experienced hunter, and a damn good one, too. But Sam's freaky head was a battlefield that left him feeling disoriented and helpless. He needed help, but who the hell do you turn to when your brother starts seeing dead people? He was pretty sure they didn't write a self-help guide to brain-splitting visions of death.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair he stood and began pacing, leftover adrenaline and worry making him restless. He needed to know more about these visions – maybe there was a connecting factor. Digging through his bag, he pulled out a mostly-blank composition notebook and a pen.

Ten minutes later, when Sam emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Dean tossed the notebook and pen to him.

"I need you to write down everything you can remember about these new visions. If we're going to figure this out, we need details."

Sam stood dumbly for a moment, apparently taken aback by Dean's sudden request.

"I- you want me to write all of them down?"

"As much as you can remember. There may be similarities that we can use to get to the root of this."

"Dean-" Sam blurted, looking down at the notebook and then back at his brother.

"What?"

"Don't you think it's possible that this is just another… development in my abilities? I mean, I don't know if this can be fixed. What if it's just… me?"

Dean could see the anxiety in Sam's face, could hear the unspoken question.

What if I'm like this forever?

"We're going to fix this, Sam. Even if it is just a natural development of your abilities, there has to be a way to control them better. And there must be a reason you're seeing these things. If we figure out what that reason is…" Dean trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Maybe, MAYBE we can fix you.

"Okay." Sam acquiesced, but he looked at the notebook like it was a viper and Dean had asked him to kiss it.

"Let's get some food first, okay?" Dean offered, seeing his brother's reluctance. "We can eat, maybe get some sleep, do it in the morning. We've had a long day."

Sam looked up him gratefully, and his relief was so strong it nearly made Dean tell him to forget the whole idea. But they needed to get to the bottom of this, and so far he had no Plan B.

"There was a cute waitress at that diner up the street." Dean suggested, grinning lecherously. Sam looked at him incredulously.

"We passed that place going about forty five, Dean. There's no way you could have seen the waitress from the car at that speed."

"Oh, my brother, I have many skills of which you are unaware…" Dean proclaimed, grabbing his keys. "I can smell a hot chick from two miles away."

"Yeah, well maybe you should shower before we go, or they'll smell you from up to two miles away."

"Ingrate." Dean mumbled, discretely sniffing an armpit. "I smell fine. That's the musk of manliness."

Sam snorted and shot him an if you say so look.

"Drives the ladies wild." Dean insisted as they walked to the car. "Wait and see."

"Like I have a choice." Sam mumbled.

"Hey, there are guys who would pay good money to watch a master like myself in action. You could learn a thing or two about the fine art of seduction."

"Dean, your form of 'seduction' is about as much of a 'fine art' as performing surgery with a chainsaw."

"Oh, ho! So say the boy who got bitch-slapped to the ground by a 100 lb cheerleader!"

"Are we back on this again?" Sam groaned, buckling in.

"Oh, you better believe it!" Dean crowed, relieved to be bickering with Sam. An annoyed Sam was a normal Sam. And anything was better than the bleak look that had hollowed out his brothers eyes earlier.

I'm gonna erase that look for good, Sammy, I promise.

But first, there was food and hot waitresses to attend to.

A/N: A little shorter, but hopefully I'll have more time tomorrow! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews – you guys rock, hardcore!