Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural."

"So what'd she say?" Dean's voice was loud in the suddenly quiet car.

Sam startled, both at the question and the abrupt way Dean had reached over shut the radio off. The music had been on for all three hours they'd been on the road. Not deafening, in reverence to Sam's headache, but loud enough to discourage conversation.

Not that it had been necessary. Sam had no desire to talk about what was going on. In fact the idea of talking about it sent goosebumps up his arm.

He blinked at his brother, "What?"

There was a pause before Dean answered, "Mom," he said softly, his tone pitched at level Sam only heard when he mentioned her, "... what'd she say?"

He stared at Dean for a moment, blinking, the memory of his mother's words making him feel almost sick. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to say what she'd said, didn't want to make it that real...

But Dean was asking, wanted to know-- deserved to know.

He drew in a steadying breath, "She said-- that..." the words faded, her gaze flashing in his mind. So sad, as sad as it had been on the face of her ghost-- what was it about him that made her so sad?

"... that what?" Dean prodded.

He pushed the thought away and focused on answering Dean, "... that I should... learn to control my gifts... or they'd... they'd control me," he forced the words out, "She said that an end is a beginning..."

Dean was silent for a long moment, then, "Oh."

Sam waited for more.

It took a few seconds for him to realize there would be no more.

"That's it?" he asked, shifting on the seat to stare at his brother, ignoring the stab of pain behind his eyes, "That's all you have to say?"

Dean shot him a quick look, but said nothing more. His gaze returned to the road and stayed there. The Impala moved along in silence.

Sam gaped for a few more moments, "I tell you that MOM told me to control my gifts-- as in plural and all you have to say is Oh?"

Some part of his mind, told Sam, that his anger was illogical; that really, what could Dean say. Was there really anything? But he ignored the thoughts, because he was suddenly pissed.

Dean remained silent, eyes on the road, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

"I'm talking to MOM, Dean! She's telling me I've got GIFTS! Hell, how does she even--" he cut himself off abruptly, frowning suddenly, a realization flashing across his mind.

"What?" Dean asked a beat later, shooting him another quick look.

Sam blinked, then shifted and faced forward, leaning back against the seat, "Huh." He murmured.

Dean was silent for a moment, "What?!" He asked again, voice higher, "You were all geared up for an Ovary explosion-- what happened? What?!"

Sam ignored the jab, "She knows..." he whispered.

"... knows what?"

"Me. She knows me. I just-- I just realized that. I mean, she looks at me and she just-- she hasn't asked me who I am or anything-- she just knows me..."

Dean didn't respond. Sam glared at him, "You have nothing to say to that either?"

Dean shrugged, "What do you want me to say, Sam?"

Sam released his breath on a huff, "I dunno, Dean-- that its freaky or something. "

Dean's eyes cut to him, "It's freaky." He stated, a tiny smirk on his lips.

A smile tugged at Sam's lips, "Yeah."

"Feel better, Francis?"

"Shut-up."

"Get some sleep and if you see Mom ask her if you were originally a girl."

"You're a jerk."

"... but I'm handsome." Dean quipped, another smirk on his lips as he shot Sam another look; a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.

Sam sighed, "Seriously, Dean--"

"--seriously, Sam, try and sleep. It might help with the headache."

"It might not." He countered, it might make it worse, hung in the air.

They were silent for another hundred miles.

"She tells me I shouldn't be there." He offered without prodding; just to get the words off his chest. They'd started circling in his mind, an endless loop that went along with her knowing him, along with her not being surprised to see a stranger in her child's nursery, along with that sad gaze...

Dean was predictably silent.

"When she looks at me--" he continued, "... she tells me that, that I shouldn't be there and then she tells me to wake up. Until yesterday that was all she'd ever said to me."

He felt panic rising again. Too many questions swirling around in his mind and not one single answer. Not one hint as to what it could all mean, at what he was supposed to do, at how--

"Breathe, Sam."

The calm words and steady hand on his shoulder startled him. Dean was shooting him another concerned look.

He nodded, Dean's hand fell away.

"We should be there sometime before midnight, if traffic doesn't jam up somewhere."

His brother offered the time frame and Sam nodded, glancing at his watch, they still had several hours of traveling left. He watched Dean reach over and turn the radio back on, he turned it down though, lower than it had been before.

Sam watched the road, the passing road signs, the flickering trees; the music low and familiar-- comforting in a way few people would associate with heavy metal rock.

She was pulling a tray of biscuits out the oven. They were a little lopsided and a bit too golden and crispy looking to be perfect.

He heard her mutter a quiet, damn, as she set the tray on the counter. Her hair was pulled back into a pony-tail, strands of it tucked behind her ear. There were pans on the stove. Plates and silverware sitting at the far of the counter, waiting to be set out on the table. He watched her reach for a small bowl of something. A moment later she was brushing the contents of the bowl over the tops of the biscuits.

"Melted butter," she offered into the silent kitchen, "John likes them moist."

He started, realizing she was aware of his presence. He opened his mouth, intent on speaking to her, but no words came. She put the brush down and turned towards him. Her hazel eyes locking on his.

"You came awake last time," she murmured, studying him.

He tried to speak to her, to ask her what month it was, to warn her-- but no words came. He couldn't even move this time; something held him place, something stopped his voice. He could feel it, a pressure of sorts holding him in place. She was watching him, he knew, but she and the kitchen faded as he struggled against what held him in place, as he pushed it away; a sliver of terror slid down his spine when he felt the something push back.

His eyes widened and suddenly she came into focus sharply, there was a smirk on her lips, Dean's smirk. He couldn't breathe suddenly-- it was her, she was--

"Breathe," she whispered, and just like that, he could.

Panic exploded inside, he knew his breath should be hitching, but it wasn't; he was breathing normally, regularly...

Her eyes were soft and she took a step towards him, "It's going to be okay, it's all going to be okay," she comforted and somehow he felt the panic ease a little, something warm slipping in, in its place.

"Mom..."

A child's high pitched cry sounded from above them.

Dean.

"... I'm hunnngryyyyy..."

Her head shifted towards the direction of the doorway, a smile tugging at her lips, "Come set the table, then," she called out, her voice filling the quiet kitchen.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Her gaze was on him again and he felt the pressure ease, felt himself being freed, just as she whispered, "Wake up."

They were still in the car, still moving. He jerked awake and then cringed as his brain slammed into his skull again.

"Easy, kiddo, easy," Dean soothed, a calm voice and a steady hand on his shoulder.

Sam drew in a deep breath, Dean's hand fell away. He dragged his own hand over his face, wincing as his head throbbed. He leaned back, keeping his eyes closed, waiting for his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest, for the jittery feeling to fade.

A bottle of water landed his lap, vaguely he wondered where Dean had gotten it. Eyes still closed, he uncapped it with shaky hands and brought it to his lips. The water helped, he took a long drink.

He released a long breath as he recapped the bottle. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. It was dark outside. The music was off.

"Thanks," he muttered, turning slowly to look at Dean.

Dean nodded, his eyes on the road. A moment passed and then he said quietly, "So it happened."

"Yeah," he replied just as softly.

"She was making dinner," he offered when Dean didn't comment, "... apparently Dad likes his biscuits moist."

Dean remained silent and Sam felt the burn of frustration deep inside. He didn't like this anymore than Dean did; did his brother think it was fun feeling like his brain was going to explode and have his dead mother tell him it was going to be okay when he didn't even know what it was, did he think that--

"Hers weren't."

Dean's quiet admission cut off his internal rant. All thoughts ceased and he shifted completely toward Dean, waiting for more.

"... they always came out kinda-- dry or something..."

"She was brushing melted butter over them."

"Her quick fix."

Sam nodded, he wanted to ask Dean what else he remembered. He wanted to ask him why he had never told him before. He wanted to know why his brother never mentioned her first. He wanted to know why he kept her all to himself... but now was not the time, the time might never come.

"I heard you," he said instead, "You were yelling that you were hungry. She told you to come set the table." He paused, tilting his head to try and get a better look at his brother's face instead of his profile, "Did you always set the table?" he asked, curiosity bubbling out of him.

Dean didn't respond right away, but Sam waited anyway. It could go both ways, the silence could stretch all the way to Missouri's house or Dean could break it and answer.

"No, only-- no, not always."

The answer was low and stilted, but Sam would take it. He wanted to ask more, to ask his brother when he'd set the table to ask if there'd been certain days, certain traditions to it, but he knew better. If Dean wanted him to know, he'd tell him.

He waited.

His brother released a long sigh suddenly, "Christ Sammy, turn the goddamned puppy-dog look off would ya?"

"Huh?"

"I can feel it blazing into the side of my head! I don't... I don't remember a lot of stuff, okay. I was four."

Sam blinked, frowning, "I know that. I just--" he shrugged, words trailing off. He sighed too, dropping his gaze to his lap.

"I think-- I think--"

Sam's head snapped up when Dean spoke and he smiled a little at the way his brother emphasized the word.

"... that I set the table when she was running behind-- or something like that..."

He smiled suddenly, "Was she a good cook?"

Dean shrugged, "I was four, as long as it wasn't green I ate it."

"So not much has changed, huh?"

"Shut-up," Dean shot back, a smile tugging at his lips; the image of the smile tugging at her lips when four-year-old called to her, flashed in his mind.

"We'll be at Missouri's in another hour."

Sam nodded, shifting to lie back against his seat. "Sounds good. Just don't let me fall asleep."

Dean was silent and the sound the of the road filled Sam's ears.

"Did you talk to her?" Dean asked, and Sam startled a little, aware suddenly that he'd been drifting away.

He paused before answering, remembering the pressure he'd felt, the restraining force that held him in place, the smirk on her face, "No," he answered, his voice wavering a little, "I couldn't talk... couldn't move even... Dean I... I--"

"You what?"

"I think she didn't let me."

Dean shot him a quick look, "What do ya mean?"

"It's hard to describe-- I... I was trying to talk to her-- and it felt like-- like... I dunno... like a pressure or something was stopping me-- every time I tried..."

"Okay, but-- why do you think Mom didn't let you? Why do you think she was even involved?"

Sam shrugged, already feeling sheepish for just thinking it, "Because... I just... she..."

"She what?" Dean was starting to sound aggravated.

"She-- smirked at me-- like... like you do when you've scored a prank or something."

Dean shot him an incredulous look.

Sam frowned, defensive, "What?"

"She smirked at you, Sam, and you think, what? That she used freaky mind powers on you?"

"Well, no-- maybe-- I don't know! My powers came from somewhere, right?"

"From Mom!!"

"Maybe! Dean, we don't know anything--"

"Shut-up, Sam."

"Dean--"

"Shut. Up."

AC/DC blasted so loudly and suddenly that Sam felt the vibrations in his stomach. Dean's face went blank as a slab of marble. He told himself to let it go, that Dean was upset too, that antagonizing his brother wasn't going to help-- all very logical, adult thinking; the little brother gene trumps logical, adult thinking every time.

He reached out and flicked the radio off, plunging the car into silence.

The marble cracked and Dean shot him a murderous glare as he reached over and turned it back on.

Immediately, Sam turned it off.

"Sam." Dean growled at him, left hand clenching the steering wheel as he turned the music back on.

Sam turned it off.

"I swear to god, Sam--"

"We can't just not talk about this stuff--"

Dean turned the music back on and the logical, adult part of Sam told him to let it go, that his brother was not ready to talk about this yet. It told him that a psychologist with three PhD's wouldn't be able to navigate the decades of land mines Dean had planted around the subject of their mother without disastrous results. It told him that he would accomplish nothing by pushing right now-- but the little brother gene screamed that this was a matter of principle now-- the damn music was staying off.

He flicked it off.

"So help me god Sam, I will pull this car over and--"

"-- and what?" he countered.

Dean released a breath that somewhere between a growl and sigh, "Can you just--"

"Ignoring it isn't going--"

"--neither is talking about it!"

"... Okay, but--!"

"--is it?"

"We still--"

"--is it?!"

"No, but--"

"--then shut up."

It was Sam's turn to release a breath somewhere between a growl and sigh, "Oh my god! Fine!" He hissed.

"Good! Fine!"

The car was silent after Dean's shouted word.

It took Sam a few more minutes, while he cooled down, to realize-- the music was off.

The logical, adult part of himself told him that nothing had been accomplished, that they really did need to talk about this sometime, that ignoring it wasn't going to make it go away and that Dean needed to realize that...

However, the music was off and the little brother gene in him made a snicker creep across his face.

... the music was off.

"I'll turn it back on, I will," Dean snapped from the driver's seat and Sam shifted towards the window more, so he could snicker in private.

Missouri Moseley was as short-tempered and brash as he remembered her. She'd bustled both of them inside, complaining to him that she'd been expecting them for over an hour and cooing to Sam that he looked exhausted and, sit down sweetie, are you hungry?

He was careful to keep his thoughts superficial, his emotions under tight wraps. The last thing he wanted was for her to get even a glimpse of the chaotic emotional tangle he was doing his best to keep reigned in.

She fussed and complained, took their bags and jackets, and had them sitting at her kitchen table before Dean could blink. He saw Sam open his mouth to speak.

"Now don't you start with that not hungry nonsense! You boys've on the road all day and haven't eaten since this morning!" She warned, before Sam got a word out.

He smirked as Sam's mouth snapped shut. Missouri was at the stove, her back to them. Sam shot him a desperate look, he shrugged. Truth was he wasn't in the mood to eat either, but arguing with Missouri appealed even less.

She set bowls of a thick stew in front of them, followed by a plate stacked with chunks of bread, "Eat up," she ordered.

Sam looked up at her with those damn puppy dog eyes and Dean almost laughed-- as if that would work on a broad like Missouri.

"Missouri," Sam began, "... we don't know how much time we have--"

"We'll talk as soon as you're finished eating." She interrupted, not a moment sooner, hung in the air. There was steel in her voice and he felt himself smirk a little. It was a relief to have someone else push Sam to eat for once.

The stew looked good and he smiled as Sam tasted it slowly and then began to eat with more enthusiasm. He nudged the plate of bread in his direction and watched as Sam took a piece without even glancing up.

He stirred his own bowl, feeling the heat of Missouri's gaze on him. Quickly and efficiently, he shut down all thought processes to do with Sam. He kept his gaze lowered.

The kitchen was quiet, only the sound of eating filling the space. He kept an eye on his brother's bowl, when Sam was nearing the bottom he took his first spoonful. It was as good as it looked and his stomach recoiled as he knew it would. He chewed, swallowed, and lifted his gaze to meet Missouri's.

"So we have this problem..." he began, giving her a bright smile.

She scowled at him, he drew his reign tighter, the smile becoming grim, "Sammy's having these visions--"

Predictably, Sam jumped in instantly, cutting anything Missouri could have send to him off, "Dreams. They're dreams," his little brother snapped, shooting daggers at Dean; the gaze he turned to Missouri was less heated, but still defiant, "Dreams."

Missouri's gaze was still fastened on him-- seeing right through his diversion-- and he gazed back steadily, his expression blank, daring her to call him on it.

She held the look for another moment before shifting towards Sam, "Now honey, you'll have to leave the deciding of what they are to me," she chided.

"You boys go on to the living room-- I'll be right in." She added.

Sam nodded, looking properly subdued. Dean watched him go, how quickly he obeyed, how quickly he went to the living room-- as if hoping to speed up time, hoping for the answers to come more quickly. Dean wasn't sure there any answers at all, he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

He moved more slowly than Sam. Missouri was picking up the bowls, keeping her eyes off him. He appreciated that. He stood there in silence for a beat, wanting to say something, to ask something and not knowing what.

He left the kitchen without a word. What could he say? What he could he say about any of this? Sam was seeing Mom, talking to her, having her talk to him. It was always Sam and Mom...

He kept his thoughts on that at minimum. They went deeper than he ever allowed himself to go.

Sam was sitting on the sofa, hands on his knees, eyes downcast, probably working himself into hysteria again.

"You find the secrets to eternal handsomeness in that carpet?" he asked casually as he slid in next to him. He felt a bust of satisfaction when a small smile tugged at Sam's mouth.

"You really think Missouri can help?" Sam asked in the next instant and Dean felt the knot in his stomach twist.

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

Sam would clue in on his hesitation.

"She's the freaky mind powers expert, isn't she?" he teased lightly.

That had a smile tugging at Sam's mouth again, "Yeah, I guess... it's just... this is all so--"

"-- freaky?" he provided, moving in for a full smile, maybe even an eye roll, "I guess that's where having a freaky mind powers expert would come in handy, huh?"

Score-- smile and eye roll accomplished.

"Yeah, I guess..." Sam repeated and Dean nodded at him for emphasis, wondering where the hell Missouri was.

They needed to get this show on the road, there was only so much groundless reassurance he could offer.

As if she'd heard him-- which maybe she had, Missouri bustled into the living room. Her gaze skimmed past him and landed heavily on Sam.

"Okay, sweetie, so let's take a gander at this problem of yours..."

Author's Note: And next chapter some actual answers! ;-) I meant to give a few answers this chapter, but the boys' conversation got a little long and Mary jumped back in there-- so yeah, next week-- answers-- I promise!

Also, the bulk of the story will be in Sam's POV, but every once in while we'll take a peak into Dean's head's space like we did here.

Thank you for reading:-)