♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam had almost broken his chair. "He's… alive?" He scrunched up his brow in utter bewilderment. What the hell? He couldn't stand to get jerked around anymore.

"Technically." Christine answered briefly with a curt nod. She folded her arms out in front of her, looking down at her watch quickly to check the time. Sam waited for her to elaborate because he was really freaking confused. However, she said nothing else.

"Technically?" He finally repeated ludicrously. Dean was technically dead too, since he was legally dead. (Thus… illegally alive?) Anyway, he had a feeling that wasn't the case here.

"Well, yeah, he has been unresponsive." Unresponsive. Sam's breath caught in his throat. "But he's still in there, you know?" She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, a sad smile pressed back on her glossed lips. "Drew's cousin told me that he hasn't even acknowledged his own parents."

"Unresponsive, like he hasn't said anything?" Sam urged. His heart pounded painfully against his ribcage. Dean was unresponsive… in the loosest terms available. Only his brother could have his voice stolen and still manage to be heard.

Christine shrugged hopelessly. "Unresponsive as in he's in his own state of mind, I guess. I'm no doctor, ah—um, what did you say your name was?" She pursed her lips together tightly, and Sam easily noticed the distrustful flicker in her light blue eyes.

"You know what, it's getting late—my brother's probably masticating on the furniture by now." He abruptly stood up, and grabbed the white Styrofoam container that held his brother's meal. A fellow waitress had set it down on the table earlier. "Thanks for, um—"

"I'll get your bill." She cut him off tersely before she stood up and wiped her palms against the bottom of her apron.

He forced a friendly grin. "Of course." If the situation were reversed, Dean would have been halfway back to the motel before the waitress noticed he hadn't paid. He almost laughed when he imagined Christine only finding a tip on the table.

If it were possible, his wallet felt even lighter. Can't afford this much longer, Sam noted as he slipped the faded leather wallet into the back pocket of his washed-out blue jeans. He stuffed two crumbled up dollar bills into the "tipping is not a city in China" cup before he left.

"Shit, maybe I should've called Dean." He had said he'd be back soon, and he passed soon about an hour ago. He took out his phone and text messaged Dean a message that read he'd be home "in a jiffy" and sent a picture of the food container as evidence he hadn't completely forgotten.

About a minute and a half later, he received a message back, and nearly dropped the phone. It was a picture of the scratched car door. No message other than the picture was included; no words needed to be said, or typed.

Hell hath no fury like Dean scorned… when someone has tampered with his baby. Yeah, so, Sam, who considered making an around-the-world detour, slowly made his way back to the motel.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Dean was rather conflicted at the moment; he wanted to go back to the house, but knew his brother would have an aneurysm if he did, and honestly, he didn't really need that now. He didn't just feel like he wanted to go back, he felt like he had to go back. Yeah, Sam would understand that… like he unarguably understood every other one of Dean's motives. Right.

What if he just went and took a peek at the house? Maybe if he casually drove down the street, and waved at it---ha! The remains of the screen door would probably slam shut tauntingly at him, totally just like, "oh, I know you want in, but the muffin shop is closed, baby."

Oh, yes. Dean certainly was conflicted at the moment; earlier he took pain relievers for his sore throat, but he had washed it down with warm leftover alcohol. He wasn't even sure how long the bottle had been sitting unopened on the cluttered bureau. His turning stomach told him a while. One hand rubbed at his neck, the other at his abdomen.

After a half hour of the dreadful waiting, the Winchester resorted to eating some of the junk food he hid in his baggage, under his boxers. Sam would never dare go near that perilous compartment… unless he was revengefully equipped with a bag of itching powder. He pulled out a half eaten bag of M&M's, and sniffed the yellow plastic bag before he shrugged and slid a hungry hand in.

Goddammit. Dean was definitely conflicted now; his half eaten bag of M&M's were more like his whole eaten bag of M&M's. God, he wished he could go back in time and bust a cap in his old self's ass for having eaten his future supply of food. Gosh, how could he do that to himself?

Okay, screw being conflicted—Dean was downright hungry. He distracted his growling stomach by cleaning his guns, but that only lasted for so long when he realized you could only clean your guns so many times in one freaking week. He really needed to find a new hobby. Then again, Dean wasn't the kind of guy who sat down to cross-stitch during those rare moments of peace when he hunted things that went bump in the night.

Okay, where the hell was Samuel? The motel door didn't even answer before it slammed shut behind an impatient, and famished Dean Winchester. He stalked down the stairs and to his '67 Chevy Impala, his eyes clutched tightly in his right hand. He spotted his car right away—the lot was near empty.

He also spotted the abrasion on the passenger side door right away. Now, now, Dean tried to reason; maybe someone did it moments earlier, hours earlier… days earlier. No, he would've noticed this. He crouched down beside the injured door and carefully examined the mark, his lips compressed into a very tight and straight line.

There were three long lines that had scratched ruthlessly through the holy paint. They were close together, and just too straight. Something (and an out of its damn mind something; hadn't it noticed the "touch my car and I swear to your god I will pummel your sorry ass repeatedly with rock salt, human or not" sign on Dean's back?) had dared to fuck with his car. Whatever was going on… it had suddenly gotten personal. You don't steal someone's voice and then go after his car… that was inhuman!

Oh, yeah. Right. He almost forgot what he was dealing with.

His cell phone suddenly beeped out to him from inside his pocket. It was a text message—from Sammy. Dean's left eye twitched. Did Sam know? His message read that he was close and he'll be back "in a jiffy" (that alone had made Dean's twitch even worse—jiffy?) and included a picture of a white container. His stomach grumbled with anticipation.

Dean took a picture of the claw marks on his car and sent them to Sam. He hadn't bothered with a message, because a picture was worth a thousand words… and there were simply no words to express the Impala's sorrow. When Sam hadn't sent a response, Dean guessed that the poor boy was too heartbroken to key back a message.

Unless Sam knew

But if he knew, he would've told him…

Right?

Ooh, that tall little bitch.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"We have to find this kid. There's no other way." Sam's voice was only background music to Dean as he bit into the cheeseburger. The meat was undercooked, the cheese wasn't even melted, and worst of all--the mayonnaise on it wasn't mayonnaise but an imposter--that Miracle Whip crap. Worst cheeseburger ever, Dean noted; he had to force his unwilling, aching throat to swallow the appalling food.

Sam sat halfway across the room—what a shocker—with the laptop. His brown eyes looked intently down at the screen, filled with more determination and confidence that Dean had seen in the past week. "All right, there are two hospitals in this area. One doesn't have a psych ward, but the other does." His fingertips smacked against a few keys, and he clicked something. "There's also a state psychiatric hospital right out of the area."

Dean gave a nod, chewing on a bite of the burger. There was a dab of Miracle Whip on the corner of his mouth.

"The thing is, I don't know if we'll be able to see him, you know? So, once again, we might have to improvise." Dean stopped chewing. A little leaf of lettuce peeked out from between his pursed lips. He lifted a questioning brow, and deadpanned when Sam flashed him that grin. It was the grin that he always gave Sam right before one of his brilliant ideas. Oh boy, that was never good, albeit humorous… to him.

But what the fuck ever. Dean was looking at Sam and for once seeing himself. That's my boy!

Then, Sam's facial expression softened, and he closed the laptop. "Hey, um, you checked out the newspapers, didn't you? At the library, yeah?" Dean nodded, surely. "Yeah, thought so. It's odd… something like this would've been in the paper." He grazed his upper lip with his bottom teeth in thought. "Unless it was taken out." Dean mouthed right as Sam said it, already ahead of him. "But who would…?" He exchanged a knowing look with the older brother.

The librarian.

"Whew, something tells me that maybe—just maybe—she was lyin' again." Or covering something up… He'd need to pay more attention to that later.

Dean made a face that silently told his brother to shut up. After all, he was supposed to be the one with the twisted, dark sense of humor. Gosh, this hunt wasn't doing anything for his complexion, or reputation. Not to mention the added stress with his car now. That wasn't over yet, just momentarily put aside until Dean could verbally bitch about it.

"Well, I think I have a few phone calls to make." Sam clapped his hands together, and reached for the cell phone. He tried to give his brother a hopeful look, but Dean just stared down dumbly at his half eaten cheeseburger, his appetite suddenly lost. Useless. "Okay." He whispered for his own need of a response as guilt hopelessly bubbled up once again in the pit of his conscience.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"So," Sam had asked the next morning, "should we suit up, or wing it?"

Dean made a face, rubbed at his throat, and waved a hand, as to say whichever, whatever, bitch. However, he hadn't been in the mood to dress up like a penguin, so the "wing it" option won.

Now, twenty minutes after that insightful conversation, they arrived at CMC; a quaint hospital with eight floors---one being designated as a psychiatric ward.

"Something feels… off." Sam admitted uncomfortably, which earned a snort from Dean. They'd made their way through the revolving door in the front entrance, and walked along each other to the elevators. "You know what I mean—more off. I just have a really weird feeling." Yeah, Dean had a weird feeling too, but he put it off as the pathetic excuse for a cheeseburger he had the previous night.

They found the floor effortlessly—thanks for a very visible floor level plan—and Sam went up to talk to a nurse at the station while Dean loitered by a clutter of chairs outside the elevator. Although he tried to make himself appear nonchalant, to just stand there, arms crossed, staring blankly out the window (there, after all, was a breath-taking view of the parking garage), he continuously leaned back on his heels, and looked behind his shoulder, peering down the hallway, where he his little brother.

Sam was leaning against the counter on his forearms, hunched over. He tried to keep up a friendly, non-suspicious appearance, but that's hard when you're dressed in old tattered clothes… and a giant. Dean watched his stubborn smile that refused take no for an answer with a smirk of his own.

Come on… use those puppy dog eyes. Yeah, anyone who doesn't fall for them, is obviously possessed by an evil spirit, so just mumble a few choice words in Latin (if you can get away with Christo, you can get away with anything; no need to be picky), and then, maybe after you've blasted a little rock salt, charge past them! Dean nodded. That sounded about right.

Sam continued talking to the nurse, and Dean cursed. When he lost his voice, shouldn't his other senses have heightened? Damn straight, I should be able to hear another lie pass through the White House from here. He squinted—maybe he was supernaturally blessed with the gift to read lips… Nope. Aw, man.

Expressionless, Sam turned around, his long arms limp at his sides, and headed down the short hallway towards Dean, who hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until Sam's mouth tugged back into a boyish grin and he let out a relieved sigh. Sam nodded his head behind him, gesturing for him to follow. Dean made sure to elbow him on the way.

"Only have a few minutes…"

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

The room was small and cramped. Dean almost felt claustrophobic, and wondered what it must've felt like to the thirteen year old boy sitting in a brown chair besides a neatly made hospital bed. He lingered in the doorway as Sam cautiously approached the teenager.

"Hey Drew, right? My name's Sam…" Drew looked like he hadn't even noticed Sam's entrance, which was a loud one at that since he banged his calf against metal sticking out at the end of the hospital bed; he hadn't blinked, nor did his blank facial expression change at all. "The nurse told me you don't like visitors, but I told him that I have a problem that only you can help me with." A nervous chuckle followed his softly spoken words. "He didn't seem too convinced when I said that, but it's true."

Dean half-smiled at his brother's sincerity, but looked back at the kid. His skin was painted the color of death, and he looked so emaciated, so old and worn out. A child should never look like this.

"You see, my brother—older brother—he's, um, he's unable to talk, and he could a week ago." Drew blinked. Coincidence or not, Sam took it as a lead. "Yeah, and, uh, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually missing his snappy, derisive quips." And even the ones at my own expense. Another chuckle, and his vision blurred. "I mean, he's such a smart ah---aleck. But it's endearing, really, after twenty-two years of it."

Jesus, cool it, Sammy. Dean thought, but he couldn't deny that he'd felt his heart melt.

However, Drew hadn't even bothered to blink again. Dean flipped on the light switch, and walked up next to Sam, his footsteps heavy. He tilted to the side so he was in the kid's sight, and that triggered another blink—no! Not just a blink, but two quick blinks. Acknowledgement, Dean realized, already staring hard into Drew's familiar, distant eyes. Oh, shit.

"This is Dean." Sam introduced with a nod in his brother's direction. "He was attacked just like you were." Dean put a hand on the taller man's shoulder and squeezed it tightly. He ignored it. "I know you'd rather stay protected in your safe, sheltered world, but I need you to help me get my—hey!" Dean squeezed his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises where his fingers dug in. "Dean, we don't have the time to—"

A chill scattered down Dean's spine, and he shuddered. Drew's dead gaze that seemed to stare straight past them suddenly bolted up, and it locked on Dean, who suddenly started coughing. He bent over slightly, and put a hand over his mouth. He fought to suppress the wet wheezing coughs, to gain control, and he did. As soon as he was sure it wasn't going to attack again, he drew back his hand, cringing at the sight of the blood that stained his palm.

"What are you doing here?" A voice boomed from the doorway, where Corinne, the librarian stood, her hands propped on her hips. She did not look happy. Sam's worried eyes went from his brother to her, where they filled with shock. "Get away from my son before I call security—now!"

How did he not see this coming? The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were probably doubled over, laughing at him right now.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪