∞∞∞

"Where the hell is that music coming from?" The music was louder than before; Sinatra's smooth voice echoed off the walls, and vibrations tickled the floor. Sam's question was answered when an axe was shoved into his large hands. He gripped the handle tightly, knuckles white, and stared down at the weapon wistfully before shaking his head, his long, dark fringes swaying in front of his eyes. "No—no, Dean, no." Ron had clearly voiced his disproval of weapons being used in his house, and Sam was not about to put holes in the guy's walls. Even though the man only went up to, like, his waist, he was rather intimidating.

Dean, however, was already charging up the pathway to the house, swinging his axe almost merrily. Without even glancing behind his shoulder, he impatiently waved a hand at his brother. "I've got things to see, people to do, Sam. We don't have time to tiptoe around with Sockem Boppers." Still walking, he turned around, now twirling the perfectly sharpened axe in his right hand. "What are you waiting for?" It was inevitable that Dean would do this with or without his brother, however, Sam, who stubbornly kicked at a dirt clod, continued to stand there tentatively.

"It's a phonograph." Sam stated evenly, now studying the house from the sidewalk. His eyes slowly went from one window to the next, as if he were looking for something. "The last owner—that's what she played the music with; like a record player."

Dean had stopped walking, the axe now still in his grasp. A defensive frown that screamed, "dude, I'm not an idiot," twitched at his full lips. "I know what a phonograph is."

"Sorry! Forgive me for doubting your phonographic knowledge." The brunette stifled a laugh as he walked forward, stopping just as he reached Dean. Their shoulders brushed together. "At least we know what we're looking for—and don't blindly toss that thing around, okay? The less damage the better."

Dean grunted. "I've heard that before."

The rustling of bushes was heard before Fran came limping out, frowning at the two young men disapprovingly. "It's only a matter of time before someone calls the cops, and you two are out here holding hands and talking?" A twig stuck out of her disheveled hair, and she squinted at them before exclaiming, "swords? You've got swords!"

Sam lamely uttered out, "we're not holding hands," while Dean shrugged indifferently, "axes, not swords. Axes." He made a point to demonstrate by pretending he was cutting wood, whilst Sam explained, "we think Betty's old phonograph is hidden behind a wall or something, so…" and gestured at Dean, who was still heartily chopping the invisible wood.

Fran, who stared at them blankly, muttered an "okay," and backed away. She warned them to "hurry up," because the people on the block were "cranky and nosy," and then she hobbled off behind the bush she came from. The brothers exchanged a "huh" look before moving on up the stairs.

"Do you hear that?" The taller brother asked over the music once they stumbled inside. The rug in the living room had been moved in front of the door, the corner messily turned up. So far, other than that, nothing seemed out of place, which was just swell, because it would be a cold day in hell where pigs flew high in the sky when Sam cleaned up again.

"Hear what?" Sam shot him an ironic look. Dean pointed the axe at him with a shrug. "What? I can barely hear myself think, never mind what you're over thinking about."

"No, no—listen." With his free arm stretched out, he rotated his wrist, his fingers stretched out. "Don't you… don't you hear it—Dean, it's—"

"A dying cat… screeching?" Dean lamely tried, straining to hear beyond the music, and when he did, he heard—

"A woman crying—sobbing. She… she sounds heartbroken." Sam set down his weapon on the table besides the door. Dean gaped at him like he just stepped on his favorite Metallica tape, an act that could easily be considered a heinous felony.

"Dude, no, no—no; we don't have time for a psych evaluation here." But then Sam looked at him with wide eyes, and Dean averted his powerful gaze, swearing a blue streak under his breath as he started to make his way upstairs.

"Dean, stop!" Fingers wrapped around Dean's elbow, another hand to his shoulder; the palm dug into his shoulder blade. "We can wait this one out. It probably won't be much longer, Fran said—"

"Sam, Betty was cremated—we're finding this phonograph and burning the hell out of it."

"No! You're being unreasonable."

"And you're being a compassionate idiot." He jerked his arm out of and his shoulder from under his brother's grasp, and continued up the stairs. He half expected Sam to let out a mighty roar and jump on his back, but Sammy wasn't possessed, or even tipsy—he was, as Dean previously stated, a compassionate idiot.

"I just understand… that's all." The music became clearer as Dean stomped down the hallway, briefly wondering if he would get to put the axe through a door, a la Jack Torrance. Sam voice, as softly as he had spoken, sliced through Sinatra's voice like a knife through butter. Hell, he heard it so well he even wondered if he had heard it—in his head.

"What's your problem? Christ, is it just some kind of unwritten rule that you must angst your oversized heart out about everything?" The weeping got significantly louder as Dean neared the end of the hallway.

"She just sounds so sad."

"She toasted the mauve curtains, of course she's sad."

"Mauve? I thought they were purple."

"In two seconds I'm going to mauve you in the purple." Still clutching the axe in one hand, Dean took out his EMF meter, which had started beeping once he reached upstairs, and he kissed it before holding it out. He looked for the strongest signal, furrowing his brow deep in thought as his eyes continuously flickering between the wall and the homemade doodad.

Sam leaned against the wall, arms folded against his chest. "Something doesn't feel right." The sound of the high pitched crying made him feel sick with sorrow. He knew what it was like to lose a loved one, even if the circumstances were different. He noticed when Dean rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, and frowned. "What?"

… I would sacrifice anything come what might…

For the sake of having you near…

"Nothin'."

… In spite of the warning voice that comes in the night…

"Yeah, right."

… And repeats how it yells in my ear…

Don't you know, little fool…

You never can win…

A shrill beeping noise was heard, muffled as it found its way into a pocket. "Found it."

… But each time I do just the thought of you

Makes me stop just before I begin…

Sam closed his eyes as the music continued—as the crying continued—and as the sound of sharp metal striking plaster cut through all the noise. He flinched at each blow to the wall, feeling guilt. Oh, Jess… He had been the one to walk out on her. Without him, she had, quite literally, crashed and burned.

… 'Cause I've got you—

And then, just like that, in the snap of a finger, the music stopped, and the weeping stopped. All he heard was Dean's heavy breathing, and the sound of the axe carelessly being thrown aside. He listened as Dean, after a little struggling, pulled the phonograph out of the wall and set it down on the floor.

"Huh." Sam's eyes opened, watching as Dean swiped his finger along the side of the phonograph, leaving a clear line through the dust in its wake. "There's no record—" The older brother pointed out, looking the old phonograph over. He scrunched his lips up, glancing up at Sam. "It's broken."

"It did sound like it was coming from above us." Sam tried, now leaning forward, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The blonde shook his head.

"Don't know… sounded more like it was coming from… everywhere." He shrugged, uncertainty twinkling in his confused green eyes. "At least it stopped."

Sam, ever the optimistic one, retorted with a disbelieving scoff. "Yeah, for now. But how'd it get in the wall?" Simultaneously, their eyes trailed over to the dark hole that effaced the white wall. "What do you think?"

Dean, while threading a free hand through his short hair, sighed, and basically responded that he was sick of this inane shit. "Lets go."

"What? We still haven't fully investigated—Fran heard crashing, remember? And I thought you wanted to burn this." He put emphasis on the last word as he nudged the old record player with his foot.

However, Dean was beyond exhausted. Hell, it would take a twelve-foot ladder for him just to reach the exhausted line. The headache that had formed wasn't helping either. Now that the music was gone, he could feel, never mind hear, Sam's curious mind that mentally prodded him, that nitpicked and argued through the thick bushes of confusion.

He's not making any sense. Sam's thoughts attacked. Dean swallowed, curling his lip to keep him from flinching. Something isn't right with him. Sam blinked, clearing his throat uncomfortably when Dean had locked eye contact with him, and made him feel like he could see right through him. I'm transparent; he can open me up and read me like a book, he… Stop.

"Stop what?" The words left his mouth before he could stop them. His headache worsened, but something felt almost off about the pain. Yeah, sure, it still hurt like holy fucking hell, but there was something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. One thing he noticed was that this… ability… that ailed him had advanced.

Dean had noticed the progress of the situation earlier, when he could sort through memories in his brother's head. It wasn't like a catalogue—he couldn't just flip through any random moment—it had to be something Sam recently brought back to the surface of his subconscious, whether it was intentional or not; it didn't take much to made old memories rise.

It was all still an invasion of privacy, and it all made Sam feel very, very vulnerable. He fought to push the vulnerability back, and replaced it with a touch of anger; enough to let Dean know he was serious, that he should back down, try to control it. "Stay," the younger brother warned, jabbing his index finger into Dean's shoulder, "out of my mind, okay?" The word 'okay' echoed, the one getting drawn out, the last syllable lacing repeatedly with the first. Dean had to shake his head to get it to stop, and rapidly blinked.

The older Winchester would not let this break him. He brushed it off, forcing a smirk so harshly he felt like his cheeks cracked open against the strain. "What, first you offer it, and now you're taking it back? You're such a girl, Sammy. Make up your," He paused for a beat, wetting his lips, "ah, mind." He made a mental note to make up as many puns as he could once his goddamned headache let up… and after sleep—a lot of sleep.

Sam wanted to relax a little, but he had to make sure Dean knew he meant business. "I'm serious, man." And he meant it—totally serious, like serious underlined twice serious, folks. Dean nodded, wondering when Sam wasn't serious, but played along, struggling to just lighten the mood.

"I can tell, dude—you poked me." He spoke a seriously serious tone! And to verify, "in the shoulder." In an over dramatizing act, he wiped the back of his hand off his forehead, and puffed up his cheeks; letting out a sharp breath. "I'll stay out, sir, I promise. No trespassing." To end off his act, which had drained all the energy he had left, he saluted Sam, who snorted.

"Dork." He smiled, as if grateful, but Dean heard the whisper of, I'll take what I can get.

Dean nodded again, his brows arched in consideration. "Yeah, you are." He looked down pointedly, waiting for Sam to follow, and then gestured the broken record player. "Now, why don't we find this baby a home in a burning trashcan and then shag some ass?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Damn straight."

∞∞∞

It was very likely that hell has frozen over; sprawled out on his stomach, asleep on his bed, was Dean, drooling on the pillow. One arm dangled off the edge, the other under his pillow, with the palm rested against, and his fingers barely curled around, the cool metal handle of a knife. There was crinkling around his eyes, showing his discomfort, whether it was from the headache that, while it had let up some, was still very much there, or the cuts, whose condition showed no improvement, on his chest—or, as it was more probable; from both. Light bruises still stuck out from around his hairline, and his cheeks were feverishly flushed.

On the other side of the room, Sam sat in a chair, more so or less (thanks to caffeine pills) wide-awake, one knee brought up to his chest, his other leg stretched out. He was clad in sweatpants and, his favorite article of clothing, a purple t-shirt with a greyhound on it. With his head rested back, he stared up at the ceiling, unfocused. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the tan chair, not only out of impatience, but also anxiety. His mind was wired, but physically, it felt more like he was enveloped in the fatigue of drunkenness—sluggish, with that buzz… Sam's eyelids closed.

The cracked clock on the wall stopped ticking as the fluorescent light above the mirror in the bathroom flickered, off and on, off and on, off and—still. Even in the parking lot, the headlights of cars flashed uncontrollably for several seconds before settling into the darkness. A breeze picked up, noisily scattering litter and leaves across the wide, paved lot. Sam's eyes fluttered open, but ultimately stayed closed. Stirring slightly in his dreamless sleep, Dean rolled onto his back, one arm still folded back behind his head, his other arm now lying across his abdomen.

"Urghh." Dean moaned, his hand rising up to swat at something before he turned onto his side. Sam's head rolled to the side, and he cringed, scratching his nose. A dark chill wrapped around both of them, holding them tight. Dean's headache grew stronger, throbbing harder with each passing second. His eyelids squeezed down tighter, but he hadn't fully woken up. A noise erupted from the back of Sam's throat as a headache of his own began to form in sync with his brother's.

I told you to put down the gun.

Dean's grasp on the knife stiffened. Every muscle in his body tensed up. Darkness swirled in his mind, fading into an off-white color, where two beady, pensive red eyes formed, floating there, in his vacant world. For a few seconds, that horrid headache lessened, and it felt less like a wrench was squeezing at his brain.

You should've listened. The soft voice spoke flatly, as if it had just lost a bet, a gamble, or a game. His chest began to burn, the pain surpassing the pain created by the headache. Even in his state, he recognized the voice; the flashback greeted him like a slap to the face. He was back in the basement, back when the first had first spoken to him, forcefully entering his mind, using his name like they were old buddies. Put down the gun, Dean. I've--- It had said, stopping abruptly. The eyes went from red to black, and… and the rest was history. You should still listen.

Back in his seat, Sam groaned, his own pretty little face scrunching up in inexplicable pain that came from nowhere, everywhere, and just plain hurt. His own chest hurt for a second, and he struggled to speak, and to move. His body convulsed once, and then twice, and he slid off the chair, moaning a word that sounded a lot like Dean's name.

This was your warning. You must— The voice, the demon, stuttered. The coldness began to fade, although its presence lingered. The painting on the wall that had earlier irked Sam began to vibrate, the dark wavy color disappearing. Watch the shadows. Beware of the shad—

And then, just like that, the voice was gone, the brothers released from its painful clutches. Sam groaned, rubbing at his uninjured chest, and called out his brother's name again. Dean moaned back in response, rubbing both his head and his chest. Dean always could pat his head and rub his belly at the same time. He cursed, and then cursed again, confused, and rather pissed off. Sam pushed himself up, waddling over to Dean's bed, where he put a hand on the older male's shoulder.

"Are you—?" But Dean shrugged off his hand.

"'This warning'? Sucked." He said, "sucked" like he'd say the words, "fuckin' hurt."

∞∞∞

Okay, much shorter than I wanted it to be—and this was supposed to be the closing scene for the last chapter. I'm a bit behind. I was also feeling a bit depressed while writing the majority of this, so, yeah, it's been pointed out that there's a lack of humor. I hope it's not too boring! Anyway, big thanks to reviewers, you beautiful people you.