Honestly, I think this is the most reviews I've ever gotten this early in a story. Ever. Thank you so so much.

Oh, and for those of you wondering about my speed in updating... well, let's say I'm not as fast a writer as you might think. I get the whole story finished (or almsot finished) and then I post it up, one chapter a day. I find that it's easier to keep people reading that way. No month-long breaks between chapters. :)

Sam couldn't help but grin as he closed the laptop. It was so perfect, gave him so much power over his big brother. It was almost too good to be true. He couldn't wait to tell Dean, just to see the older man's reaction, if nothing else.

His smile widened as the bathroom door opened, sending a rolling ball of steam up toward the ceiling. "What are you so happy about?" Dean asked as he pulled on an old t-shirt, his own smile never fading.

"Could ask you the same thing."

"Don't know," the elder shrugged, "just happy I guess. Why?'

It was Sammy's turn to shrug. "It just seems like you've been kinda moody lately, that's all. I mean, after the zombie hunt I guess I thought things would get better."

Dean flopped down on his bed and closed his eyes, still grinning. "It is better, it's just that there's something going on…" he trailed off, happiness never fading as he began to wonder about the day's second sudden bout of honesty.

"Do you know what?"

The elder shook his head. "Just haven't really felt like myself lately."

Sam nodded. "Well, while you were hanging out in the shower for an hour and a half, I did some digging."

"Digging?"

"Research."

"Research?"

"Yes, Dean. Research."

"What'd you research?" Dean asked, "I didn't think this place had a history."

"It doesn't. I was, uh, looking up something different."

"And what, pray tell, were you looking up?"

Sam sighed, his smile finally fading. "Uh… it's called psychic empathy."

"What?" the elder asked, opening his eyes and sitting up to face Sam, that foreign happiness finally fading away and making room for something else. His stomach did a flip as he met his sibling's eyes, his insides twisting into nervous knots and his palms suddenly wet with fear.

"It's kind of like telepathy," Sammy explained, "only with feelings instead of thoughts."

"And you were researching this because…?"

Sam averted his eyes, glancing down at his hands, then at the wall, then at his shoes, before they finally stopped to rest on the closed laptop. "You have to admit," he muttered softly, his voice almost lost in the drone of the air conditioner that had finally turned on, "it makes sense."

"What makes sense?"

"These mood swings of yours aren't normal."

"Well, excuse for being a little emotionally unstable lately."

"No," Sam finally met his brother's eyes again, "at first it was understandable. I was kinda mad, too. But today…"

"Wait a minute," Dean asked, sliding off the bed and beginning to pace, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, "are you trying to tell me that you actually think-?"

"Jo's always been interested in you," Sammy explained quickly, the words tumbling from his mouth faster than his mind could form them, "but you never really cared about her, at least not like that. But today… what you did… and then the cook in the diner…"

"I'll admit the whole Jo thing was weird, but what's that got to do with a clumsy chef?"

"Dean, you hurt you arm," the younger pointed out, "just like Mike. It's too big of a coincidence to just brush off. And what about that outburst in the lobby, huh?"

"I was kind of hoping you'd forgotten-"

"And that honesty. You never tell me anything. I have to pressure you just to get the time of day-"

"When was I so completely honest with you?"

"Just now. Five minutes ago. You admitted something was bugging you. You actually talked to me about it. That's not normal. I'm the honest one, remember?"

"So, what, just because I decide to tell the truth for once in my life, that suddenly makes me psychic?"

Sam sighed, pulling his eyes away again. "It makes sense," he repeated.

"No," Dean shot back, "it doesn't. You're the freak with the psychic powers. Not me." He turned to walk out the door, to get some fresh air, when he felt it. Like someone stabbing him in the heart. "I'm just a normal freak," he added as he pulled open the door and walked out into the strong sunlight.

o0o0o0o0o

A cool autumn breeze blew through the changing trees, sending colored leaves swirling along the cement path in the tiny green park. Dean closed his eyes, letting the wind whip around his face, blowing through his short air. It was nice to finally get away from the hustle and bustle of the small town, nice to truly feel like himself again for the first time that day.

He walked with his hands in his pockets, Sam's words running endlessly through his mind, basically telling him that he was a freak, that there was something wrong with him, that they were, essentially, in the same boat now.

That wasn't what had him worried, though. No, it was the fact that the concern had faded almost as soon as he'd walked out of the motel room, taking that stabbing pain of betrayal in his heart along with it.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe there was something going on with him.

He sighed, hunkering down against the rapidly cooling breeze, his mind racing. Why now? Why not when I was 22? That's the pattern, isn't it? And how come I get stuck with something stupid? Max Miller could toss a person across a room without breaking a sweat, and I get to experience the emotional roller coaster of everyone I meet? If Sam's right, that is… which he's not. Because I'm not like him. He's the special one. He's the one who needs me as personal security. I can't have him worrying about my next freak-out.

Dean straightened back up, the cool breeze suddenly not seeming so cool anymore. It was warm. Not too hot, not too cold, but comfortable. He looked around the park. There was a family sitting near the trail, eating a picnic lunch. Two parents and a little boy. They were happy, all smiling and laughing, and their smiles became contagious as the hunter felt himself becoming encased in comfort and warmth. For the first time since his mother's death, he actually felt safe. Safe, and warm, and wanted.

He walked over to a bench, his eyes darting over the family, and sat down. He let himself relax, leaning his head back and basking in whatever seemed to be radiating off the people. He drank it in, warmth and safety and comfort and belonging and happiness, just let it flow through him and fill every hole that life had left within him.

And he felt wanted. He hadn't really felt wanted since Sam had started to drift away at the ripe old age of ten, had felt even worse when he'd left for college. And then there was that day in the motel room, the day when Dean woke up and his father was gone. He'd waited for two weeks for John to get back before going to find Sam, and even then the younger man hadn't wanted him. He'd moved on. They all had. Everyone but Dean.

He sat on the bench, letting the feeling wash over him, finally deciding that Sammy was right about him. He was a freak. That didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy what he'd suddenly discovered that he had, though. Maybe a couple of weird outbursts were worth it if he could only feel like this some of the time.

Some being the key word there. Because, even though he didn't see it happen, he knew the little boy had broken his arm. Dean could handle the pain, he'd grown up with pain. The boy sitting on the checkered tablecloth, however, couldn't.

o0o0o0o0o

Sam looked up as soon as the door burst open and Dean came stumbling in, clutching his left arm, eyes red, tears streaming down his face. "Find a way to fix it," he growled.