Douglas Whitman heard the front door open but he didn't turn from the sink. He scrubbed at the already clean plate in a daze.

"Honey? There are some people here who want to talk to you..." The woman's voice started off strong before it grew weaker, eventually trailing off to a stuttering stop. She shuffled awkwardly out of the way.

Without turning, eyes fixed on the running water, he muttered, unsure and uncaring if they even heard him, "Already talked to the police." Why were they even here? Hadn't they gotten what they wanted from him already? His chest tightened and he pushed the urge to scream far away.

"Yeah, well, you didn't talk to us." Douglas took in a deep, steadying, breath, and begrudgingly turned around. No sense in putting it off; he had a feeling they wouldn't leave him alone easily. The man who talked was shorter than the other, well built, and shared more than a passing resemblance with his partner. He grinned and held out a hand. "I'm Dean and this is my brother, Sam. We worked with your police chief a while back and he thought this was something we could help with."

Douglas crossed his arms. "Uh huh. Let's just get this over with, alright?" Dean's hand raised up to run through his hair, chuckling awkwardly.

His brother, Sam, moved forward. "We're so sorry for your loss. I understand if you're not feeling up to this, but we really do need to know what you saw." He sounded genuine, Douglas thought, but his body language was off. Almost twitchy.

"Am I keeping you from something?" Douglas couldn't stop himself from asking harshly.

Sam's eyes widened. "Uh—"

"Nope, we're good."

The brothers shared a look, Dean tilting his head. Douglas shrugged half-heartedly at the exchange.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, what happened?"

"It was in the paper."

"Tell us again."

Did he really have to do this again? He didn't want to talk. He was tired of talking...of reliving it. A sudden lump formed in his throat and he struggled to swallow it. "It was...It was a normal day. We were playing around after practice and Liberty started singing." He stopped, his shoulders drawing up as his hands tightened around his arms.

"What was she singing?" Sam asked.

Douglas laughed. "I don't know. It started spreading, you know, until all of us were doing it."

"What did it feel like? Was there a voice? A feeling?"

"It was like this pressure. Here." Gingerly, he pressed his fingers to the back of his head, right behind his ear.

Dean leaned against the doorway. "And this hasn't happened before? No other spontaneous musical numbers, no cha-cha lines down the hallway, nothing?"

"No." Douglas leaned closer into the kitchen counter, ignoring the dull bite of the linoleum edge. "Are we done?" His knees trembled.

Sam sighed. "Almost. I promise. What happened next?"

"Bleeding. Out of their ears, their mouth, eyes." Douglas picked at his sleeves and tried to ignore the phantom itch where his own blood had spilled out. The only one he couldn't ignore easily was his ear. Abruptly, he roughly swiped at it, an unconscious whimper escaping. It was burning. The pressure building once more.

A touch on his shoulder had him looking up with a twitch. He hadn't seen them moving. Sam gently pressed him towards a chair, while Dean picked up a drying glass and filled it with tap water. He sat uneasily at the table. The cup was placed in front of him.

"You alright?"

He wasn't sure which one asked that. All he knew was that he needed to get out, get away. But he couldn't, not with Dean back to hovering at the door and Sam buzzing around his head, so instead he swallowed again and settled for a wordless nod, not trusting his voice at the moment. He stared at the water.

Slowly, like someone else was there speaking for him, he spoke, his tone even and detached. "They picked up the equipment, the wires, someone even broke the leg off a chair, and then they were falling. The blood spread."

Sam's breath shuddered, and he glanced at the man briefly before letting his eyes return to the cup. "They," Sam began, sharing another look with his brother over Douglas' head, "They killed each other?"

Douglas shook his head. "No, they killed themselves." Finally his fingers wrapped around the glass, the water gently vibrating with the sudden movement. He wondered, numbly, what it would feel like to just break it and—

"I had a knife." A weight on his shoulders lifted with the near silent admission, a weight he hadn't even realized was there until it was gone.

The chair next to him was pulled out and Sam lowered himself into it. "Did you want to hurt yourself?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

Douglas paused, trying to think without really thinking. "No," he finally said, "I wanted to kill myself. I had to. Needed to." He blinked and shook his head. "Are we almost done? I need to finish the dishes."

"Almost, just one more question. Was there anything strange leading up to it? Anything you can remember?" Dean asked.

"Um, no. Not that I can remember."

Sam stood, visibly weighing something in his mind. "Listen, we're going to be in town for a while, and, if you need anything, we'll be at this motel." He placed a bent card on the table. Hesitantly, he patted Douglas' shoulder, searching the young boy's face as he added a quick, "Christo."

The teenager's brow furrowed, coming out of his daze just long enough to give Sam an incredulous expression, his mouth slightly opened. "What—"

"Thank you for talking to us," Dean interrupted, voice tense, his lips twitching. Before Douglas could say anything more, the brothers were out the door, heading towards an older black car parked on the side of the road.

He sat in silence for a bit more before standing and stumbling back to the sink. He gripped the scrubber in a white knuckled grip, and began distractedly humming.

"Something is definitely going on here, Sammy," Dean said as he drove away from the white picketed house. He hadn't been fully convinced this was their kind of job but talking to Douglas Whitman, one of the few surviving members of a youth theater group massacre, had changed his mind. Something about his demeanor and the way he zoned out during their questions raised a big, fat, ugly red flag.

His monster senses were tingling. And it was a bad son of a bitch.

"He's possessed," Sam remarked, voicing Dean's concerns.

"Yeah, but by what? Didn't look to be a demon or a spirit. Thing didn't react with God's name. I sure as hell don't know any that uses the power of music. Do you?" Dean glanced at his brother with a quirked brow. "Gotta admit that's a new one."

His little brother snorted, already shifting through their father's journal, his sharp eyes examining each page in quick succession. "We have to get this thing, Dean. We can't let it take any more lives."

"You're telling me."