♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Dean was furious. It didn't help that Sam was getting more and more oblivious to his rather expressive facial expressions and hand gestures. He didn't want to write out his feelings on paper, or type them up on the freaking laptop—he wanted to speak, he wanted to curse, and most of all, he wanted to kill something—that something.

"Dean, slow down."

It was Drew who stole his voice, and that he was sure of. How he managed to do it, now, that he didn't know. Those eyes were still fresh in his mind, always constant, always there. They haunted him, and they wouldn't go away until he made everything right. That task was proved to be harder and harder with the changing stories.

"You passed the motel—Dean, you passed the—are you listening to me?"

The stories didn't need to stay consistent. Yeah, sure, it'd be helpful if they did, but Dean knew enough, or at least he thought he did. Something did happen to that boy, and something did happen to that boy in the house. The house. The house was the problem here, not the "creature" as the brothers had put it.

"Dean? You just ran a red light, man!"

It wasn't a creature, a demon, or a poltergeist. It was Drew. Although he physically sat in the hospital, he wasn't all there. Something was holding him back; something was keeping him hostage. That something had to be the house, whether it was haunted, or something else supernatural was ultimately behind it all.

"Do you want us to get pulled over?"

He squeezed the steering wheel tighter to hide how badly his hands were shaking. He knew he couldn't take much more of the bullshit that they were lost in, and neither could Sam. Sam shouldn't have to. He doesn't deserve this, Dean thought. He narrowed his eyes, stuck out his lips a little.

"'Why, hello officer! Want us to pop open the trunk for you? Want to take a gander the glove compartment?' It's like a get into jail free card."

He took a sharp turn. Sam swayed, hitting against the locked door. With all his bickering, nagging, complaining, and bitching, Dean would never need a wife. But it was all excused now, not because Sam was emotionally cracking with frustration, but because he'd rather call his brother out on it, wearing his usual shit-eating grin.

"We're not going back in there. No way."

He loved Sam. He loved being his brother. He loved getting on his case. He loved being an asshole to him. He loved the exasperated, incredulous looks that came with being the adoring asshole. He loved being there for his brother. He loved protecting his brother. (Sometimes more than others.)

"Listen to me! You're voiceless, not deaf, right?"

And when Dean Winchester loved something, he fought his damn hardest to keep it. That's why he pulled in front of the house that he hated with a fiery 'I'm going to own you, bitch' passion. He didn't have Sam's determination to solve the mystery; he had the determination to beat it. There was a difference somewhere, on some level.

"Dean, I'm not letting you—"

He got out, and swung the door shut, cutting off Sam's words. He walked around to the back, and popped open the trunk. A dream catcher had nearly taken his eye out. He heard his brother curse under his breath as he jolted out the car, and stormed over, the gravel crunching loudly under his shoes.

"Dean!"

Sam's long fingers rolled down and his hand made a tight fist. He slammed the closed hand down on the trunk. The sound of flesh and bones crashing into metal, and the sound of the trunk banging shut echoed in the calm, cool night air. Dean had jerked back; if his reflexes weren't top notch, he would have two crushed wrists right now.

"We're in this together, yeah?"

His voice was small, but it still cracked, faltered, and it would need reassurance. Sam didn't want thumbs up, or a nod, a shrug, or the middle finger. He wanted his brother. He felt like reality has slipped right past him, and Dean was the only thing he could grab a hold of. He'd be damned if he'd ever let Dean slip out of his grasp.

"Yeah."

He answered for Dean, who merely looked down at his scuffed boots like a youngster who had just gotten his rifle taken away from him for the weekend because apparently there's a difference between using it against evil and using it against a squirrel. (Hey, that's what kind of childhood they had.) He glanced up when he heard his brother's suddenly even and unyielding voice. His brows had risen a little, and his full lips formed a slight 'O' shape. He quickly wiped off the look, and locked the trunk.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Words nor gestures were no longer exchanged between the boys. Sam lay stretched out on the motel bed, one arm draped over his chest, the other folded behind his head. One leg stayed straight, his foot dangling off the edge of the bed, the other bent at the knee. His eyes fluttered every now and then but remained opened, and a cell phone rested in the center of his chest.

Dean brushed his teeth in the bathroom, his tired gaze avoiding his reflection. The door was shut and locked. After he brushed each individual tooth for a considerable amount of time, he began to floss. His skillful hands moved slowly, working out that evil plaque. Yeah, these demons he could get at. Take that, bitch—this mint-flavored floss was his superpower. Bam, watcha!

The fluorescent light bulb flickered. His eyes shot up. His arms fell to his sides. Green floss dangled from his mouth, nested between two teeth. He didn't breath, he didn't move—except for a shudder. The shudder unexpectedly ripped through him, and he grabbed the side of the sink with a shaky breath.

What the hell? After a pause, his eyes moved forward, and stared straight across into the mirror. For some reason, he found that he wasn't exactly surprised to see the dark gray form of the "creature" standing behind him. Their eyes met in the mirrored reflection. Those were still the saddest, most pained pair of eyes Dean had ever seen. Only this time…

He understood? Maybe.

That didn't stop him from feeling pissed off. There wasn't anything he could do right now, and it bothered him so much. Need more… Time? Information? Both. Either way, he wasn't about to let some bitch not-so-much ghost boy tug on his heartstrings.

Subconsciously, the revolver burned in his pant's pocket, reminding him it was there, but he had chosen to ignore it.

And now with one hand still griped the side of the sink, he used his free hand to shift forward and to open the cabinet door. Since the mirror now faced the wall, he paused, every muscle in his body tense. Finally, he let go of the sink, and grabbed his tube of toothpaste with a wicked smile.

"You attacked it with toothpaste? It's meant to kill bad breath, not demons."

Oh, that Sammy.

He took a deep, steady breath, and shut the cabinet door. His reflection was back, and only his eyes stared back at him. He sneezed, nearly knocking himself off his feet by surprise. Dean promptly regained his composure, but still pressed a palm to his forehead and laughed.

He shed his clothing, and unlocked the door before he stepped into the shower.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam tried not to fight off the sleep fatigue that called out to him, but he was too distracted to give in. He strained to hear for any sudden disturbances in the bathroom. Sure, he pissed off Dean, and Dean pissed him off, but as if that would ever stop him from fulfilling his annoying younger brother duties. Sure, he and Dean had different books to go by, but they were on the same chapter.

He didn't want Dean to retreat into his own shell—world. He didn't want to see his brother live lifelessly in the hospital, or watch him waste away. He felt sympathy for Corinne, and found that he understood why she'd lie and cover up things to protect her son. But her earlier words had been spoken with such certainty…

"He's dead."

Dead to the world, he assumed, but one look at Dean's face when he saw him told him otherwise. Dean saw through it; he saw more. But what did he see? Besides, the boy had responded to him—or at least Dean. Blinking was something, and there was no such thing as a coincidence in the lives of the Winchesters.

His eyelids suddenly felt strangely heavy, and they began to droop. He could feel himself drift away into a much-needed sleep, but… why was he so cold all of a sudden? It seemed like it was cradling him… and that gave him goose bumps. But it was such a bitter cold. Very harsh, very angry—when did cold sudden get personified?

Sam…

"Dean?" His eyes shot open, and he let out a half-yell when he saw the creature that hovered above him. Sam rolled off the bed, nearly throwing himself to the ground. He hit the back of his head on the wooden nightstand, but that didn't slow him down at all. He grabbed the pistol that he kept securely in the waistband of his jeans, and aimed it at the gray, ghostly form. He cocked it, one finger pressed on the trigger.

The bathroom door flung open, and a breathless Dean stood in the doorway, clad in only boxers. His eyes were wide, and locked on Sam, who kneeled directly across from him; positioned in the space between the two beds, and had a gun aimed at him. He tilted his head to the side challengingly.

The ghost was gone, but Sam's finger was still pressed against the trigger. His hand shook, his face was pale, and his head ached. He wanted out—he didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want Dean to do this anymore. He wanted Dean to get his voice back, and he wanted them gone, to shag ass, to out of there; no looking back, no wondering could've, should've, would've.

Dean hadn't put his hands up. He hadn't motioned for his brother to put down the gun. There wasn't a split second where he thought Sam would pull the trigger at him, and this was a loaded pistol after the events that took place at the asylum where Sam, who wasn't in the right state of mind, did pull the trigger at him, and shoot him not only with rock salt but with words too.

Sam dropped the gun onto the bed with a defeated sigh. "It was here." He explained, not surprised when Dean nodded, like he knew that. "I—I didn't feel threatened but…" He hated it. It had attacked his brother, and that was a crime, a sin, something unforgivable. He put a hand to the back of his head, and gingerly touched the bump that already began to form there.

Dean walked around the bed, extending a hand to Sam. Once he helped him to his feet, he silently asked if he was all right, his mouth moved slowly with the words. Sam squinted at his lips, but nodded, shrugging off what had just happened for now. "Fine." He told him, "fine."

Dean, being the one who's used out that word, gave him a solemn nod. He knew otherwise; he knew his brother. When he said that to Sam, the bugger would continue asking him the question, and there'd be this look in his eyes that told Dean he knew, but wanted to hear it for himself.

But that was Sam, and this was Dean. He patted Sam's shoulder, and then left to finish getting changed. There weren't any words or gestures that he could use, now or ever, but he'd always be there to kick the ass of whoever and whatever wrongfully decided to mess with his little brother.

Dean didn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he did more so with a loaded gun. Don't let that fool you; he had a sharpened knife up his sleeve. And what was that behind his back…?

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Sam wanted to have another chitchat with Corinne. Dean wanted to see Drew again. Sam argued that Corinne would be easier to break than a catatonic boy. Dean argued back, with the help of paper and a pen since he kept breaking the tip of his pencil, that Corinne would most likely have him thrown into the slammer if he even did so much as approach her.

"So what do you want us to do?" Sam's voice had shook. "Grab an Ouija board and go ask the house?" Dean smirked at the thought of them having their own specialized Ouija board. It'd be pretty badass! And it'd probably have faded Led Zeppelin and B.O.C. stickers on the back, and maybe even a sticker that could read, 'Got Shining?'

Corinne had tried to pull a fast one on the boys, and Sam felt pissed off that he hadn't gotten any weird vibes from her; like that she was lying. Oh, that Corinne was a smooth one, yes she was. But you do not mess with a guy whose last name is the name of a rifle.

And that's why they went to the library. (Sure, the eldest hadn't wanted to go, but when Sam gave him those eyes…) Dean lead the way, inwardly worried about his little brother; he didn't want anything to happen to him, like get his voice stolen, because, honestly, it hurt like a bitch and a half.

Corinne noticed her company quickly, because, what the hell, who wouldn't notice those boys? She immediately grabbed the phone on the desk, already threatening to call the police. She looked past Sam and straight at Dean, who greeted her with a fake, wide smile and a chummy wave of the hand.

"Please, we just want to talk." Sam took a step forward, clearing his throat with pleading eyes. His arm brushed against Dean's, and he gave him a warning glare to behave before he looked back at Corinne. He needed to coax her out of calling the police because he really didn't feel like ever calling daddy dearest to bail them out of jail… because they'd never get out.

"I'm so sure." Corinne snapped, not putting down the phone. "You guys have no right coming here and—"

"I'm not trying to stir up old business. I'm here because my brother—" Dean took a cautious step back right as Sam blindly motioned his long arms towards him. A vein protruded from his forehead, and he just couldn't stand to hear her snap at him like a broken record. Who do you think you are, it's not appreciated… "—Can't speak--at all. As long as he's in pain, then so am I."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She didn't sound too apologetic. "But there is nothing I can do." She put the phone to her ear, the rest of her statement—'but I can call the police'—left unsaid.

"Fine, we're leaving!" Sam snapped when she dialed the first number, and then the second… and then the third. "But we're going back to that house—" There was a threat undertone in his voice. Dean noticed that, and waggled a finger in her direction. "—And we're going to do something about all this messed up—"

"Stay out of there!" The phone slammed down. The noise echoed.

"Why?" He squinted at her, thirsty for information.

"Just stay out of there, or I will call the police for trespassing and—"

Enough was enough. Sam stalked out, his shoelaces untied, practically stomping his feet. Dean followed, a hand at his throat, and his eyes met Corinne's red ones before the door swung shut behind him.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Home sweet home."

My ass, Dean politely added. He exchanged a look with Sam, who smiled goofily like he knew what he just thought. What if Sam ever went all Jean Grey? Dean momentarily pondered, and then shuddered at the thought of Sam being able to read his mind. Now, now, that would be a story for another time!

Obviously, they were back at—in—the house. Sam carried a knapsack, prepared for anything. Dean hadn't even worn a jacket; he was feeling a bit warm, too warm. He twirled the flashlight around, the bright light shone against the walls and ceiling. If he could, he'd be whistling the X-Files tune.

"Should we have knocked?" Sam asked. He scrunched up his nose when he felt a sneeze coming on. Dean looked back pointedly at the broken down wooden door. The younger brother grinned sheepishly, and then sneezed. His head jerked forward, his long dark tresses whipped forward like waves crashing on a beach. Dean brushed off his shoulder.

The screen door that they hadn't knocked on because of the future event crashed to the floor of the porch. The unexpected noise made both brothers jump. Dean bumped into Sam, who had grabbed his brother's elbow. They were unusually far too jumpy, not just cautious.

"Careful." The brunette mumbled after letting go of Dean's arm. Dean tilted his chin up at him and gave him a dirty look that said 'bitch, please,' as the taller male brushed past him and took the lead. "Upstairs we go."

Dude, you don't need to narrate. Dean thought hard at him, but Sam didn't do much as glare back at him as they made their way up the creaking stairs. Damn, maybe he should get superpower-ed up with telepathy. Sam would probably go insane if he had Dean's voice in his head as well as out. But, just as before, that's another story for another time.

"Okay, maybe they've gone out—"

And forgot to put up the 'be back in ten' sign up? Oh, Sam would have shot him such a 'oh, shut up' look for that one.

Quite predictably, doors to the second floor rooms all opened in unison like a gush of wind just tore through them, and then they slammed shut loudly. Rinse and repeat. The gloomy atmosphere just got gloomier… and angrier.

"Stop it!" Dean's voice yelled out of nowhere, anywhere… somewhere. Everything came to a still, even the Winchester's breathing momentarily. It was still a surprise to hear Dean's voice coming from somewhere that wasn't his mouth or ass.

After taking a slow, deep breath, Dean raised his brows, like oh, really, and puckered his lips contemplatively. He nudged Sam, who'd gone all tense but then nudged him back, as if don't nudge me, so Dean nudged him again, like what are you going to do about it? Followed by another teasing nudge—huh, Sammy, huh?

Before Sam could nudge—or hit—him back, Dean's voice was back, this time much more softer. "I've been waiting for you."

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪