♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam was going to die a long, painful death. Whether or not if it were going to be a messy death would depend on whatever object is closest when Dean sees the noticeable scratch on his adored car's passenger side door.

He had hurried out of the library, fully intending to jump into the Impala, and speed off to the hotel to share the news with Dean. It wasn't exactly a lead or anything, but it was something, and he'd take anything he can get and like it.

But then he had spotted it. The scratch. Jaws themed music played in his head, followed by an echoed, "dun, dun, dun!" What were the chances he could blame this on the demon they were hunting?

Hey, maybe it had been the demon. Maybe it was all, "oh, you burned down my house, you little shit, so I'm going to scratch up your brother's car, yarr." In spite of himself, Sam chuckled as he slid into the driver's seat, and started the automobile.

"What the hell?" He turned into the hotel's parking lot as he spotted Dean crossing the street. He made sure to park the car between two other cars, hoping his brother wouldn't notice the Impala's injury. In fact, he hoped to be far, far away when Dean noticed. Like on a different continent far away. He jogged over to Dean. Don't go near the car. Please, don't go near the car… He prayed that Dean's car senses weren't tingling.

"Where the hell were you?" Both Winchester's asked in unison, but only Sam's voice was heard. "You're not going to believe this." The two said together again, and Dean snarled; he wasn't about to let Sam dominate the conversation because he hadn't been the one to get voice-mugged. But when Sam continued talking, he decided to let it pass because… well, he hadn't been the one to get voice-mugged.

"Listen man, I was at the library, and I talked to that woman, and you're not going to believe this." There wasn't much his brother didn't believe in, so whatever it was, it probably wasn't going to be much of a shocker. Dean made a 'hurry the fuck up' motion with his hands when Sam paused for a suspenseful, dramatic effect. "Apparently, someone was attacked by something in the house." There had been just way too enthusiasm in his voice.

"And…?" The older brother mouthed after he waved his right hand impatiently, waiting for the rest of the "ohmigosh, you won't, like, totally believe this!" news.

The enthusiasm was suddenly long gone. "That someone is dead." He sniffled, and looked down at the pavement. "She, uh, said it was a boy, and that was all I was going to get from her." He let out a breath of air and scratched the back of his head. "But, at least, we're getting somewhere, right?" With that, he looked up, his dark eyes shined with that recognizable hopeful gleam.

Dean opened his mouth, but the sound of an ocean in Pennsylvania could be heard louder than his voice. "The house--" He suddenly remembered. "—Is apparently fire proof." His lips barely moved with the words. He took out his cell phone, and handed it to Sam after pressing the camera key, and then the 'ok' button for the gallery shots.

"It's the house." Captain Obvious pointed out as he went through the pictures Dean decided to take at the last minute. "You—you went back there? When, last night?" Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes and shook his head. God, he loved Sam, but sometimes it seemed the boy was slower than molasses going uphill during a rainstorm. "Wait… you just took these? That—" He laughed skeptically, like whatever. "—Can't be, Dean. 'Cause I was there, okay, I used enough gas to… and I light the match and threw… oh, shit." He harshly snapped the phone shut, which had earned an eyebrow rising 'oh, no you didn't,' glare from Dean.

Sam wanted desperately to wake up. What was going on? The youngest Winchester felt like he was lost in a nightmare—a very, very real nightmare. Wes Craven didn't have anything on this shit. He had a possessed house and a demonic ghost that bounced up and down on one shoulder, and a mute brother who gnawed feverishly on the other. He was truly in need of a cold beer and a shotgun, not a five thousand-piece puzzle of mysteries that he was unable to put together. He had always been more of a crossword puzzle and word search kind of guy anyway.

"We… we can try again." Sam's vision blurred after he let out a humorless laugh. The frustrating begun to sink in, taking its toll. "This time we'll watch the house burn down, maybe that's why your voice—" A warm hand clapped over his mouth. He rolled his head back, and stared up at the cloudless, bright azure sky. Somewhere in the background, he had heard a bird chirp, a car screech on its brakes, a plastic bag caught noisily in the wind, and his brother's loud silence. "Okay." He whispered against Dean's palm. "I get it."

Dean gave a curt bob of the head, his gaze shifting side to side. He huffed. But you don't.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

When in doubt, drink your conscious state away.

"I can't believe I let you—" Talk. "—drag me into this place." The bar was crowded, and it reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. The smell made Sam queasy, but Dean merely inhaled deeply, and then nudged Sam, turning his head enough for the brunette to notice his wry smirk. "Ass. We shouldn't be here, we should…" With a wrinkled nose, Dean waved his hand around like he was swatting at an annoying fly, and pushed past people to get to the bar. "… should follow you," came his irritated mumble as he did just that.

Since the bartender wouldn't really understand Dean's barbaric pointing-down-throat command of 'give me beer,' Sam ordered a pitcher, and sat at a small, round isolated table near the back. The place, he later learned, was so crowded because local bands were supposed to be playing soon.

"This is ridiculous; we…" He trailed off, knowing that right now he was only talking to himself. Sam could argue the fuzz off a peach, but when it came to Dean, he was lucky to even get a stubbornly cocked brow. Thus, instead, he poured a glass of that frosty alcoholic beverage… to the rim. He took a long, slow swig, and then cringed at the bitter aftertaste.

Dean disappeared momentarily, and wandered back with a fistful of darts. He wore a smug smirk and set them down on the sticky, circular table. Sam picked one up and pressed the top of his index finger against the dull tip. "We came a long way for a game of darts." There was that disapproving tone in his voice that made Dean want to shove the dart up Sam's nostril. In one quick movement, he picked up a dart, and flung it at the dartboard that was located just a few feet behind him. It didn't hit dead center, but it was close enough to make Sam shut up and take another swallow of beer.

About a half hour later, the bands started playing, and the second his ears were harassed by the screaming, emo-styled music he was out of there. "They call that music?" He mouthed distastefully, and zipped up his jacket when the cool night air hit him. Sam was a few feet behind him, and had to sprint to catch up. "This place officially sucks." He was also pissed off at the fact that Sam couldn't hear him complain. This begged the question: if a mute Dean talked and no one was around to hear him, did he really talk? Wait, that didn't make any sense…

Sam caught up quickly, but to remain walking side-by-side, he had to walk quickly, practically jogging, in wide strides. He glanced sideways at Dean, unable to stop the feeling of guilt bubble up in his stomach when he notices his brother's clenched jaw, the angry way he furrowed his brow, and the miserable look in his narrowed eyes. He suddenly stopped, and grabbed Dean's elbow, his grasp loose, yet unyielding.

"We can go somewhere else?" He offered, biting down on his lower lip. Dean remained motionless; he didn't even look at him. "Are you hungry?" Still nothing. "We can go buy a six pack and head back to the hotel?" The shorter Winchester let out a sharp exhale of air, but still didn't respond. "Or we can—" We, we, we.

Enough! Dean wanted to yell. His blood boiled, and his pulse raced. He strained his throat as he thrashed out of Sam's grip. He wanted to scream, yell, talk… and even cry in the manliest, least chick flick way possible. Dean was grateful that Sam had his back, and wanted to help, but enough was enough. He didn't need to be smothered, or be talked down to like he was a child. He was still Dean! He was just a less vocal Dean with more spiffier hand gestures.

"What the hell is your problem, Dean? You're being an unappreciative jerk." He slurred slightly on the second to last word, and Dean's anger started to fade away when he realized his little brother managed to get a bit smashed on two glasses of beer. If he had a camcorder and a local karaoke bar, he'd have a field day. Unexpectedly, Dean laughed, and it wasn't a humorless laugh, but an honest one. His laugh was practically soundless, but it was there, and it was noticed. "Are you laughing?" Sam asked incredulously and crossed his arms over his chest.

Dean nodded, unable to keep a small smile off his face. Right, like the image of Sammy slobbering into a microphone, singing 'I Will Survive' wouldn't make you do the same. He wetted his lips and tried to regain composure as Sam raised a brow at him appraising. When he finally managed to keep a straight face, it only took a mere glance up at his brother to make his lips tug back into that smile.

"What?" Sam finally asked, now more puzzled than upset. Weird how he felt like he was ready to blow, but then Dean had to go and be distractive by smiling. "Wha' is it?" He blinked, dumbfounded, especially when Dean laughed again, and patted Sammy on the shoulder. He shook his head, his hand still on Sam's shoulder when he urged him to start walking. He must be drunk, Sam thought, ignoring the fact that Dean had only taken one small sip from his own glass; he judged by Dean's wince that the alcohol had burned his raw throat.

By the time they reached the hotel, Dean's smile had vanished, but his hand still hadn't left Sam's shoulder. The tension between the brothers was once again latent. However, it could only stay that way for so long.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The next morning, Dean played Pinball on the laptop while his brother was in the bathroom. He lay stretched out on his stomach on the bed, his chin rested against the palm of his left hand. High score! The screen flashed, and he knew he impressed every object in the room with his awesome hand and eye coordination skills. The high scores chart popped up after he diligently typed in his name. It showed that he just beat his last high score, just like last time, and the time before that, and that other time before the other time where he did precisely just that… Dean let out a bored sigh and closed the computer shut.

After he hears the faucet turn on in the bathroom, he sat up, impatiently waiting for his brother to get out so they could go get something to eat. To save time, he decided to put on his boots. It was while he laced up the laces when his cell phone let out a shrilling ring. He reached over across the bed and grabbed it. 'No name,' it read, which told him it wasn't anyone on his contacts list. He was about to decline the call, when it occurred to him that it could be his father, and he just couldn't take that chance, therefore, after glancing quickly at the closed bathroom door, he answered.

Of course, there was still that little problem; Dean was voiceless. So, he pressed a key to let the person know that someone had answered, but all he heard from the other line was dead silence. He pressed a key again—still silence. He shrugged, about to disconnect, when static screamed out to him. Jesus Christ, what the hell! Dean jumped to his feet, and rubbed his right ear with his free hand. Great, now I can be deaf too. He sullenly thought with a dismal snort.

"Dean." His voice then called out to him through the static and the earpiece. His heart skipped a beat, and he nearly dropped the small phone. "Help me, Dean." It pleaded before the static got louder and overcame the voice, and then… everything was silent again. Pale faced, Dean closed the phone, and dropped it hastily on the bed, like it had burned his hand.

As if on cue, the bathroom door swung open, and Sam stepped out, a smile present on his face until he saw Dean. "What is it?" He asked. He took a deep breath after his stomach flip-flopped. "Dean?"

The demon had called out to him, not Sam. It didn't just plead, 'help me,'; it asked for his help directly. Besides, how was he going to tell his brother that he just got a phone call from that thing? Jesus, was it going to e-mail him next? Send him those annoying 'send this to 827,000 people in seven minutes or you will rot in hell, bwahaha' chain e-mails? Good thing they didn't have a fax machine, or else it would probably fax him one threatening letter at a time.

Why did life have to be so ridiculous? Why couldn't they go after more ghosts who would throw Dean into walls and strangle Sam? After a quick game of 'how to beat the monster of the week' they were supposed to move onto the next one. This wasn't how the game was supposed to be played!

Dean looked past his brother's innocuous, worried stare, and shook his head. He kicked off his unlaced shoes, and picked up the laptop. He opened it, and then went to notepad, which was left opened, and slowly typed out that he wasn't feeling well with one finger pecking away at the keys. When Sam read it, he cursed, shifting forward to feel Dean's forehead, but the older Winchester scowled after he backed away.

"All right, sorry. Geesh, Dean." He asked him if his sudden illness had to do with the creature they were hunting. His voice of words made Dean feel slightly ill. The creature they were hunting needed their help. There wasn't any way he could convince Sam of that. 'It attacked you,' Sam would most likely argue back, more stubborn than ever. 'How would it need our help? Maybe next it wants your body.' And then, if Dean could talk, he'd snap back with, 'who doesn't want my body?'

"I'm fine." Dean mouthed to Sam. It was the truth, although the stress of their situation wasn't exactly helping him. He shoos off his brother, telling, or rather typing, that he was hungry, and Sam was his bitch; his noble stead that brought him food. Sam shot him a dirty look… and then told him he'd be back soon before asking what he wanted.

On his way out, Sam prepared for revenge once everything was right again in their screwed up world.

On Sam's way out, Dean brainstormed, his eyes glued on the silent cell phone.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Today, Sam decided not to use Dean's car. He didn't want to risk another scratch, and with the way his luck went, he'd end up with a dent. He shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket, ready for the walk, when something poked into the flesh between his thumb and index finger. He stopped momentarily to take it out. "A dart?" He questioned, more than positive that he hadn't put it in there. Wait, or did he? The brunette squinted at it; last night was nothing more than a blur, so the memory of him putting it in his pocket was practically nonexistent.

Since he would pass the bar, which functioned as a diner during the day, on his way to where he figured he'd order their food, he decided to stop in to drop it off. Sure, it was only a dart, but it was the right thing to do, and the last thing Sam needed was more bad karma to kick his ass.

He planned to just place it on the counter and leave, but when he was about to do that, a waitress whipped past him, telling him that she'd take his order "in just a second." He immediately recognized her as the blonde woman who had given him directions to the library a few days ago. For the hell of it, he sat down at a table, and on his way there, he scooped the said dart out of his pocket.

"Would you like to order a drink before you… hey, I remember you!" Her gray nametag read 'Christine.' "Get to the library okay?" She teased with a smile as she took out a pad of paper and pen from her back pocket.

"Yeah, thanks." He leaned forward on his elbows. Time to work that charm. And time to work those lies. "I'm working on a paper for class, and I was wondering if maybe you could answer a few questions for me?"

"I'm working." Christine pointed out, a wary gleam in her eye. "And my break isn't for another hour."

"Well, that's fine." Sam grinned. "I hate interviewing on an empty stomach."

He ordered for himself, and made sure to tell her he'd like a cheeseburger and fries to go before he left. By the time he got his food, and finished eating, she was ready for whatever he had to ask. A fellow waitress cleared the table before she sat down across from him.

"So, what's the paper about? Pennsylvania's glamorous and bountiful potholes?" Sam shook his head. He did remember Dean how Dean bitched about them before though.

"It's about what happened in that house on Sherman St."

"Wait, you're writing a paper for a class on a house around here? What kind of class is it?" She asked skeptically, and Sam made a mental note to think of better cover stories.

"All right, you caught me. I write for my school's paper."

Christine still looked cynical. "Why does your school's paper care about what went on there? Are you even from around here?"

Okay, Sam now started to get pissed off. "Because we have a inquisitive student body." He answered tersely, his jaw tightly clenched.

The blonde rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever. What do you want to know?" Sam liked her better when she had been jogging with the mutt.

"I need to know more about the boy."

"What about him?"

What ever happened to not answering a question with a fucking question? "What happened to him would be a start. Did they ever find out what—who killed him?"

Christine stared hard at him, confusion read on her face. "Killed him? He's still alive."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sorry this took longer to get out. Apparently it was 'call in sick so Alex has to cover your shift' week at work. Sigh.

Also, I am trying on keeping the tenses straight. Let me know how I'm doing, please. Thanks to those who have reviewed, and I apologize for my awful use of tenses.