Sam came sooner than he'd expected. Then again, the hands on the clock kept spinning backwards and forwards, so he'd lost track once it couldn't make up its mind. His own watch was no help with the singing and all.

Clocks and watches weren't supposed to do that, he reminded himself. He rubbed his forehead. It was just so hard to think through the pain.

Dean leaned over and pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. There were some whispers and hushed voices floating around him with talk of meds and the police, and rudeness to staff and customers. He thought maybe one of the voices was Sam's, and when he glanced up, he recognized Sam's bitchy little face making it clear he disapproved of the entire situation.

"It won't happen again," Sam promised.

"Schizophrenia can usually be handled under the right medication," the pharmacist said. "Try to convince him to take his medication so he can have a better quality of life."

"I will." He glanced at Dean before he took a few dollars out of his money clip and handed them to the pharmacist. They exchanged some words, ones that Dean couldn't hear, but they seemed to do the trick. The pharmacist nodded to Dean and walked away.

Sam's blurry form wobbled over and urged him to stand. "Come on."

"I'm not schizo," Dean said.

Sam shot him another odd look, like the one he'd given earlier that day but more serious and concerned.

Dean sighed. "Not you, too. Dammit."

Sam didn't reply, though his frown deepened, and Dean noticed Sam's pace had quickened. He was practically dragging him out of the store.

His brother thought he was crazy. Super.

"I'm not sure what's happening, but this is more than just a bump to the head," Sam said. When Dean started for the driver's side, Sam grabbed him and steered him to the passenger side. "We'll go to the motel and call Bobby." He paused, giving Dean a face that was filled with so much pity it made him sick. "Do you understand me?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm not deaf."

Sam shook his head and sighed, before turning away and shutting the door behind Dean. When he ran around to the other side and hopped into the driver's seat, Dean was ready for him.

"I'm not crazy. I've been hexed or cursed or something."

"I--" Sam let out another sigh. "I don't know what you're saying."

Dean popped the storage compartment under the dashboard and fished around for his notepad and pen. Once he found them, he started to scribble down everything that had happened.

"Can you understand what I'm saying?" Sam asked. "Maybe just nod or--?"

Dean nodded and finished, thrusting the pad at Sam. He took the notepad from Dean, but one glance at it and he tossed it back.

"That doesn't make sense to me." His voice had grown quiet. "It's gibberish."

The hell. Dean snatched the pad and stared at it. The writing made sense to him. His words. His handwriting. What about his writing and his voice didn't make any sense?

He winced as another wave of pain shot through his head. Frustrated, he threw the pad onto the dashboard. Through the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam give him a nervous, sidelong glance, but it disappeared when he offered Dean a supportive smile. "We'll figure this out."