Sam glanced up from his laptop. Dean was flirting with a tall, dark-haired waitress with a short shirt and skirt. Her skin was dark bronze and her eyes were brown. The younger hunter's hazel eyes flickered back to the screen. Dean finally pulled himself away from the counter carrying a platter full of fast food, drinks, and a salad.

"Your rabbit food," Dean joked. He passed him a Coke.

"Thanks," Sam replied, shooting him a face. "So this isn't a werewolf because the moon cycle is wrong."

"I don't know what else it could be," Dean said around a mouthful of fries. Sam shot him another face, this one just disgusted, as he skewered a piece of lettuce on his fork.

"Wipe your face," he muttered, passing him the basket of napkins. The older brother wiped his mouth briefly, earning the shaking of a head from his brother. "Maybe a witch?" Sam guessed finally.

"Call Bobby," Dean ordered. "Maybe he'll know something." He took a bite out of his burger.

"I already did. He's looking." Sam looked up from the laptop screen with a little confused snarl. "Why do I have the feeling we're forgetting a contact? I mean, I feel like we know someone else, but who?"

Dean fixed him in a frozen stare. The shaggy haired hunter waved him off and looked back down at the laptop screen. The older of the two finally set his burger down and wiped his hands together over the tray. "Okay, what is wrong with you?" he asked. Sam looked up. "You wake up a month or so ago looking like someone kept you up all night, you mope around for days not talking, and now you're forgetting things that don't exist. Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"No."

"Sam-"

"Dean, no, there isn't!" Sam snapped. "I just feel like we're forgetting something!"

Dean shook his head and picked through his fries. "You need to relax, brother," he sighed. He nodded his head over to the counter. "That girl over there was asking about us."

Sam looked at the dark haired waitress. "So?" he said. "She's not my type."

Dean stared at his brother. His mouth opened to speak, he paused, and it closed again around a fry. "What the hell ever," he muttered gruffly. He leaned forward across the table to hiss a hardly dignified rebuke. "You know what, you don't want to get laid, that's fine, but don't sass at me and act crazy." When Sam stared deliberately down at the laptop screen chewing his salad, Dean continued. "You didn't forget anyone. Chill out." Sam shook his head again. "And since when is she not your type? Tall, dark, hot, what isn't 'your type' about her?"

Sam looked at the waitress again. "All of it," he murmured.

Dean snorted and started to finish off his burger. "So what's your type now?" he asked. "Ginger? Dyed? Dudes in leather thongs?" He laughed at his own joke, but Sam was still staring off where the waitress had been a few moments before.

"Blonde hair, blue eyes," he murmured. Dean looked up from the crumbs of his burger and fries.

"So Aryan? Like, perfect?"

Sam looked over at him. "No. Not perfect. Like…" He trailed off. "Nevermind."

"Come on, let's go get to the library," Dean said, standing up. Sam stared up at him with disbelief.

"You want to go to the library?" he asked, astonished.

"You act better when you're around anything paper with binding," Dean half-joked. "Besides, people are dying. We need to find out what this son of a bitch is."

"I'm not finished with my food," Sam argued.

"Eat in the car. Come on." They left a twenty on the table and left, getting into the Impala. Dean started the car. The radio came on. Sam grabbed Dean's arm, snagged by the slow, quiet strums of an acoustic guitar. "You know this song?" Dean asked.

Sam listened for a moment, then shook his head. "No," he said. Dean glanced between the radio and his brother for a moment before shrugging and pulling out onto the road. The white line on the side of the road wavered beneath Sam's window as the singer let his voice be heard.

"Poison oak, some boyhood bravery

When a telephone was a tin can on a string

And I fell asleep with you still talking to me

You said you weren't afraid to die

In polaroids you were dressed in women's clothes

Were you made ashamed, why'd you lock them in a drawer?

I don't think that I ever loved you more."