♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

There's an irritating itch at the back of his throat, and a lump forming below that. He swallows hard, his long fingers toying at the bottom hem of his shirt. A thread comes loose, and he winds it tightly around his index finger, cutting off the circulation. He parts his lips like he's about to say something, but wets them instead. Finally, the string snaps off, and does his mouth.

"Look, man, I'm sorry." He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. The old, springy chair is uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the silence had been. "I thought it would help, I honestly did." His voice cracks with such utmost sincerity it's almost heartwarming—almost.

Being verbally challenged, Dean can't say anything, but he also chooses not to physically respond. He's sitting halfway across the room on his unmade bed. He's vaguely reminded of when they were in Missouri, and how he had a killer truck tailgating him. His brother told him what to do, and he did, only to find out that Sam was never even sure if the plan would work.

"I don't even know what I was thinking." Sam admits guiltily, his head hanging low. His growing bands create a dark veil over his eyes. "I just thought that doing it might, you know, bring back your voice." And relieve you of the pain, he inwardly adds, quickly glancing up at Dean, who's rubbing inattentively at his neck like it's a good luck charm.

Dean's somber gaze flickers over to the nightstand between the beds where his cell phone is charging, and he wonders if their father would respond to a voice mail message consisting of choking and wheezing noises. The thought is enough to bring a small, musing smirk to his lips. This action just about bewilders Sam, until he notices his brother's familiar, distant stare, and allows a small, knowing smile.

"It's unbelievable, huh?" He asks softly, thinking about the last spoken conversation he had with Dean. Dean had been teasing him about chucking that flashlight at the demon, and he had told him to shut up. I didn't mean it literally. The latent guilt starts to swell up. Well, so much for that memory.

Staring blankly at the cell phone, Dean nods his head in agreement. Freakin' ridiculous. He didn't know where or what John was up to, but would it hurt to make a 'oh hey boys, I'm just checking to see if you're both still breathing' phone call, or send out a post card signed 'love, Dad' once in a while? He looks down at his calloused hands. Maybe it would.

"On the bright side…" The chair's springs groan as Sam pushes himself up, and pulls the EMF out of his pocket. He then tosses it carelessly on the bed. "I stopped at Walgreen's on the way and got…" He reaches back into his magical pocket and out comes a plastic bag. He throws it to Dean, who arches a questioning brow. "Toothpaste." He finishes with an uneasy grin.

Dean squeezes the tube of toothpaste through the plastic bag and forces a smile. Toothpaste wasn't going to make everything better.

"Oh, and these." There's the sound of rustling, and then a bag of peanut M&M's lands on his lap. His forced smile spreads back into an easy grin.

Okay, these spectacular candies weren't going to make everything better either, but… baby steps. Yeah, that's it, baby steps; one step at a time they were going to handle this… and figure it the hell out.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The next two days fly by without warning. By now, Sam is even more determined to figure everything out, and Dean is starting to get bored, and not to mention fidgety. Being Dean, if he had something to say, he'd let Sam know one way or another. By the third day, they resort back to checking, and in some cases rechecking, over resources.

For dinner, they order Chinese food, neither of them in the mood to go out. Dean spends a while going through the same books yet again, so he soon retires from that and turns on the television, defeated. Buffy The Vampire Slayer is on, and the episode airing is the one where strange creatures steal everyone's voice. Dude, I'm in a ripped off Buffy episode. He flips to the next station. Oh, it's one of those law shows, and it's about a mute girl who gets her throat slit. Perturbed, he warily goes to the next station…

At the other side of the room, Sam calls up a few of their father's acquaintances from over the years. When that starts to prove useless, he goes back to the laptop. Alas, he doesn't know what to look for anymore. Pretty soon he expects a pop-up box that mockingly announces 'you've reached the end of the Internet; you've seen all there is to see… freak.'

When the food gets there, Sam pays for it, and by the time he turns around Foreigner is starting to blast from the speakers of a junk stereo that had been left in the room. "Jesus, Dean! You can't do that in here. Remember last time? If we ever get kicked out ever again, you're sleeping in the trunk of the car." Right as the last sentence slips out, he remembers Dean won't snap out one of his infamous, sarcastic retorts that he's still oh so used to, and his voice falters. His brain is still having trouble comprehending that Dean can't talk back. Not seeming too bothered, Dean just waves a 'whatever, man' hand in his direction as he takes the greasy brown bag from him.

Dean sets the bag on the table, and since it's stapled shut on the top, he just tears it open like a child opening a wrapped present. He peers inside, and then his gaze lifts up, meeting Sam's. Recognizing that look, Sam curses.

"I forgot to ask for extra soy sauce." He realizes with a grimace. Dean nods, taking out and putting aside two containers. He then scoops out the four packets of soy sauce. He takes three for himself, leaving Sam the remaining one… that's leaking. "Thanks, Ebenezer." Dean heartily salutes him… using his middle finger.

The sound of chewing and Foreigner's greatest hits, which had been turned down, is the only thing that can be heard for the next half hour in the small room. Seinfeld is playing on television, and Dean, while tapping his fork in tune to Hot Blooded, laughs at something. His laugh is weird—soundless, and mimics wheezing. Sam swallows a mouthful of broccoli and chicken, watching Dean intently. How does he manage to look so comfortable, laidback, and careless? Is it, Sam wonders, a front?

After dinner, Sam throws out their garbage, and then decides to take a shower. Dean lies stretched out on his back on his bed, and doesn't move until he hears the water running. Something catches his eye so he rolls onto his side, noticing his EMF is now besides his cell phone on the table, and it's turned on. He doesn't remember putting it there or turning it on. There are other reasons for how it got there, like maybe that bizarre creature, or perhaps he's getting amnesia, but he instantly mouths "Sam" and sighs.

Oh why, oh why did Sam have to go and burn down the house? That should've only been their last resort. When thinking about it, Dean really doesn't want to spend the rest of his life with a, er, voiceless voice box and a throat that bleeds when he tries to talk, and he won't, if he has anything to say about it… which he doesn't because he can't. Damn those loopholes!

I'm going to have to go back there. See if there's anything left… anything that can help us… me. He decides to do it tomorrow, without Sam. A morbidly sardonic smirk appears on his lips. Now, I just hope I can leave Sam here without worrying about him burning down this here hotel. Ah, now, he mentally stories that, reminding himself to use that when he gets his voice back. Needless to say, his list of 'things to say to Sam the second my precious voice comes back home' was increasing rapidly.

A few minutes later, Sam wanders out of the bathroom, only wearing a lucky towel around his hips. What was it with Winchesters and getting changed outside of the bathroom? Dean makes sure to stare hard at the top of Sam's head. Sam, of course, notices as he slips on a black t-shirt, and turns away.

"Cut it out, that's creepy." Cut it out? Those words aren't in Dean's vocabulary. He continues staring. "Seriously, man, quit it." Although he tries to mask it, it's still a whine, and Dean's satisfied. He turns around onto his stomach, burying his face into the soft floral print pillow. His bedspread was pale yellow with small, red and pink roses. He lifts up his head, his top lip curling up in disgust and confusion. Why hadn't he noticed that before? A hand pats his shoulder. "Now get out of my bed."

Ah, so that's why. Sam's the one with the pretty bed… and by "pretty," Dean means, "pretty girly."

Dean effortlessly rolls off the bed and onto his feet. He heads to the bathroom, closing, but not locking, the door behind him. He slips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the steam off the mirror. He tosses it to the floor afterwards, since after he brushes his teeth he only plans on going to bed. He wets his toothbrush and then squeezes the mint paste onto it, but as he opens his mouth and brings up his hand, he stops, setting the toothbrush down gently on the ceramic sink.

He takes out a pocket flashlight from his pant's pockets, and leans forward, opening his mouth wide. With his eyes never leaving his pale reflection, he shines the light down his throat, examining it for anything, like he has been doing the last couple of nights. He doesn't know why he does it, but he keeps doing it anyway. He tries to make some noise, but the only sound that passes through his lips are noises his constricting throat makes. This angers him, and he throws the small flashlight, and knocks everything off the counter with one quick sweep of his arm.

In his head, he yells in frustration, annoyance, confusion, but his throat just starts to sting with pain. With his eyes shut tightly, he wrinkles up his face, pissed off, and hits the wall with a weak punch out of aggravation as he strains his throat, his neck, and every muscle of his body.

But in the end, he's left with a bloody mouth and an aching, tired body.

Outside of the room, Sam is leaning against the heavy door with all his weight. He's grasping the doorknob tightly, but doesn't move. He's biting down hard on his lower lip, trying not to cry for his brother. He doesn't have it in him to do this for another night. "I'll figure this out, Dean…" Sam whispers, unsure if he is making another broken promise.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam wakes up early the next morning, and is ready to leave in a few minutes. He kneels by the side of his brother's bed, gently shaking Dean's shoulder while softly saying his name. Dean jerks up, an empty, crumbled up yellow bag clutched tightly in his right hand. He then blinks at it, wondering why he's holding an M&M's bag, and not a knife. He smacks his dry lips together and tosses it behind his shoulder, where it lands on the other pillow.

"I'm heading out for a while, just to check up on something." Sam explains, a small, innocent smile toying at his lips. Dean doesn't miss the sad expression that's present in his brother's eyes. The brunette swallows hard; now came the hard part. "Can I, um, borrow your car? I'll be back shortly, I promise, and I won't take sharp corners, or abuse the stereo system by playing good music or anything." The last sentence comes out quickly, on one breath. Dean obviously doesn't catch the last part because he just nods, and falls back under the covers.

Sam grabs the car keys, and glances at Dean's still form before leaving.

And as soon as he hears the roar of his baby's engine, Dean sits up. In his mind, there's a flash of sad, lonely eyes calling out to him, and he throws back the covers, knowing he has to go see what was left of the house.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Hey, I remember you." A pair of smiling eyes meet Sam's the second he walks into the empty library. A chill runs down his spine. "Ever find what you were looking for?" The librarian is standing behind the check out counter, sorting through returned books. A gold necklace hangs from her skinny, freckled neck, and the thin charms on it spell out the name 'Corinne.'

"I think I might have." He simply states with an unsure shrug, and walks forward, his hands in his pockets. "My name's Sam. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind answering a few of my questions."

"Pertaining to?" Corrine asks, causally picking up a book.

"Haunted houses, remember?" She sets the book down. "I know you were there weren't any around here, but experience tells me otherwise." Why was his heart beating so fast? Am I really looking too far into this? He wants to know, but when her friendly gaze turns icy, he knows otherwise.

"Experience?" She questions incredulously. "Just who do you think you are?" Sam can hear the sadness behind her words, and he wishes Dean was here with him. They played well off each other. When situations got awkward, Dean would say something stupid, and Sam would work off that to start a new conversation in a different direction. Luckily, Corinne continued, not waiting for his reply. "We don't appreciate this, you know. Some tourist coming here, trying to stir up old business."

"Old business?" Sam repeats, confused. "What old—"

"Just leave."

He couldn't. Sam knew he was getting somewhere now, and he wouldn't let this go, not for anything. "I just want answers."

"We just want peace." Corinne's icy glare melts, but she still looks tense, uncomfortable. Sam takes a small step forward, his eyes pleading. "Please," he begs, hoping his puppy dog look works as well as Dean complains it does. The librarian sighs, looking down. "Make it quick. What do you want to know?"

"I need to know about the house. The story, what happened—?"

Corinne visibly flinches, and sighs again, only more sharply this time. "A boy was attacked there, okay? Like you already didn't know. No, no one knows who did it, and yes, that's all there is to it."

What the hell? "Attacked? How long ago? Can I talk to him?"

"He's dead." Her voice echoes, and cracks with emotion. Two students walk into the building, talking to each other. One girl smiles at Sam, while talking to her friend, but other than that they ignore the two as they went off in the direction of the computer room. "Sam, was it?" Corinne asks in a small, calm voice. He looks over at her, but she averts his gaze.

"Yes?"

"You should leave." It's a warning, but not a threat, or at least that's how Sam hears it, but he's not ready to leave yet. He tells her that he doesn't mean to start anything, because it's true. He just wants to be able to hear his brother be that adoring obnoxious-at-times, cynical smart-ass again. "I know." She tucks back lose strands of brown hair behind her ears. "I know," she repeats, almost inaudibly.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Why the hell did I let him take the car? Deans asks, walking down a strange street. His strides are long but slow, almost hesitant. He knows the way to the house, but only by car, as weird as that sounds. Thus, he pretends he's driving the Impala, which makes him feel foolish, but hey, it works. When he reaches the end of the street, he glances at a stop sign, and remembers turning right at it, so he does.

The closer he gets to the house, the more he starts thinking about it. He wonders if the fire destroyed the whole house, or if there's yellow caution tape around any remains. He inhales deeply, waiting for that familiar smell, but it never comes. He finally reaches the house, and his heart skips a beat.

It's in perfect condition.

Okay, well, that's a lie since it is an abandoned house that should be torn down. But in fire condition-wise, it was fine. There wasn't any police tape, and the smell of burnt wood was nonexistent. What the hell? Sam did say he set fire to it. Did he get the wrong house, or what?

Dean quickly crosses the street, not bothering to look both ways since he didn't hear any cars. He jogs up to the porch, smelling gasoline. There's a river of it leading into the house. Right in front of the doorway, there's a burnt match, bathing in the gasoline. There are some scorch marks, he notices, but it looks like any fire that was created was put out quickly. It didn't make any sense.

The screen door, which is surprising still attached to the hinges, was left wide open, and it suddenly slams shut. Dean gets the message, and puts his arms up defensively because he doesn't feel like getting whacked with that screen door today. As he walks away, he hears a scratching noise behind him, and picks up his pace.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪