∞∞∞

In the same breath, Sam managed to drag Dean out of bed and flip the light switch on the shoddy motel wall. While he lacked the impression of surprise, he didn't look too pleased, but Sam assumed by the way his hands grasped at the torn hem of his t-shirt, tugging it down, he had already sensed the command about to slip past his lips. He waved a shaky hand, gesturing his shirt.

"Take it off."

"Eh, sorry Sammy boy, but not until at least the end of the first date. I have morals to uphold, you know?" He flashed a cocky smile up at him, but within two minutes ("all right, all right, the middle of the first date, geesh, you impatient jerk"), Dean was standing shirtless in the bathroom with Sam hunched over, examining his chest. He looked peeved, and glared up at the ceiling, counting the wads of spitballs stuck there.

"They're infected." The earlier, innocent appearance of the assumed shallow cuts was gone. The tan skin surrounding the abrasions was now warm and deeply flushed. Parts had stuck to the thin t-shirt Dean wore, and had reopened at the removal, which caused thick greenish yellow puss to ooze out. The sickening sight made Sam's stomach flop. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Don't do that." Dean snapped, jerking back and smacking away Sam's hand when he tried to press a hand to his forehead to check for a fever. "I'm fine." Even Dean made a face at his choice of words, and ignored the dubious look Sam shot his way. "So, a few scratches are a bit infected. I've gotten infected wounds before, it's normal." No matter how hard he tried there was no way he could brush Sam off his case now.

"Sure, but reading minds? That's not normal."

"Yeah? And neither is having visions." Ooh, burn. As much as he hated to admit it, the whole visions thing put a damper on Sam's aspiration to live a normal life. The brunette ducked his head, and scratched at the back of his ear.

"Can you… can you do it, like, read my mind, right now?" His breath caught in his throat when Dean's eyes met his. The look his brother gave him just made him… shiver. The way he squinted his eyes in the littlest way made his pulse race. Oh, shit, there's just no way… Despite everything Sam has seen, he just didn't want to believe this, it…

"It freaks you out." Dean smirked slightly, his arms behind his back. He rocked back and forth on his heels, chucking softly when Sam's eyes widened. "Get a hold of yourself. 'Freaked the fuck out' is written all over your pale ass face, man. You've always been one readable little prick."

"So you can't?"

Dean looked Sam straight in the eye, and without batting an eyelash, he stated, "no, I can't." Sam kept his eyes locked on his brother's troubled gaze as he mumbled about running to the car for the first aid kit. Once the younger male left, Dean let out a long exhale he hadn't even realize he'd been holding and sat down at the edge of the bed. His shoulders, stiff with needed sleep, slumped forward, and he threaded a hand through his short hair.

Did it count as lying if you hadn't… but felt like you had? He and Sam had always been able to communicate just by facial expressions—this wasn't any different, right? Just some fluke, that's all. He couldn't… how ridiculous does that sound? Read minds! Hah. I'm no Jean Grey, or Prof. X. (Although he was far prettier than the two of them put together.)

Sam reentered, already going through the kit. He kneeled down besides Dean, grabbing his long fingers across his brother's wrist; Dean's hand had found it's way to scratching at the infected wounds, and he pried it away. Oddly enough, judging by the stoical expression on his face, he felt no pain in having his dirty fingernails dig into the injured flesh.

"I'm going to have to clean them out again. As soon as we're done, we need to research that demon I—we killed, which we should have done before hand." How the hell did Sam manage to sound like he was scorning at either of them? Another dad inherited talent, perhaps? However, the guilt eating away at Sam was evident.

"I told you—it's nothin' Sam, and you… we, you—the vision—well, fuck. It was wrong. We're not always going to hit a homerun anyway."

"No, I was wrong." Something suddenly flashed in Dean's head—the demon, the quick dark image of kneeling over—was this Sam's vision? He shut his eyes tightly, hissing in pain not caused by the peroxide soaked cloth that was pressed to his chest.

"Stop it!" He snapped, opening an eye to steal a glance at Sam, who concentrated solely on his chest. Any other day, he would've looked past his brother's hardened gaze, the way his brow furrowed the slightest bit, his clenched jaw. He would've figured it was just his brother doing that damn brooding thing he always did, but now, it seemed… it seemed different.

"Dean Winchester, are you whining? Almost done, man." Dean scowled because he was not whining—his freaking younger brother just wouldn't let shit go. Since he knew what had happened, the visional images became lighter, like they made more sense, but he did not, not, not want to think about that. "Hey, are you—Dean? You look—"

"Like shit?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then I guess it's like looking into a much handsomer mirror, huh?" His 'huh' at the end turned into more of a yelp of 'ow' when Sam pressed down hard on the end of an abrasion. "Jesus Sam, you're like a raging Florence Nightingale on crack."

Sam scoffed and did an eye roll. "I'll let that one slip for now, but Dean? Just promise me something."

"My virginity?"

There was a ghost of a smile. "I'd rather you promise me something that's existent." But even that faded. Sam retracted his arm, looking for povidone-iodine inside of the kit near his feet. "Just promise not to keep anything from me, okay? Like, no lies, or white lies, or fibbing. Keep everything straight with me until we figure this one out, yeah?"

Dean's full lips twitched into a frown. "Whatever happened to a person just having some things they need to keep to themselves?"

Annoyance, and possibly impatience, flickered in Sam's dark eyes. He bit down on his lower lip, looking down squarely at the ground, obviously holding what he really wanted to say in. "Just think about what I'm saying, all right?" There was a plea laced within his tone, but Dean merely shrugged a shoulder, indifferent. Sam studied his brother's near expressionless face for a few seconds before he mentally cursed and stood up. If anyone should get the ability to read minds, it should be me. What the hell's going on in there, Dean? "I can't find the iodine. I'll go get the other kit out of the car."

"Heh. Psychic Boy Wonder's jealous that I've out-Shining'd him." Dean mused out loud to himself with a chuckle. But then he realized what he'd just done and nearly slapped his forehead. "Shit." And why the hell was his chest starting to hurt now? It felt like a blazing fire ripped through his chest when he lay back on the bed. With closed eyes, he set the back of his hand against his warm forehead. What is going on in here?

∞∞∞

"Can you read her's?" The Winchester brothers sat in a booth at a diner, both functioning on the sleep they managed to gather… the night before. By now it was lunchtime, and they spent most of the morning researching whatever it was that bled all over Dean. It all proved futile, so to take his mind off it, Dean suggested food, you know, that little something their bodies seemed to like once in a while.

Dean's eyes shot up from the menu as a waitress strolled by them, counting money. He licked his lips, pausing for a couple of seconds. "No, but—woo, I wish I could."

"So just mine, huh?"

"I can't read your mind, Sammy, let it go."

"Let it go? Let it go?"

"Well, sure, you don't see me patronizing you about your visions." Sweet Jesus, Dean could not stifle his snicker when Sam audibly gasped. "Careful, you might swallow a—"

"Good afternoon, guys. Are you ready?"

"Am I ever, sweet—hee." Under the table, Sam stepped down hard on Dean's foot. Once they placed their orders, and the waitress turned around, Dean kicked the brunette in the shin, which earned a wince and a, "ow, you friggin' jerk!" With wide eyes, Dean suddenly leaned in. "Why Sam, I knew you were going to say that!"

"Oh, sure, mock the situation, Dean. That'll go over well."

"And that!" Unexpectedly, Sam smiled. Alas, the sun reflected off his white teeth of Chiclets, and Dean was temporarily blinded. "Just quit worrying, your face is wrinkled enough as it is. If you were ever turned into a dog again, you'd probably be a pug."

"You were much more appealing as a mute." With a round mug of steaming coffee in each hand, the waitress returned to the table. Sam practically drooled at the bittersweet sight, and Dean, well, Dean picked sleep out of his eyes while wondering how sleep got in there when he never even got to taste any slumber. "Hey Dean?"

Dean sipped on his coffee while pouring sugar in. What a procrastinator he was. "Hmm?" When Sam hadn't droned on with anything, he glanced up, wrinkling his nose the slightest bit when the rising steam tickled his nostrils. "What?"

"Just checking."

"Whatever, dude."

∞∞∞

Sam easily had grown wary. But do you have any idea how hard it is to stop thinking? Every damn time he met his brother's eyes, or if he caught Dean staring at him, he'd purposely make his mind go blank—or he'd think of paper! Yes, paper—white, thick, rich, blank paper. Paper, paper, paper. Sam loved paper! Sometimes, when he didn't want to make his brother suspicious of his deep affection for paper, he'd think of a book he read, or wanted to read, and listed reasons he wanted to read the book, or reasons he hated/liked the book…

In other words, Sam was so freaking paranoid that Dean was reading his mind. Dean insisted that he wasn't, but just had to mention there wasn't an on/off switch for it, which, if possible, made Sam even more so paranoid. His brother, of course, noticed, and mumbled something about being neurotic, and purposely stared at Sam's profile, his eyes bug wide, and his brow cocked for that, 'oh, I know what you're thinking,' feel.

But he couldn't, or at least, not he was unable when he wanted to, or tried to, like really concentrated on it. But that's the thing; he wasn't sure what to concentrate on, other than Sam. Staring at his head until he saw pink elephants proved to be a waste of time, but it did make Sam antsy enough to where he uncomfortably shifted around a lot in the driver's seat. To be honest, it wasn't much of a loss to him—he really didn't want that much insight on Sam's mind.

"Where're we headed?" Dean was on the passenger side, half-leaning against the locked door. The angle he was sitting in gave him a perfect view of Sam, hence all the stare jeering. It reminded him of when they were children, and traveling in the car for long periods of time. He'd stare fixed and hard at Sam until the scrawny twerp whined to daddy dearest ("Stop staring at me, Dean! Stop! Stop it! Dad, Dean's staring at me; make him stop! Dad!"), and the preoccupied John would reach back, swatting a hand at Dean, telling him to knock it the hell off.

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Oh, shove it up your ass, why don't you?" The older brother groaned, rolling his head back. God, he felt so tired. "I'm not reading your mind, genius. Just keep your pretty eyes on the road and quit looking over at me like I'm a demon you don't trust."

"There are demons we trust?"

"It was—oh, never mind." He opened the glove compartment, cursing when a bunch of fake identification cards spilled out. He used one hand to maneuver them back in and snatched his sunglasses. "I'm gonna go get funky with Tyra in dreamland. Wake me up when this nightmare's over." Dean relaxed, sinking back into his seat, his sunglasses (which, instead of "hot!" screamed "eye surgery!") in place. "And pullover for some gas already. I don't think cows take kindly to stranded, tall Kansas freaks." Yeah, stranded, tall Kansas freaks… with random Texas accents.

"Tall Kansas freaks? How 'bout that tall Kansas freak and his goofy looking shorter older freak brother?"

The sunglasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. "Goofy looking, Sammy?"

"Freckle face… I need you. Freckle face… I love you." Sam howled, lacking the sing-along voice.

"God, please… one bolt of lightning, that's all I'm askin' for."

∞∞∞

Alas, not five minutes after Dean shut his eyes, the man their father wanted them to see rang. The man was impatient, arrogant, and an asshole. (Obviously a close friend of John's.) Sam, with a clenched jaw, politely told him that they were on their way, and that they would be there as soon as possible. The man, Ron McSomething, was unconvinced, and told them to hurry their asses.

"Or what? He'll tell daddy?" Dean stated dryly after Sam hung up. "Come on, man, really—you don't give shit to the only people who can help you with your stupid Casper problem." He also made a quip about the Ghostbusters or something, but Sam ignored his brother's ranting and urged him to go back to sleep, even though they would be at their destination in a half hour, but Dean sat up straighter, brushing the suggestion off.

In thirty-four minutes, it was clear that Ron wanted John to make his house free of malevolent spirits, not his sons. Dean smirked, pointing out that they were trained by the best, but the smirk curved into a pissed off frown when Ron made a face that told them he wanted The Best, not The Best's Apprentices. "And I want the job done the right way the first time." The short, balding man warned them.

"Well, sir, if there's one thing I'm good at doing, it's first times." Sam lifted up his foot, and stomped it to the ground, just missing Dean's abused foot. He ignored Dean's triumph smile, and turned his attention to Ron, who had just glanced down at his wristwatch.

"Now, you said you noticed the ghosts a few months ago. Why wait until now to get rid of them?" They stood outside the aforementioned haunted house, in front of the owner's station wagon that Dean had to stifle a laugh at.

Ron sighed, all annoyed-like, like Sam should already know this. He pulled a bent cigarette from his pocket, set it between his cracked lips and lit it. "Because, junior, two months ago when I bought this dump, the damn thing wasn't chucking my keys at me, or smashing my good dishes, or moving my bed while I slept. Little cheeky bastard kept stealing my pillow while I slept too."

"The horror." Dean mused in a bored monotone, just missing another foot stomping from Sam, who was clenching his jaw. When Ron shot him a dirty look, he cleared his throat. "Oh, yeah, and we once had a guy who woke up every morning with his bed completely stripped. Clothes, too. Turned out to be, ah, leprechauns." They ended up finding half a year supply of bed sheets, quilts, and clothes in a hole in the basement.

"That's great, but this is a ghost. Keep your cute little stories and any theories to yourself." Oh, no he didn't. Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, moving forward, but Sam suddenly clapped a hand to his shoulder, pulling him back in one quick tug. We need the money. Sam silently reminded Dean, but his older brother showed no signs of having heard him. Go figure.

But Dean really didn't need the reminder. He knew how light his wallet was. "Yes, sir." He answered tersely, looking like he wanted to choke the middle-aged man. Ron seemed amused by this, and let out a puff of smoke as he patted Dean on the shoulder, like a taunt. He turned his shoulders to the side to give the house a glance over, but his chest constricted against the movement. Oh goody, this was going to be a fun weekend.

"I'll leave you boys to your game. I'll be back Monday morning. Gives you two days, and I expect there to be one less guest staying at my home, get me?" Still ever so respectful, they answered in unison with, 'yes, sir.' He closed the top of his trunk, and turned back to them. "And don't break anything." Ron limped over to the driver's side. He opened the door and climbed in, grunting all the way. "Oh, and I counted all the silverware—don't try anything funny." The car nosily started up.

"Dammit Sam, he caught on to us. I bet he counted all his socks and tighty-whities, too." Dean waved fervently at the car until it was off in the distance. Sam, through a sigh, observed him verbally as an ass, and Dean nodded. "Wonder what we did to piss off dad enough to send us here."

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he didn't want to put up with him either."

"Good ol' dad."

∞∞∞