Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural."

"Talk."

"Dean--"

"Right. Now."

They were sitting on one bed. Dean at the foot of it, Sam resting against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. He'd been up for about half an hour after being out for three. Dean had been pacing when he'd gingerly sat up, hand reaching for his head to make sure it was still attached.

Dean had handed him a bottle of water and pain killers, asked how he felt and if he needed to puke, and hovered under the guise of resuming his pacing for a little while before giving up and sitting down-- to stare at him

Sam swallowed, "I'm fine," he offered.

"I didn't ask if you were fine. I told you to talk." Dean commanded and Sam bristled, a glare forming.

"I don't have to--"

"You collapsed Sam."

"I'm fi--"

"What if that had happened on a hunt?" Dean's voice was ice and Sam flinched, paling.

Dean continued, "We don't have the luxury of hiding shit from each other when it affects us like this."

Sam opened his mouth, Dean wasn't finished, "I need to know you're on top of your game. How the hell can I trust you to watch my back if you're collapsing at the drop of a hat?"

Sam felt his heart start pounding and his mouth go dry at the thought of this happening on a hunt.

A part of him knew that what Dean was doing, knew that Dean was goading him into talking about what was going on; doing it by using himself as leverage.

It was something Sam had done on occasion too, something they didn't usually do to each other, because it was low and it hurt in a deep, primal way that neither could escape. Keeping each other safe had been drilled into the core of their being; watching each other's back, covering each other on a hunt-- it was instinct and even knowing that Dean was purposefully pushing those buttons didn't diminish the effect.

"Tell me what's going on, Sam?"

The effect was fear and guilt and Sam drew in a deep breath, because the words were going spill out and he couldn't stop them, "I don't... I just... man, I think... I think I'm going crazy or something," he finished on a little gasp.

"What are the visions showing you?"

"Dreams." He snapped automatically.

Dean arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side, hazel eyes studying him intently at the outburst.

The wave of deja'vu caught him off guard; his stomach roiled, he closed his eyes against it and pressed his lips together-- no more throwing up. She had done, looked at him like that, and tilted her head like that...

"Sammy..."

Dean's voice was low and so calm, Sam knew his brother was freaking out.

He drew in a shaky breath and slowly opened his eyes, "I'm okay..." he stated.

Dean practically leapt off the bed, "No. You are not okay." He hissed and started pacing again.

Sam sighed softly, closing his eyes again, waiting for the nausea to reside. He felt the bed dip as Dean sat down again. A hand rested on his shin, "Alright, so let's talk..."

He would have laughed at that if he thought he could get anything past the lump in his throat. It was funny, hilarious even, Dean wanted to talk.

"These dreams..." his brother began, "... they're about what?"

Sam's gaze dropped for a moment, as he braced himself, then lifted to Dean's face, "They're not... about people getting hurt or anything like that... they're not visions..." He trailed off. How was he supposed to say this? He wasn't even sure what this was…

Dean was watching him, hazel eyes studying him, hanging on his every word. It had always been like that. Dean had always listened to him with a startling intensity when Sam slowed him down enough talk.

"... I'm seeing... dreaming, that is... about... about Mom..." he finished on a whisper so low he wouldn't be surprised if Dean hadn't heard.

But he had.

The hazel eyes widened and Sam swore the color just leached out of his brother's skin, "Mom?" Dean echoed in a whisper.

Sam nodded slowly, feeling miserable. Their mother was a topic they never really discussed. She'd been the center of their childhood, the point around which everything they'd done revolved, and yet mention of her was nearly taboo; mumbled questions and whispered stories were all Sam had gotten of her during his early years. As he'd gotten older, more defiant, he had brought her up as a tool-- nothing pushed his brother over the edge faster than mentions of Mom.

With Dad, Sam had never dared, not until Stanford, that is; not until that night when Mom had been his most effective weapon.

"I'm..." he paused, words sticking in his throat, "... seeing her..." he finished after a moment. But god, it was so much more than that. So much more than just seeing her...

Dean's eyes were wide and he was breathing harshly, like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him, "You're talking to her?" He asked in a quiet, solemn tone that Sam couldn't begin decipher.

He shook his head, "No, it's not... I can't-- I couldn't-- talk to her, not before... not until yesterday-- in the car and then... I don't know how I did it...it just happened... before that..." he shrugged.

"Before that what?"

"I couldn't-- or when I tried to-- she... told me... to wake up..."

Dean stared at him a moment, before standing slowly. He resumed a much slower form of his previous pacing.

"She's coming to you?" he asked finally, stopping to look at Sam.

Sam swallowed hard, Dean's eyes were so dark they made his throat tighten up; he shook his head, "No, its... it's more like... like I'm going to her..."

Dean shook his head, "That's not possible, Sammy."

"I know... I know, but... it's just... when I see her... she's in the middle of stuff..."

"What ya mean?"

"... she's doing things-- she's folding laundry or she's baking-- cookies... or picking... markers up... from-- from the--"

"-- from the kitchen table..."

Sam jumped as Dean finished the sentence for him.

Dean moved to sit on the bed again, his voice colored in wonder, "I used to... color there-- sometimes... before bed and she... she would pick them up for me..."

Sam frowned a little, he couldn't help it, "You never told me that."

Dean shrugged, "I just-- remembered it now, I guess." He shrugged, "I used to tell her I'd draw her a picture for every minute she'd let me stay up later…"

Something was flickering on his brother's face and for a moment Sam felt a stab of envy; Dean had the memories, they were buried, forgotten, but they were there. Sam had never missed the memories, not really, not until they'd gone back to Lawrence and he'd met her ghost; she hadn't been particularly real to him until then.

Dean seemed to shake himself out of his reverie suddenly, "I don't get it... how's that possible?"

Sam shrugged, "I don't know."

"You're actually there."

"I guess so, man, I mean... I saw her picking up after you and you remember that, how else would I know that?"

"Have you... seen... me?"

Sam shook his head, "No, but I've seen me."

Dean started, "You've seen yourself!" he cried.

Sam nodded, frowning a little, "Yeah..."

Dean leaned forward, "How old, Sam?"

"What?"

"How old were you? How many months?"

Sam scowled at his brother and opened his mouth to retort that he had no fuckin clue because he'd had bigger things to worry about at the time, when what Dean was actually asking registered.

"Oh my god." He whispered, deflating.

Holy shit.

"Sam?!"

"Oh god."

"How old?"

He focused on Dean sharply, "Old enough to sit up in a high chair-- holy shit, Dean."

Dean stood again, pacing furiously, "It's near the fire. You're seeing her near the time of the fire."

Sam's mouth went dry and his heart started pounding, "Dean... I don't know... I can't really tell--"

"--it would make sense... your visions are always associated with the yellow-eyed dem--"

"It's not a vision!" He snapped automatically, everything inside him recoiling at the idea that was beginning to form in him.

Dean stopped and faced him, his expression hard, "Isn't it?" He asked sardonically.

Sam scowled, "No, Dean, it's not! I don't know what it is, but it's not... it's not like my other visions-- I'm not just seeing, I'm there. She's looking at me."

"How long, Sam?" the question was whisper soft and Sam felt his blood freeze.

He didn't respond and Dean didn't prod any further. The question hung in the air.

He swallowed hard, "Five weeks." He confessed, dropping his gaze.

The answer hung in the silence as heavily as the question had.

"Five weeks you've been seeing Mom and you didn't say anything." It wasn't a question and Dean's voice was oddly quiet. It made a knot in his stomach. He lifted his gaze. Dean was watching him, eyes dark and unreadable.

"I didn't know what to say..." he started, "How to tell you and I wasn't-- I'm not sure what it means."

Dean was silent for a moment, just standing, not resuming his pacing. After a long moment he walked over to the window that overlooked the motel parking lot. He stood there, staring out of the window, for so long that Sam felt panic start to rise. He knew, knew, that no matter how casual Dean behaved about Sam's powers, they scared him a little. If not because of what he could do, then because of what it all meant.

"Dean--" he began, voice quiet and a bit hesitant.

But his brother turned and spoke before Sam could continue, "We need help."

Sam blinked, snapping his mouth shut and frowning a little.

"I don't know what it means either," Dean continued, "But-- it's over our heads and if... if has to do with the Demon and Mom and... what happened that night, then-- we can't afford to screw it up."

Sam nodded, feeling a shiver run down his spine. There was a note of urgency in his brother's voice and the eyes fastened on him were still so very unreadable. But he knew better than probe right now. Memories of their mother always touched raw nerves with Dean; he knew that to push now would only make Dean retreat further away.

"... maybe Ellen--"

"No." Dean cut him off, shaking his head, "Not Ellen."

"She's willing to help; she's helped us before--"

"I'll accept Ellen's help with a lot of stuff, Sam. I have. We've gone to her with cases and she's been great-- but we're not going to her with this."

He bristled; there was too much John Winchester in Dean's tone suddenly, "Why not?" He asked, a bit more defiance in his tone than was necessary.

Dean arched an eyebrow a little and titled his head to one side, "Because this isn't a job. This is personal and I don't trust her." He said it softly and in a way that made the silent duh he'd attached to the sentence implicit.

"Dad trusted her--"

"Did he?" Dean cut him off, "She left that voice-mail for him four months before he--" a pause, "-- before he died-- and he hadn't gone to follow up with her. That doesn't seem to me like he was real eager for her help."

Sam shut his mouth and sat back a little-- he'd never really thought about that. "So where--?"

"Missouri."

Sam blinked, that hadn't occurred to him either. He nodded, "Yeah, okay... yeah." He mumbled.

Dean nodded, once, decisively, the decision made.

Sam watched turn and head back to the kitchenette. With his back to him, Sam was able to observe his brother blatantly. Dean was working with the food he'd been preparing, turning the stove back on and pulling out plates and silverware. He worked silently and quickly and Sam wondered what he was thinking, how freaked out he really was.

There would be no use to ask now. Dean had raised his walls with a nearly audible crank and looking on as his brother worked in the kitchen, Sam knew it would do no good to try and gain a peek over it right now. His brother was processing and no one was allowed in while that was happening.

"Come here," Dean ordered a moment and Sam was up and headed in his direction before he'd even wondered why.

"Wha--" he started, before Dean turned with a plate in his hand.

"Sit down," his brother continued, as he placed the plate of eggs, bacon, toast, and something that looked suspiciously like hash browns.

"Is that hash brown?" he asked, incredulously as Dean handed him a fork.

Dean smirked, "Tator Tots. They kinda-- exploded."

Sam chuckled a little, "When did you--"

"While you were conked out last night, sleeping beauty."

"--yeah, but… why?"

"We had the kitchen and I was-- I don't know... bored, I guess, and the guns were clean--" Dean shrugged, "I thought we'd be staying here longer... since you were puking your guts out and all."

"Oh."

Dean had bought groceries so they could hole up until Sam felt better. It was nice and considerate and exactly the kind of thing he'd come to expect from his brother. Exactly the kind of thing he'd finally noticed his brother had always done.

Dean nodded, "Yeah." He murmured.

He couldn't bring it up though, couldn't mention it. Dean would shoot him down before he'd gotten half the words out, especially right now.

"You gonna eat it or what?"

He started, realizing he'd been staring. Swallowing, he nodded, "Yeah, yeah... you gonna eat?" He asked, lifting his fork.

Dean frowned at him, "No, I just have a plate of food and a fork in my hand for fun."

Sam blinked a little, dropping his gaze to Dean's hands, noticing the plate there for the first time, "Right." He murmured, "Sorry... I just--"

"We're gonna figure it out, Sammy," Dean cut in, taking a seat across from him, "We will. We'll eat. Shag-ass to Lawrence, call Missouri from the road and figure it out when we get there. It's gonna be fine."

Sam nodded, toying with the fork for a moment, letting Dean's reassurance wash over him.

"Hey Dean?" He called several long moments later.

Dean was shoveling a load of potatoes onto his fork when Sam called; he looked up, "Yeah?"

Sam shrugged, "Thanks."

Author's Note: Thank you for reviewing! I really, really, REALLY appreciate it:-)