"I don't know about this, Sam. Crop circles are hoaxes. Every single one of them."

"Oh, so you've investigated every crop circle in the entire country then?" Sam tries to rip open a bag of Doritos and ends up accidentally popping the thing like a party favor. Doritos spill all over his lap.

"You're cleaning that up," Dean says, without even turning his head.

They're on their way back, heading east instead of west on I-76 this time. It's like a weird mirror-image reversal of their journey two days ago. The sky is open and wide and blue, and there's nothing but grassy plains all around.

Back in Colorado, Dean had insisted on driving, and Sam had protested at first - he wasn't about to risk Dean falling ill again just because the stubborn ass pushed himself too hard - but Dean had growled, "Don't make me set your pants on fire," and hauled Sam bodily out of the driver's seat.

It's about noon now, and they're eating snacks from the gas station instead of stopping for lunch. Doritos, Twinkies, and Cokes.

Sam had tried eating healthier back at Stanford, but he gave it up after one semester, practically starving for salt and grease and sugar and cursing Dean for acclimating him to such an awful diet.

Dean is saying, "Dad and I even caught a couple of guys in the middle of making a crop circle one night. I think it was in Oklahoma." Dean's got a bottle of Coke settled between his legs, and he twists the top off with one hand, steering with the other. "It's just a bunch of bored hicks trying to make it into the National Enquirer."

"We both know urban legends have to get their start somewhere. I'm not saying they're all real. Maybe Mora had one crop circle � one real circle � and since people flocked to the town to look at it, copycats started. If that original crop circle is still around, it's worth looking into. The Abominable Snowman can wait."

"The Abominable Snowman would be insulted if he heard you say that," Dean says, smirking around a mouthful of Twinkie. He swallows. "And maybe you're reaching for any other explanation because you don't want to admit that I was just born this smokin' hot."

Sam groans at the godawful pun. "Bite me."

Then the Dorito in Sam's hand spontaneously combusts in a burst of flame and a puff of cheesy smoke.

"Dean!" Sam yelps, flapping his singed fingers. Dean is snickering and Sam punches him in the arm.

Great, just what Sam needs � another way for Dean to pick on him. Somehow he suspects the opportunity to torment Sam was just as much motivation for all the practice yesterday as Dean's desire to control his newfound ability.

Dean is still trying not to laugh, grimacing to keep the grin off his face.

"It's not funny! Shut up!"

"I didn't say anything," says Dean innocently, and Sam throws a Twinkie at his brother's head.

* * *

By the time they get back to Mora, it's in the early evening. The sun is setting, spilling the sky with pleasant pink hues.

Dean parks in front of the diner from two days ago. Mora is a true small town in middle America � one main street, cutesy shops, and the local diner where everyone takes their lunch break. Dean is about to push open the door to the diner, and Sam recognizes that glint in Dean's eye.

Sam grabs Dean's arm. "We can't just bust in like we're in Lethal Weapon 5 here," he says.

"In that disturbing analogy, I'm Mel Gibson, right?" Dean shakes off Sam's hand. "Dude, get off me."

"Shut up and listen for a second. If we jump in there and stir shit up, they're just going to run us out of town." Sam refrains from mentioning the trouble Dean ran into in Indiana. He really wonders how Dad let Dean operate alone during Sam's time at college, because Dean is about as subtle as a giant wrecking ball sometimes. Sam is surprised that Dean hasn't been banned from half the continental United States yet.

"All right, Mom," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "We're just going to have a little chat." He pauses, looking at something over Sam's shoulder. "Hey. Speaking of chatting�"

Sam turns and sees Katie walking down main street, in her waitress uniform, purse slung over one shoulder.

"Katie." Dean raises a hand, waving a greeting.

When she finally notices Dean and Sam in front of the diner, her eyes widen and she spins around, running in the other direction.

"Well shit," says Dean, and that seems to be the signal for the start of the race, because then he and Sam break off into run, sprinting after her.

With their longer strides, they easily catch up with her, two blocks down, in front of an ice cream shop. Dean reaches her first, holding Katie by the arms, twisting them behind her back but not hurting her.

"I'll scream," Katie breathes. She nods down the street. There are a few people loitering here and there � a couple of men leaving the diner, a girl with a big red ball, a woman carrying groceries. "Everyone will come running."

Rolling his eyes, Dean looks like he's tired of this situation already. "And I really thought you and I had something special, Katie."

Sam makes a placating gesture, hands up and palms out. "We just want to talk."

Katie frowns stubbornly for a moment, before she finally says, "Let me go then." She twists in Dean's grasp. "I'll talk with you, all right? But I have to be at work in five minutes."

"You should've thought of that before you ran off," Dean grumbles, but he releases her.

Katie turns around and glares at him, and Dean holds his hands up in a sign of peace. Her glare softens and now she doesn't seem angry. She seems� scared. Her eyes dart around, searching the street like she's afraid someone will overhear.

She leans against the brick front of the ice cream shop, tugging at the purse she has slung over her shoulder. Without even looking at each other, Sam and Dean take subtle steps to block Katie's exit � not as aggressive as to look like they're surrounding her, but angled just so, so that they can grab her if she tries to run again.

"You reacted to it, didn't you?" she says finally, looking at Dean. She wrings her hands. "I really thought you wouldn't. Most folks don't, so I thought it'd be okay to make an exception�"

"Whoa," Dean says. "What do you mean, reacted? What did you give me?"

"The bread. It's made from wheat in the baker's farmland." Katie looks straight into Sam's eyes, like he can catch the significance of the next few words, the words she's saying but not speaking. "One field in particular."

"A field with a crop circle?" Sam asks, and Katie nods. "So� your bakery is serving this bread to the people who live here? Does everyone in town have... can they�?" Sam doesn't quite know how to finish the sentence.

"This is worse than marijuana brownies," Dean mutters under his breath. He looks angry, but Sam knows that anger is usually a face that Dean puts on to cover up a mass of other emotions. Fear, concern, confusion.

"Only one out of every two hundred people develop� powers�" Katie says slowly. "The chances were very low for you to develop anything. Folks say you don't get anything unless you already have something inside you to� release."

Sam stares. The implications are mind-boggling. Does the wheat speed up an already inevitable process? Or does it unlock something that should be kept away until death do you part? Sam wonders what would've happened if he had decided to eat a sandwich that day. He wonders what could've been "released."

"That still means at least seven people in Mora have abilities," says Dean, and Sam isn't surprised that Dean did the math so quickly in his head. Dean is better at academics than he admits, but he only shows it when it suits him. Dean looks incredulous, but again, anyone else would've mistaken his expression for angry. "What do they do? Start up a circus troupe? Fire juggling?"

"Only Aaron is a firestarter," says Katie, like Sam and Dean should know who Aaron is. "The ability doesn't always show up in the same way. It's different for different folks. And I really shouldn't be telling you this, but I'm awful sorry that it had to happen to you. You didn't ask for this. I didn't think� I'm. God, I'm sorry."

Dean's stern look softens a little, but he doesn't say anything.

"How do you reverse it?" Sam asks. "Is there a way to change a person back?"

Katie appears surprised at the question. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Why?" Dean says, suddenly looking angry again. Sam sees it as upset and bewildered. "Why would you want to keep�"

"Is there any way?" Sam persists, interrupting and nudging Dean. He shoots his brother a look. Calm down.

"No. I don't think so. It changes you and�"

"Hey. Are you bothering my sister?" a voice says.

Sam and Dean spin around to see a young woman standing behind them. She looks almost exactly like Katie, except a bit younger. She's around Dean's age, and she's got a backpack slung over one shoulder. She also looks distinctly Not Happy.

"No." Dean offers a smile at the young woman. "We're just� talking. Right, Katie?"

Katie doesn't say anything, but it looks like Dean's last outburst had upset her, and her eyes are wide and wet.

"Get out of here," says Katie's sister.

Sam starts to say, "Look, we're not trying to cause trouble. We just want to know�"

And that's when Katie's sister throws her arm up. At the abrupt motion, Sam flies backwards through the air, hit by an invisible force that feels like a giant fist. He lands in a heap on the sidewalk, scraping his elbow and his ass on the concrete. The impact hurts, even though he's got jeans and a jacket on.

"Sam?!"

"I'm okay," Sam says. He struggles to a standing position. "Just don't�"

"You want to play Power Rangers, sweetheart? Come on then, let's go." Dean's eyes blaze a brilliant orange.

"�do anything stupid." Sam grimaces as Dean gets thrown backwards like a rag doll.

"If you don't get out of Mora, now, I'll throw you out. Literally. We don't like strangers coming in and messin' around with our lives. And you leave my sister alone, you hear?" Katie's sister adjusts the strap on her backpack. She steps in front of Katie and raises her eyebrows in a challenging expression that translates into something like -- Come on, chickens. Show me what you've got.

"We're going," Sam mutters, tugging Dean to a standing position. Dean's eyes are still glowing. "Dean, stop it," Sam hisses. "Let it go."

"If you come back, I won't be so nice," Katie's sister calls after them as they walk away. Sam can hear the smirk in her voice.

Sam wishes he could throw her, just so she could get a taste of her own medicine. But nothing happens. Wishing alone isn't enough, he guesses. Sam wants to be able to harness that punch � that rush of adrenaline that came out of nowhere � and he wants it so bad for a second that it scares him.

* * *

"So I guess I won't be needing my lighter anymore." Dean frowns. "But I like my lighter."

They're driving to the outskirts of Mora, into the surrounding farmland. Sam had searched the local phonebook, found the number of the bakery, and then � with a few well-orchestrated phone calls � found out who the owner is and where he lives.

The baker, Oren Jackson, owns one of the largest farms in the surrounding area. His family, according to the manager of the bakery, has been living in the area for forever, since Mora came into existence.

"If you don't want to keep the ability, I'm sure there's a way to reverse it. We'll figure it out." Sam is trying to pinpoint their location on a roadmap of Nebraska, but the town is so small in comparison to the rest of the state that it's hard to find.

"I don't know, Sam." When the Motorhead tape clicks off, Dean automatically reaches between their seats and replaces the tape with another, not taking his eyes off the road. A few seconds of scratchy white noise, then Led Zeppelin fills the car. "From what Katie said, it sounds like opening Pandora's box. I don't think you can just shove it back to wherever it came from."

"It can't hurt to try." Sam finally finds the right page. "Take a left up at the next intersection."

"I hate fire," Dean mutters. His expression is unreadable. He drums his fingers on the wheel, in time to the music. "Why'd it have to be fire? Why couldn't I have gotten x-ray vision or something cool like that?"

Sam, knowing the exact reason why Dean's favorite superpower is x-ray vision, rolls his eyes and flips a page in the roadmap. "You're such a perv."

"Dude. Do people call Superman a perv? No. They call him a hero. I'd be a hero," Dean says. He adds dreamily, "I'd rescue those college coeds from all those darn clothes they have to wear all the time."

Sam smacks Dean on the head with the map, and Dean laughs.

It's nice to hear him laugh.

"Seriously, Sam," says Dean, sobering up. "It's like� Murphy's law, supernatural edition."

The irony isn't lost on Sam � it's weird that Dean can now harness the very force of nature that destroyed their lives. Fire isn't what killed their mom or Jessica. Something else did. But fire was somewhere to channel the hate when they didn't know what else to blame.

"Maybe it's better this way," Sam says slowly. "If you didn't hate it, you'd abuse it. You'd become a pyromaniac, or something."

"I guess." Dean doesn't sound convinced. He doesn't look at Sam.

Sam knows that Dean's got these layers, these coats of varnish that he's obsessed with maintaining. Dean doesn't like it when the surface gets cracked or the paint gets chipped or, God forbid, someone scratches down deep enough to find the heart and center. Where the real Dean lives. Where Dean could get hurt.

Over the years, Sam has watched the layers come on, the essence of Dean slowly disappearing as the image of Dean takes over. Every pain, every girl left behind, every heartache puts on a new coat, a new mask to wear. Sam has watched Dean pour on the polish and fa�ade until all that�s left is a cocky son of a bitch, charming if he wants to be but annoying as all get out.

Sam still remembers the old Dean, the one that wasn't so goddamn afraid to let people in sometimes, but that Dean has been hidden for more than fifteen years now and he only comes out if stress or crisis forces him to.

Maybe this pyrokinesis ability is the last straw, and Sam will lose that old Dean forever. Dean will close his shell, once and for all, and the only thing Sam will have left is this glossy, super-human Dean that refuses to show any vulnerability to anyone.

Or maybe this fire will bind them closer together, for once, instead of ripping them apart like fire has always done in the past. They're in the same boat (more like a puny life raft), alienated from the world, but they're together. Maybe this time, fire will strip away the layers a little more, burn away some of the varnish, revealing a bit of the old Dean that Sam hasn't seen in a long, long time.

It's a lot to ask for, but there's something to be said for looking for the silver lining.

Dean pulls over and parks the car on the side of the road, in front of a farm with rolling green hills, surrounded by a whitewashed fence. There's a house and a red barn in the far distance.

"Why does this shit always happen to us?" Dean murmurs, half to himself.

"Told you we're dark."

Dean smiles, a little quirk of the corner of his mouth, and Sam guesses that's good enough for now.

* * *

Finding a crop circle is harder than you'd think. But with the perspective of someone standing on the ground, parallel to the field, it's hard to see anything beyond acres and acres of corn and wheat. It's even harder for them because the sun is almost gone now, and there's only so much light to see by. An aerial view would make things so much easier. Too bad Dean didn't pick up the ability to levitate.

So Dean and Sam crisscross the fields in the growing twilight, looking for the telltale sign of a sudden depression or gap in the never-ending rows of crops.

They literally can't see the forest for the trees, and there's some message in that, but Sam is too tired from running through farmland to care to analyze it.

Funnily enough, after half an hour of searching, they both find something at the same time. Sam literally stumbles upon a huge clearing in the middle of a wheat field. It looks like a swirling circle, like the design of a hypnotist's wheel. At that point, Dean is a tiny black figure to Sam's far left, and Sam can hear Dean's shout, "Hey!"

"I found something too!" Sam shouts back, once he finds his voice. Seeing the circular pattern is disconcerting, especially after running through all the neat lines and rows of crops. He steps into the middle of the crop circle. Despite their family's line of work, Sam has never actually seen a crop circle before. It's weird to be standing inside of one.

There's a crashing of vegetation as Dean comes over. He stands next to Sam, and gives a low whistle. "Well, this one is different."

"What did yours look like?" Sam asks.

"It was just three flat circles. Like a Venn diagram? But this one is freaking huge. The other one is a lot smaller." Dean narrows his eyes and steps closer to the edge of the circle. "Huh."

"What?" Sam follows.

Dean crouches down, and says, "The stalks aren't broken." He runs his fingers along the wheat, and Sam can see that the wheat isn't really flattened. It's just bent severely.

"You mean, this wheat is growing like this? Sideways?"

"I'm willing to bet this is the circle Katie was talking about," says Dean. "The other circle's wheat was broken at the base. The wheat was dying. This one� the stalks are still alive."

"This is a real crop circle, Dean. Not a copycat," Sam says. He can't believe it. "It could be from the 1960s or something. Actually, who knows how long it's been here?"

Dean doesn't reply. He stands up slowly, eyes widening in alarm, looking at something behind Sam. "Sam. Get down!"

Sam does it without question, hearing the command tone. Some things you never unlearn, no matter how long you're away at college. He's not fast enough though, because at the exact moment that Sam drops, a gunshot is fired. A shotgun, if Sam were to hazard a guess from the sound of the shot.

He hits the ground flat on his belly but is unsure what has happened exactly. It takes Sam a few seconds to feel himself over and to realize � a) he's still alive, b) he's not wounded, and c) oh shit.

"What is wrong with you crazy fucks?" Dean is yelling.

And that's when the screams start.

Sam looks up to see two heavyset men behind him, one holding a rifle. They're on fire. They're flailing around, clothes up in flames, screaming and cursing and yelling.

Dean's eyes are flaring an impossible orange, bright and intense.

Sam scrambles to his feet, grabbing Dean's arms. "Dean, stop it!" He shakes his brother, wanting to shake that crazy glow out of Dean's eyes. "Dean, I'm okay. I'm not hurt. Cut it out!"

Immediately, the fires blink out of existence.

The men collapse onto the carpet of wheat. The one with the rifle is still clutching onto his weapon tightly, but the other one is groaning in pain.

Dean stares at the men, whose clothes are tattered and whose skin is a mottled burnt red, then at Sam. His eyes are hazel-green once more. He stares at the men again, as if not understanding what he's looking at.

"You better get off my land," says the man with the rifle. The burns on his face make him look sinister in the twilight. He pushes himself up on his knees and raises the rifle, about to take aim. "I ain't gonna tell you twice."

Sam uses his height to his advantage � not the first time, not the last time, either � and closes the distance, kicking the guy in the head. The man's head whips to the side and he sprawls back on the ground, rifle flying out of his hands.

"Run!" Sam says, pushing at Dean, who snaps out of it in time for them to escape into the fields of wheat and corn, just before another shot is fired.

They run.

* * *

They drive away from Jackson's farm in silence. Dean looks shut down, closed off, and Sam knows his brother well enough to be quiet. Saying anything now would just invite an argument.

There's only the sound of the wind rushing past � Sam had opened his window � and AC/DC blaring away from the tape deck.

A half an hour or so goes by like this, and Sam has been watching the road signs. They're heading out west again. He assumes that this'll be the end of their escapades in Mora, and that Dean will probably not want to talk about these past couple of days for a long time � when Dean suddenly pulls into a back lot behind a WaWa and parks.

"What?" Sam asks, finally breaking the silence because he's completely bewildered at this point.

"Get some sleep." Dean cuts the engine and pushes his seat back to a reclining position. He closes his eyes.

"Why?"

"Cuz we've gotta get up at three a.m. and go torch that sucker, duh. We can't let them keep giving psychic bread to unsuspecting passersby." Dean opens his eyes and looks at Sam. "And we've got to wait until those crazies can't see us and shoot at us."

"It's their right to eat it if they want. It's their wheat." But Sam pushes his seat back, too.

This is not the first time they've slept in the car, but it's always hell on Sam's knees because he can never get quite enough room to extend his legs completely. But when he turns his head, Dean is lying beside him, and it's weirdly comfortable, if not for Sam's knees, then in another way that Sam doesn't really feel like examining too closely.

"Oh, don't get all lawyer on me, dude. I really hate it when you do that." Dean folds his arms behind his head.

"But shouldn't we tell someone? Federal authorities? They could probably take care of it. And it's a real one, Dean. They'd want to know."

Dean shakes his head slowly, rocking it from side to side in the nest of his folded arms. "Not like the suits will ever tell anyone about it anyway. They'd burn it too, just to avoid all that aliens-are-coming, end-of-the-world shit," Dean says. "I'd like to have the satisfaction of burning it myself, thanks."

Sam sighs. "All right."

All of Sam's life, he has tried to make sense of law and morals and right and wrong, and� in the end, it's just a lot of gray. He hates that it's all gray. He hates that his life is all gray � living at the edge of reason, the fringes of the law. It makes everything� confusing.

"Hey. Dean."

Dean has his eyes closed again. "Mm?"

"I know you have to be angry to start a fire. But� how do you put out a fire? I mean, theoretically, you shouldn't have control over a fire that's already burning."

"It only works on fires that I started," Dean says. Something in the way he says the words, clipped and sharp, says -- I don't feel like talking about this.

Sam guesses that makes sense. The paranormal and the supernatural follow rules that often flow in the same vein as dream logic. It makes sense as long as you don't examine it too closely. "That still doesn't explain how you do it."

Dean shrugs, but his eyes remain closed. "I don't know."

If it had been anyone else listening to Dean, they would've believed him. But it's Sam, and Sam is the only one that can detect even half of Dean's lies.

Even Sam admits that he can't catch them all.

"Just tell me," he persists. "I have a right to know about your abilities. I'm living with you. I'd be nice to know how they work."

"We don't know how yours work," Dean retorts, finally turning his head to meet Sam's gaze.

"I would tell you if I knew!" says Sam, exasperated. "Come on. How do you put them out?"

Dean pointedly looks out the window, away from Sam's eyes. "I think of you. And shut up."

Sam feels oddly pleased, grin tugging at his mouth. "Did you hear me say anything?"

"Shut up."

* * *

The field burns merrily away, creating a bonfire that lights up the night. Orange sparks crackle and pop, spinning their way up into the black sky. Flames flicker and dance this way and that, buffeted around by the night wind. The air around them smells sort of like toast, sort of like scorched grass.

Sam sits on the hood of the Impala, parked on the side of the road, and watches.

Dean is standing before it all, feet apart, hands on his hips. The firelight casts weird dancing shadows on the angles of Dean's face. His eyes are glowing an intense orange, enough to rival the fire in the field. His jaw is set, like he wants to wrestle this new ability into submission.

"We could just circle the field with dirt to keep the fire contained," Sam says, but Dean waves an arm at him, distracted.

"I need to practice more," says Dean, eyes blazing orange with an unnatural light � a light that isn't a reflection of the fire in the field, but made of some strange fire within Dean himself. His voice is hard. He doesn't want to argue about this.

Sam takes the hint, and changes the subject. "You think there are any more of these crop circles out there?" Sam asks, watching the fire slowly die down. He knows the fire is not settling down on its own � the fire would've spread over the entire farm by now, if it were left to its own devices. As the fire slows its burn, Dean's eyes gradually lose their glow and melt back to their mild green color.

"I doubt it. This is probably the only real crop circle in the country." Dean puts a hand out, arm outstretched and palm down, and suddenly � whoomp - the fire is totally and completely gone. The only thing left is a blackened and smoking field of burnt wheat. Like Dean pinched the end of a gigantic candle. The winking out of the fire is so sudden that it leaves afterimages flashing in Sam's vision.

"Wow," Sam says.

Dean continues as if Sam hadn't spoken. "But if we run into any more crop circles, we should check the stalks. Make sure the wheat is just broken, not bent. That's probably the best indicator." He scrubs a hand through his hair, looking disgruntled. He always gets annoyed when they can't get to the bottom of a mystery. "But what created this one?"

"Aliens," Sam says, and he's a little surprised at himself for saying it. But, really, if not aliens, then what the hell else could it be? Any other explanations are probably even worse.

Dean snorts.

"After all we've seen, you don't believe in aliens?" Sam demands.

"Not until I shake hands with E.T., no. Come on. We should get our asses in gear, before anyone sees what happened." Dean rubs a hand over his eyes, and although Dean does his best to hide it, Sam can see the tiredness, the worry in that movement. "You feel like driving?"

This is going to be one worry that Sam can't erase or fix. Some decisions are irrevocable and life-changing, even if they are as simple as choosing to eat a sandwich instead of having the blue-plate special.

Sam hates knowing that he's leaving Dean flapping in the wind, without giving him any comfort, but what can Sam say? They're both stuck with abilities they can't even begin to comprehend. Sucks to be us is about as much as Sam can come up with.

And if Sam can't fix it, he's not sure what else he can do but pretend that nothing has changed.

"You're voluntarily giving up the wheel. Are you still sick?" Sam puts his hand on Dean's forehead, and Dean pushes it away irritably.

"I just want to sleep. Is that okay with you?" Dean narrows his eyes, and Sam briefly wonders if he should invest in flame-retardant clothing.

"Where to?" Sam says, climbing in the driver's seat.

Dean gets in and throws the keys at Sam's head, but Sam is anticipating it, and catches them before they can make contact. Dean pushes the passenger seat back and closes his eyes. Then he points his finger, randomly, to the right. Toward the north. "That way. Wake me up when we get there."

Maybe Sam doesn't have to pretend. Maybe nothing really has changed. They were never that normal to begin with. They're alive. They're together. And beyond that, little else has any importance.

"Get where?"

Dean doesn't answer, and Sam smiles, starting up the engine.

And they're gone again, off to the in-between places. The secret places where the long roads and empty skies converge, where anything may be lurking in the dark. Maybe even a little light.

The End