Dean doesn't react quite as Sam had expected to the revelation that they may have landed themselves smack-dab in the middle of a hunt: he listens patiently to what Sam's found so far, face unreadable, and when his brother's finished talking, he takes a deep breath and sinks under the blue water.

Sam waits for a moment, but when Dean doesn't emerge he gets a little worried, reaches out and gets himself a fistful of his short hair, tugs. Dean surfaces then, slow, blinks the chlorine out of his eyes, purses his lips.

"You get a timeframe on these deaths?" he asks.

Sam kicks out a little, floats himself to the cement edge of the pool so he can hang on with his good arm. "No – I mean, they happened within the last month, but I don't know when exactly, or how far apart."

Dean nods, bobs. His body looks strange under the water, pale green, misshapen from the refraction of the light so it appears slightly separate from his head. It makes Sam nauseous, for some reason.

"We should sign that swim waver thing," Dean says, "give us a good excuse to have a chat with the super. And that lady – Marcella – she said we should come talk to her any time. She strikes me as a gossip, could probably give us some good dirt on the victims. And we'll need police records, records of the builders' contract, history of the apartment, that kind of shit. And—"

"Woah, woah," Sam says, overwhelmed. "Hang on a second. Dean, we – we're still on vacation. This doesn't change that."

"How does this not change that?"

"We could save afternoons for research and shit. Swim in the morning, go to a museum — or do whatever," he adds hastily as Dean starts to roll his eyes.

"Sam, we do the job, we do the job. We're not gonna half-ass it."

"I never said we should!" Sam realizes his voice is growing louder, carrying clearly across the water to where the toddler is still paddling around with his parents. Their heads rise at Sam's tone. "I'm just saying," he continues quietly, "that we don't have to scrap the vacation idea just 'cause we're working, too."

"Sam…"

"Dean. We came here to rest. To relax. My shoulder is still fucked, and you swore you would stay in one place for at least a week, rest your leg, go easy on yourself just for—"

"Okay," Dean says, placating. "All right, dude. Chill."

"I am chill," Sam says, steely, because if there's one thing he hates, it's when his brother treats him like a bomb about to go off when he's just trying to simply explain something.

"Listen, Sam. We'll splash around, go to a couple museums, do the tourist thing, whatever. But job takes precedence, man. You know that."

A pause. "I know."

"Okay, then."

"Okay." They're silent for a moment, looking at one another, and Sam's not sure if the tension he feels is coming from his brother or from himself. He sighs. "I'm cold. I'm getting out."

"Let's hang here for another half hour or something, okay? Then we'll start talking to some people."

"Fine."

Dean watches as Sam climbs the ladder out of the deep end, awkward with his bad arm pulled to his chest. Heads over to the chairs, plonks himself down and runs a hand through his wet hair, stares into space. Dean turns away, strokes across the pool to where he can settle his feet gingerly on the bottom. He doesn't want to get out, back onto land, where he's heavy and uncoordinated and every movement requires thought and planning – but christ, he needs a cigarette. Needs a hundred. Sam's been edgy lately, anxious, and it makes Dean edgy and anxious, which makes him shorter with Sam, which makes Sam shorter with him, which makes him edgy and – fuck, he knows it's a vicious circle, but he can't seem to break free.

Dean ducks under the water, opens his eyes. The chlorine stings, but the blue is kind of calming, his body pale and fish-colored, scars on his leg glistening a pearly green. He kicks out carefully for the deep end, hears a tinny snap echo through the water as he does. He moves his limbs experimentally and realizes his bad knee makes that small snap every time he unbends it. He had no idea. Funny how water magnifies even the sounds he didn't know were there.

He stays under, stays on his belly, moves slow and careful, like his physical therapists taught him, lets his arms and good leg keep pace with the bad, methodical and unhurried.

He tries to push down his craving for a smoke, tries to let the rhythm of swimming chill him out.

If it weren't for Sam, Dean would be almost relieved that there's a hunt. He's really not a vacation kind of guy, and he could feel the gnaw of claustrophobia setting in, the restlessness, after just this one morning. The week had seemed to yawn out before him like a black hole of inactivity. But Sam… Dean had been hoping this vacation might smooth out some of the hard edges he'd been noticing in his brother. God knows Sam deserves a fuckin' break of some kind.

But after a few back-and-forths across the pool, it's Dean who has to take a break, can feel his leg aching even through the blanket of painkillers. He'd walked a lot that morning, much more than he's used to, depressing as that may be, and he's still recuperating from three days behind the wheel and being thrown against a couple walls before that. Maybe swimming laps isn't the best idea at the moment.

He glances up towards his brother, who's lying in the sun, long body stretched out on the chaise, eyes closed. From here he appears perfectly relaxed, just a college kid on spring break.

Dean fights off the jolt of despair that's a little too familiar, gives himself a mental shake. They'll finish this job as quickly as possible, maybe have a couple days to relax, like Sam wants. Give Sam a fucking break from worrying about Dean, because jesus, the kid worries like he was born to it. Dean wonders, not for the first time, what would happen if he just took off, left Sam in the apartment or in a motel, got himself out of the way so Sam could do whatever the fuck Sam wants to do – go back to school, join Dad, hell, become a male stripper… anything but this. Stuck in a retirement home with his big brother, who needs to rest after swimming a couple measly lap in a tiny pool.

But Dean knows what it's like to be left for your own good, and he's not gonna put Sam through that.

He pushes off from the wall, eyeballs the distance between himself and the stairs. He starts towards the shallow end, lets his arms do most of the work, bad leg floating along behind him. The father of the toddler has gotten out, but the mother is sitting on the stairs up to her waist in water, back against the wall, watching her kid flop around like an overgrown carp.

As he gets closer, he sees that she's not really as young as she looks from far away – is one of those older mothers he's been seeing so often lately, probably in her forties, though her kid can't be more than three. She's wearing a sensible black bathing suit and isn't particularly attractive, but Dean finds himself staring at her all the same, tracing the slope of her shoulders, the rise of her breasts under the spandex. Jesus, he needs to get laid so bad he can taste it.

He gives her an awkward smile as he hauls himself upright by the metal railing, and she returns it, looks away quickly. It's almost worse, that I-swear-I'm-not-looking-at-you eye flick. Not like he can blame her: hell, he'd probably just go ahead and stare. His leg's a fuckin' mess – he'd wonder what happened, too.

As soon as his body is free of the water, Dean feels a thousand pounds heavier, clumsy and inelegant and ridiculous. Especially, he realizes, clutching the railing and staring at the steps, especially since he isn't certain he can get up these. Going down is one thing, but up? Gonna be interesting.

He grips the railing with both hands, attempts to get his good leg up, but as soon as the weight hits, his bad knee buckles and he hastily plants his foot back down. Okay, then. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

"'Scuse me, hon?" the woman asks, and he glances to his side, sees her looking at him uncertainly. "You need a hand?"

"Uh," Dean says, pretty sure he's turning shades of red that haven't been invented yet. He goes for a grin, knows he fails miserably. "I'm good. But thanks."

He isn't good. He's fucked. He could go up on his ass, but accepting this woman's help would almost be preferable to that. He takes a deep breath, glances up, and sees suddenly that Sam's gotten up from his chair, is coming quickly towards him. He feels a wave of utter relief, followed by a wave of anger and humiliation so acidic he almost chokes on it. Sam doesn't need this crap, jesus, he really does not need this fucking crap.

"Hey," Sam says, hops down the steps towards his brother. And now it's Dean's turn to pretend not to look at the woman on the other side of the rail, because jesus, this is fucking embarrassing.

"Come one, dude," Sam says, offers his arm, and Dean takes it, manages, between Sam and the railing, to get up the first step. His brother's become a master at cane-replacement, and Dean thinks bitterly that he should rent him out to the highest bidder. He's sure plenty of old ladies would love to have Sam hanging off their arm instead of a fucking walker.

When they get to the top, Sam leans down, hands Dean his cane, hovers at his elbow until he's sure Dean's balanced and moving on his own.

"Sorry," Dean mutters, wants to make a joke but can't think of anything, so he just says, "Sorry," again, bites the inside of his cheek and ignores the burn behind his eyes.

"Dude," Sam says. "It doesn't matter."

But that's a fuckin' lie, even if Sam doesn't know it. Of course it fuckin' matters. Who the fuck would want this shit, this constant babysitting and brother-watching? Fuck.

Dean lowers himself down onto the chair, lets his cane drop with a clatter.

"We should get going," he says, finds his cigarettes on the ground, in the folds of his t-shirt. "Start the rounds."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, and Dean mouths a cigarette from the pack, gropes for his lighter. The first drag goes down sweet and glorious, and for a moment he just sits there and smokes, Sam watching him, elbows on his long knees, damp hair in his eyes.

"Eat some more peanut butter," Sam says suddenly, and Dean snorts.

"Can I finish this first, grandma?"

"If you must."

Dean huffs a laugh, takes a drag and squints up towards the sky as a cloud rolls over the bright sun, dims everything down. He swears the temperature drops like ten degrees.

Sam starts to struggle back into his shirt, and Dean leans forward, helps ease it down over his bad shoulder, helps him tug the sling into place.

"Jesus," Dean mutters, glancing around. "These people're gonna think we're crazy. I can't get out of a fuckin' pool on my own, and you can't put on a shirt."

"Hey. I can put it on – it's just easier if you help."

"Right," Dean says, pats him carefully on the shoulder, adjusts the sling. "'Course you can, Sammy."

Sam mock-frowns, and Dean can't help but grin at the petulant expression. With Sam's messed-up hair and crooked shirt, he looks about six years old, despite the giant bony knees poking out of his board shorts. Christ, those knees.

Dean takes a last, regretful drag of his cigarette and puts his own shirt on, chilly now that the sun's been hidden.

"Peanut butter," Sam orders, and Dean accepts the jar, sucks a lump of the sticky stuff off his finger, grimaces.

"Y're not theriouth about thith, right?" he asks thickly, wishing he had a glass of milk.

"It's this or cod liver oil," Sam says. "Or you could, you know, eat like a normal person."

"Mmmf," Dean promises, swallows as best he can. "Leth go."

:::

The superintendent, Mike, is a short, pudgy middle-aged fellow with a kind face, bad eczema, and a lisping manner reminiscent of an old woman. He doesn't mind that Sam and Dean are still damp from the pool, just ushers them inside and offers them a seat while they read and sign the waver, thanks them for remembering.

"The Finklesteins told me they were subletting out for a week," he says, leaning against his kitchen counter. "Must say, I'm surprised they rented to such young tenants."

"It took some convincing," Sam says ruefully, eyes darting over the sheet of paper. He deems it harmless and signs his name carefully, passes it to Dean.

"How long you been running this place?" Dean asks casually, pretending to peruse the waiver.

"Oh, about ten years now. I'm the owner, too, you know. Originally, it was just an apartment building like any other, for the first year anyway – don't quite know how it happened, but seniors, they talk, I guess, and before I knew it, bam. Practically running a retirement home."

"Oh," Dean says. "So you didn't intend it to be so… full of the elderly?"

"Can't say I did," Mike admits. "Not that I mind. And they're not all seniors – I'd say about sixty percent is over sixty. The rest, well, we've got some families, a few bachelors, quite a number of single women, actually. No one as young as you two, however."

"Huh," Dean says, trying to figure out the best way to ask his next question. "Everything run pretty smoothly, round here?"

"More or less."

"We, uh, we heard about…"

"Yes, well, there's that," Mikesays with a wince. "Goodness, what a tragedy. Horrible, horrible. I can hardly think about it without…" he shudders.

"We're so sorry," Sam puts it. "Did you know … that is, were you close with the… the… those who died?"

"Close? Well, I knew them. Knew them quite well. All had been living here for at least three years. Fixed their pipes, their windows, saw them often enough. Horrible, horrible."

"Were they all seniors?" Dean asks.

"No – Emmet, the fellow who passed just last night, he was rather a young man. Late thirties, somewhere thereabouts. He had a hard life, that one."

"Oh?" Sam says, trying his best to sound curious and trustworthy, but not too curious.

"Yes, poor man. He broke his back a few years ago in a terrible car accident, paralyzed from the waist down. That's why he moved in here, we have so many apartments with facilities for the disabled." He makes an awkward gesture towards Dean.

"That's awful," Sam says honestly. "Must have been hard."

"I imagine it was. Oh, but he was so good-natured! Took what life dealt him, and made the best of it." Mike'sface blanches, eyes growing moist. "Until, that is… oh, horrible, horrible. I never would have… if I had known… he didn't seem the type, but then, they say that most comedians are terribly depressed. But really, he was so full of life…" Mikedabs at his eyes, then forces his face into a smile. "Oh, look at me, depressing you like this. I'm sorry."

"No, please," Dean says. "It's not depressing at all – we're very interested."

Sam shoots him a dirty look, and Dean realizes belatedly that it was kind of a creepy thing to say. Oh well.

"Yes," Mikesniffs. "Anyway."

They recognize their cue to leave, and Dean reaches for his cane, pushes himself to his feet with a wince as Sam hands Mikethe waiver.

"Thanks very much," Sam says.

"Oh, no, no. Any problems, come and talk to me. The Finklesteins gave you my number, I assume?"

"Yes," Sam assures him. "We'll give you a call."

In the elevator Sam runs a thoughtful hand through his hair, turns to his brother. "You know," he says hesitantly. "So far, it doesn't sound that suspicious to me. I mean… it's not supernatural, really, that he would… you know. I mean… you hear about… it's hard, that kind of… thing."

"Maybe," Dean says. "But we're not gonna draw any conclusions 'til we get the skinny on the others. Plenty of people go through shit like that and don't kill themselves. So for now, we operate under the assumption that something forced his paralyzed ass up and over the balcony."

"Jesus," Sam cringes. "A little tact, you think?"

"Right, right, sorry. His paralyzed tucas."

Sam changes quickly once they're back in their apartment. His hair is still slightly damp and smelling of chlorine, but he'll shower later. When he pulls his jeans up off the pink carpet on his bedroom floor, the flask he bought earlier thunks down from the folds of the denim, and it's in his hand with the cap unscrewed before he really thinks about it.

He glances around to make sure Dean hasn't somehow managed to sneak up behind him, then takes a swig, feels the liquor burn a path down his throat and into his stomach. A part of him knows that it's not good, drinking on a job, and it's definitely not good that he's hiding it from his brother, seems to find himself doing a lot of that, lately… and for a moment he feels a little guilty, nervous – but then the overwhelming feeling is just relief. They're not hunting, they're just talking to some people, doing some research, so it's not as if he needs his reflexes to be razor-sharp… and he's just so fucking tense, his back in knots.

He settles himself down on the bed, pushing aside a giant train-shaped pillow – definitely the grandkid's room – and takes another sip, relaxes a little. He can hear his brother rustling around in the next room, can hear the muffled curse as something thumps to the floor. He'll hear the balcony door open, he thinks. So it's all right to just sit here for a moment, take some time.

He drinks again, wonders if he'll still have time to make fettuccini alfredo – because he bought the ingredients, and it's been so long since he's stood in a real kitchen in front of a stove, lost himself in chopping and stirring. He likes cooking, he discovered at Stanford. Dean had done most of the cooking when they were growing up, whenever they were staying in a place with a decent kitchen, which admittedly was somewhat rare. Sam had known vaguely at the time that his brother had actually become quite a good cook, and he wonders idly if Dean had continued cooking after he'd left, cooked just for himself and John. Sam doubts it, somehow.

He takes another gulp of whiskey, realizes that if he has much more, on top of the two beers he had by the pool, he's in danger of passing the sober threshold. But it doesn't seem like that bad of an idea, somehow. They're still kind of on vacation, aren't they? And it's – he checks his cellphone – almost three thirty. Already early evening. And he's been snapping at his brother lately, he knows he has, because Dean is fucking infuriating… but this, he reasons, this might help mellow him out so he's gentler with Dean. Make things easier for both of them. He raises the bottle again.

:::

Marcella answers the door right after the first knock, almost as if she'd been standing directly behind it, waiting for visitors.

"Oh, look!" she exclaims to no one. "It's the two young men from the Finklesteins'!"

"Hello," Sam says, gives her his most winning smile. "You said we could come by, if—"

"Oh, of course, please, come in! Let's get you off your feet, poor thing," she says, addressing Dean, who bites back his annoyance and allows her to lead them into a small, well-decorated living room. If Dean were pressed, like, at gunpoint, he'd say it was more of a parlor, really, with dark wood and silk-upholstered furniture, the walls covered with photographs in tasteful, gilded frames.

"Sit, sit," she says, and Dean and Sam sink down onto the rose-patterned sofa, Dean setting his cane to rest against the glass-topped coffee table. "My husband will be so sorry he missed you, he's at a proctologists appointment and then he's having dinner with a few friends."

"Shame," Dean says, stretches his leg out a bit.

"You've got a lovely home," Sam says politely.

"Yes," Marcella agrees. "Are you boys hungry? I've got some pie. I could pretend it's homemade, if you like, but really I bought it just this morning. Cherry. It's quite good."

"Oh, yeah, please," Dean says with enthusiasm, ignores Sam's incredulous gaze.

"You, Sam?" she asks.

"Sure. Thanks very much."

"Lovely!"

She bustles out of the room, and Sam says, "Pie. Jesus, I'm a fucking idiot. Here I am, plying you with peanut butter, and all it takes is pie. Clearly."

"What?" Dean says defensively. "I'm hungry, that's all."

"Hungry for pie."

"Hungry for pie," Dean agrees, and Sam snorts, flops back onto the cushions. Dean looks at him for a moment. His brother's eyes seem overbright, his mannerisms just a bit off. Too – exaggerated. Messy. "You all right, dude?" Dean asks.

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. You're just—" but his attention is captured by Marcella, who's come back laden with two china plates heaped high with flaky, glistening cherry pie.

"Awesome," Dean breathes, feels like he actually wantsto eat something voluntarily for the first time in a long damn time. Why didn't he think of pie? The cure for all man's ills; the answer to world peace; the food to end all foods; the sweetest note in the – fuck, this is good pie.

He pauses for a moment in his ravenous demolishment of the defenseless pastry and realizes that Marcella is talking to Sam, realizes that Sam is sitting up politely while he is hunched over his plate like a cro-magnon. Dean straightens, does his best to look interested, though really he's just trying to figure out how best to finagle a second piece of when he's done with this one.

"—and then I said, it's a shame you don't have your own vacuum cleaner, because mine's been clogged with pennies. I hate pennies, so useless, not like the old days when you could at least buy yourself a peppermint or one of those nasty sticky toffee-things. Now penny candy costs a quarter, at least."

"That's true," Sam says. "I bought a Snickers bar the other day, and it was a dollar thirty."

"Scandal!" Marcella shrieks.

"So," Dean says, licking a streak of filling from his thumb. "Have you lived here long?"

"Going on six years," she says proudly. "Since I was a young spring chicken of sixty-eight."

"We were sorry to hear about the recent tragedies," Sam says.

"Oh, my," Marcella says, flutters a thin hand to her cardigan-clad breast. "Dreadful, isn't it? I've always said, suicide is the most selfish, vulgar thing a person could do."

Dean isn't sure if that's quite how he himself would describe it, but he nods anyway. "They must have been very unhappy."

"I suppose they were," she says. "Well, you know, poor Emmet I can understand – he was a man in the prime of his life, cut down by fate." She makes a dramatic slicing movement.

"Right, Mike told us about him," Dean says.

"Of course you would understand better than any of us, poor dear," Marcella says, reaches over from her armchair and gingerly pats Dean on his good leg. "How awful it must be, to be cut down by fate." She performs the same slicing movement.

"Uh—"

"But do you know, I don't think losing his ability to walk was the worst part." She raises her nearly-invisible eyebrows and bites her lip.

"No?"

"No. The worst part…" she lowers her voice. "He couldn't perform. You know what I mean, don't you, dear?"

"Oh," Dean says. "Christ. I mean – that's—"

"I assume you retain those capabilities?"

Dean splutters for a moment, trying to think of an inoffensive answer, settles stupidly on, "I'm not paralyzed."

"Oh, I know that. But, you know," she waves an airy hand, "things in that… vicinity… are often connected."

"Hm," Dean says, takes a bite of pie, which somehow isn't quite as delicious as it was a moment ago, before his freakin' manhood was called into question.

"So, the other people – they didn't seem to have any reason to … do it?" Sam asks, trying inelegantly to steer the conversation back.

"Jane and Marlon? Besides being somewhat irritating, Jane didn't seem particularly unhappy to me," Marcella says, tapping her lip. "Though, they say she, you know," she makes the universal gesture for drink. "Was a bit too fond of her wine."

"Was she … retired?" Sam asks.

"If you're politely asking me was she old, the answer is yes. Older than I am, I think – or at least, she looked older, if I do say so myself. Horrible dye job, this sickly red that just washed her face right out. Of course, godforbid I speak ill of the dead." Marcella shakes her head. "But Marlon," she says, and Dean allows himself a moment of admiration for this woman, who talks so damn much they barely have to poke her and information pops out like a Pez dispenser. He loves people like this; they save him and Sam so much trouble.

"Marlon," Marcella is saying, "he was something else. Lovely man. Used to be a librarian, he told me, before his knees gave way. Double knee replacement, double, can you believe that? Imagine how much metal must have been in those legs. I knocked on it after he got the first one, but it sounded just like a knee, to me."

"And he didn't seem depressed?"

"I never thought so. Always appeared to be in good spirits. But good spirits can mask any number of ills."

"That's true," Sam says, and Dean nods gravely.

"Who was the first?" Sam asks.

"Jane. And then Marlon, and then poor Emmet."

Dean feels a wave of sympathy towards Emmet, who must have been poor-deared even more often than Dean.

"And—" Sam tries, but is interrupted by Dean's phone trilling a loud alarm in his pocket. All three of them jump.

"Oops," Dean says, reaches down to turn it off, goes for his cane. "Where do you keep your glasses, Marcella?" he asks. "I could use some water."

"Oh," she says, starts to get to her feet, "let me, please, I—"

"No, no," Dean says, flaps a hand at her and pushes himself to his feet as fast as he can. "I'm fine, really."

"If you're sure… Well, they're in the cupboard on the right-hand side of the sink."

"Thanks."

Dean heads to the kitchen, finds the cups without too much trouble. He leans his good hip against the counter and takes a ziploc baggie with some Vicodin out from his pocket, shakes two out and swallows them down with a gulp of water. He's been trying to be more regular about taking his meds, less on a need-based agenda and more on a four-hour cycle, and it seems to be working out all right. If the pain gets too bad between doses, he can always take the Actiq.

He heads back into the living room where Sam and Marcella seem to be discussing the nutritional value of grapefruit, pauses for a moment to examine the photos on the wall. Grandkid after smiling grandkid, gap-toothed, blond-haired, every last one of them looking like a model for Baby J-Crew. Then his eyes travel a little further, and he sees a long line of photographs that travel down the wall and culminate in a small table with a few strange items and a bowl of flowers. He knows immediately, with an instinct born from years of watching other people's grief, that he's looking at a memorial.

He can't help himself, steps a little closer to look at the pictures. A good-looking kid, must have been her grandson. Young, early twenties, maybe, in an Army uniform, looks like Air Force, the wings on his chest. The table holds a matchbox car, a lock of what must be his hair, a bundle of cloth that Dean can't figure out, and a few other knickknacks that have his fingers tightening around his cane in sympathy.

"That's my Steven," Marcella says suddenly, from the armchair, and Dean glances over, sees her watching him.

"I'm sorry," Dean says.

"It was November. He was due to come home in just a few weeks. Cut down by fate. So cruel."

Dean comes back to the sofa, settles in beside Sam as Sam squints at the photographs across the room. "That's terrible," he says. "What a tragedy."

Is it Dean's imagination, or is Sam speaking strangely, slower and more precise than normal? Almost like he's trying not to stumble over his words.

"Yes," Marcella agrees, and heartbreak is scrawled across her face, clear as day. It makes Dean uncomfortable to see, that kind of raw grief, and he looks down.

"So, how many grandchildren do you have?" Sam asks, and Dean, not for the first time, gives his little brother a mental hug for always knowing how to handle this kind of thing, because Marcella's face brightens a bit, and she launches into a description of her six "little angels."

Dean lets the conversation wash over him, picks at the hem of his t-shirt, wonders how rude it would be on a scale of one to ten if he excused himself for a smoke. Marcella's gotta have a balcony; from what he's seen, her apartment is laid out exactly like the Finklesteins'.

"Hey," Sam says, reaches over his brother's lap to put a hand on Dean's good knee, and Dean realizes he's been bouncing it up and down, rattling the coffee table.

"Sorry," Dean says, makes an effort to relax. But seriously, cigarette, now.

"Dean," Sam says, "have you taken your meds?"

Dean's just about to say yes, when he catches something on Sam's face. "Uh, no?" he tries.

"Dean," Sam admonishes, and Dean could kiss him, because he recognizes this for what it is – an exit strategy. "I'm sorry," Sam says to Marcella. "We really have to be going. My brother here doesn't know what's good for him. He's way overdue on his meds."

Dean would feel a bit humiliated, used, but he's too busy being happy to get out of there. "Thanks for the pie," he says. "It was," what's that old-person word? "lovely."

"Oh, come back anytime," she says. "I always have pie. And you could do with some fattening up."

Sam looks smug for the three seconds until she turns to him and says, "You too, darling, oh my. With that height, and that hair – you don't want to look like a scarecrow, do you?"

"Uh," Sam says, and Dean begins mentally practicing the many insulting ways he could use the word scarecrow.

They head back to their apartment, right down the hall, and Dean immediately goes for the balcony. Sam follows, leans against the railing while Dean lowers himself into the chaise lounge and fishes the pack of smokes from his pocket.

"Could you not do that?" Dean asks, gesticulating with his unlit cigarette. "With all these people falling off of balconies… I'd rather you keep away from the edge, if you don't mind."

Sam obligingly steps away, flops gracelessly into a cross-legged position on the ground. "I don't get it," he says as Dean lights up. "I don't see a pattern yet. We've got a young paralyzed guy, a bitchy old lady, and an ex-librarian. Any of them could have feasibly just … killed themselves with no help."

"The same way?" Dean asks, takes a drag and shakes his head. "It's weird, Sam. Too fuckin' weird. I know you want a vacation, but we're not just gonna write this one off."

Sam shrugs loosely. "I mean, yeah. We'll keep going. I'm just sayin'…" He shrugs again, and Dean squints at him. He'd expected Sam to be a bit more bristly.

"Dude," he says slowly, watches Sam roll his head back on his shoulders, gaze up at the sky. "How much did you drink, down by the pool?"

Sam looks up, a little too quickly. "I had a couple beers. You saw me. Why?"

"That's it? Just those two beers?"

"Yes, Dean." Sam glares at him. "Are you accusing me of something?"

Dean puffs his cigarette nervously. "No. You just seem…"

"So, I guess I'll make dinner tonight," Sam says.

Dean blinks at the rapid subject change. "Uh—"

"I mean, it's too late to hit the library. And I asked Marcella, and she said she thinks I'll be able to hop onto the Simpkins' wireless connection. They're right next door. Actually," Sam says, climbing to his feet, "I'll try it now."

"Sam—"

"Don't fall overboard," Sam says, and Dean catches his wry smile before he's sliding open the glass door and shutting it gently on Dean's face.

Sam Winchester, ladies and gentleman. More of a mystery than three unexplained balcony-soaring suicides in the same building.

Jesus fuckin' christ.