♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Demons I get. People are crazy. Yeah, that was certainly Dean's philosophy. He paced around the living room, picking up ceramic figurines, looking at pictures that perfectly captured those quirky Kodak moments. He fixed crooked frames that hung on the wall while Sam tried to console Corinne. He helped himself to the glass dish of Hershey's Kisses on the fireplace mantel.

"We're here to help." Dean heard his distressed tone and smirked as he unwrapped a piece of candy. "You've got to trust us and tell us everything you know." Even though he had his back turned to them, he knew Sam was using that inane puppy dog look, but being a mother, Corinne was probably immune to it. He plopped the chocolate into his mouth and stuffed a few more pieces in his pockets for later.

"You won't understand." Corinne sat on her couch, her knees brought up to her chest. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her legs and she rested her chin between her knees. Mascara and tears stained her cheeks. She looked vulnerable, scared, and very guilty. Sam put a supporting hand on her shoulder, and told her to make them understand. Hesitantly, she started, her voice shaking. "I had two sons…"

Dean's hands left the candy dish like it had burned him, and he turned around slowly. Sam's innocent eyes tried to meet his, but he instantly averted his gaze. His stomach churned like he already knew what she was going to say. However, he sat down in the recliner besides the couch, urging her to continue while the chocolate still melted in the godly nirvana that is Dean's mouth.

Corinne shook her head, and dropped her feet to the white-carpeted floor. She exhaled sharply, closing her eyes. "I don't even know what happened." Her eyes remained closed. "Andrew said he wanted to help around the house, and offered to give his baby brother a bath while I made dinner." She furrowed her brow as she relived the horrendous day on the back of her eyelids. "But when I went to check on them…"

A knot formed in Dean's throat, and he looked down interestedly at his clasped hands. Oh, look, he could twiddle his thumbs… You will not fall victim to a chick flick moment, you will not… Sam, on the other hand, gave Corinne's shoulder a firm, sympathetic squeeze. His other hand trembled with disbelief. Drew was barely a teenager, he wouldn't… it was his brother—his little brother. Brother!

"He was hunched… over the bathtub… holding down… Jamie." She clasped a hand over her mouth, visibly shaken up, and Sam was feeling horrible for making her experience this pain again. He looked over at Dean for support, for something, but his brother's head was still bowed down. "I pushed him back… but it was too late. He drowned… him… he drowned his baby brother."

What do I say? Sam's eyes screamed out to Dean: give me direction. The older male picked at something under his fingernail, and… and was that chocolate on his lips? Oh, come on. He nervously chewed on the inside of his cheek, drawing blood. "H-how did Drew end up in the hospital?" How did Drew end up with the possessed house? How do we stop it, him? Oh, god, was she ever in for a game of twenty questions.

But when Corinne answered with a breathless, "I did it to him," Dean's eyes shot up, alert. She sniffled a few times, regaining herself. "And I don't regret it." The mortified look written all over her face said otherwise. "I had to save my son, I had to. He didn't mean to do it, I know he didn't, so I helped him, but…" She shook her head, her glossy eyes staring off like her son was sitting in front of her.

"How did you… save him?"

"With—" She answered simply. "—With a spell."

"I hope you remember that spell."

She didn't say anything.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Ten minutes after they had left Corinne's house, the brothers sat motionless in the parked car, speechless, shocked, and betrayed. Sam had seen the look in Dean's hazel eyes when they left. It was such an intense look that he'd never seen before, and to be honest, it frightened him. We're not going to get a boy get away with trying to fuck with us, Dean's body language had snapped. He now sat in the driver's seat, absently chewing on fingernail.

Dean sat with his weight against the passenger door. His hands were balled into tight fists; his fingernails bit into the thick skin of his palm. His eyes were closed, and his lips formed a tight, straight line. His facial complexion was a bit pale, but his cheeks were flushed. One eye opened a slit, and then promptly closed when he saw this brother was studying him with concerned eyes.

"Do you have any ideas?" Sam asked after he looked away. His voice cracked with uncertainty, and with need that told Dean that being mute didn't necessarily take him out of the game. Sam leaned on him, and he leaned on Sam. When he heard a rustle, Sam tentatively looked back over and arched an inquiring brow.

We'll play his game. Dean had written on the back of a receipt. Our rules. The slip of paper had been so causally slipped into Sam's hand. He stared down at it fixedly, his eyes moving back and forth like he was memorizing each letter. Understanding chocolate-colored orbs suddenly lifted up, and he nodded, swallowing hard.

At least I'm driving so he won't try to go bowling with the house… It occurred to him that Dean would never do that to his precious car… but that flower truck? Heh. Despite the situation, a small hint of a smile appeared on Sam's face as he started the car up. But the mental image of Dean, in that ridiculous Flower Boy get-up, driving that truck into the house… and flowers exploding everywhere…? Priceless.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

They stood in front of the house, unmoving and tense. Dean never wanted to step foot into or have to deal with the house ever again, but he had to. What he wanted didn't matter; it was about what he must to do. "You remember what she said, right?" Sam verified in a voice no higher than a whisper. Dean answered him with a look that said he'd never forget. "Ready?"

No. The anger he felt made him lightheaded and his chest tight. But Dean had felt this kind of rage before. He thought back to the shtriga—the doctor everyone had put his or her trust and faith in, and how he'd been the one doing all the damage. In the end, he shot at the demon, and killed it. But now, this was an adolescent, a boy… a murderer. He nodded yes.

As he entered the house, Dean felt like whistling, slapping his thighs, and calling out to Drew like you would to, oh, lets say a dog. A murderous, voice-stealing dog, that is. Come here! Come here, oh, yes, who's my boy? Who's my demonic bitch? Aww, yes you are, yes you are! Instead, he took out a Hershey's Kiss, sloppily ripped off the foil, and popped it into his mouth.

Sam aimed the flashlight at him and gave him a stern look. Dean shrugged hopelessly and offered Sam, who just scoffed and walked away in the direction of the stairs. Dean rubbed his fingers together, and the bits of foil dropped to the ground. He hurried after Sam, purposely nudging him in the lower back with his flashlight as they made their way upstairs.

Upstairs. Sam paused when he almost reached the top, his eyes flickering with realization. He gripped the wobbly banister, stumbling forward slightly when Dean bumped into him for his abrupt stop. It's always upstairs. He pushed back the information, knowing that it would soon be vital. "Sorry." He murmured to Dean, who had just tapped his shoulder with the flashlight, which was brother code for, "you all right, dude?"

Or, well, it could've been impatient code for "hurry your ass up," but we won't go with the latter on this one, mmk?

Is it darker in here? Sam wondered, squinting in the darkness. He used the flashlight he held to guide them to the room where they were last talking to Drew before getting rudely interrupted by local authorities. I hope the floor and ceiling wait to cave in until after we leave. Sam was such an optimistic, you see, and he'd like to see them escape without injury—but oh, shit, he just jinxed himself.

"Drew?" He called out, using his free hand to push his long fringe away from his eyes. Dean's arm lightly brushed past his own as he walked by him, smacking his lips. He stopped in the center of the room, and zipped up his thin jacket.

"It's lonely here." Dean's voice whispered, sounding truly sad. His dark form materialized in front of the window once again. His head was bowed down, his chin to his chest, and his eyes were assumingly closed. "And so… so cold." The voice sounded broken… lost.

"You were able to leave." Sam pointed out. It took much self-control not to lash out, verbally and physically, at Drew. He glimpsed over quickly at Dean, who remained expressionless, but Sam knew it'd be his body language to deceive him. "I've seen you… our motel, right? It's where you attacked my brother." He coolly said attacked, oh, like you'd say danced with. Got to keep my cool… Too bad his poker face sucked.

"I didn't attack your brother." That perceptibly struck a nerve. Under the sole of his shoe, Sam felt a nail unscrewing up and walked up besides his brother. "And it takes too much energy to leave, the force is too strong…"

Sam ignored him. "Why him?" Why not me? Yeah, like he ever needed another reason to brood. "And if you have his voice—" If? "—Then why didn't your physical form use it to verbally communicate with us at the hospital?"

The creature's head shot up. Sam was struck at how human-like his eyes were, but now his body was a mere gray mass. "I'm not connected with my body. I can't control it." He spat out the words like the older male should've known. Sam mentally cursed, knowing he'd have to move on before suspicion could arise.

"Now, if we help you, will my brother be able to speak again?" Dean shot him a look, like, 'aww, you really do miss my voice, don't you?' Sam gave him a look back; glaring at him, all like, 'don't make me eat my words.' Dean shrugged one shoulder unceremoniously, silently reminding Sam that he'd forever be his singing alarm clock. Finally, they exchanged a confused look, wondering if they've been receiving mixed looks and gestures.

"Yes." Drew hastily promised certainly, and Dean expressed a solemn nod, chin tilted high, totally like, damn straight. Sam, however, wasn't too convinced. Too many lies had been threaded through the truth. He didn't know who to believe, what to believe, or if there was any truth in anything; did the lies ever stop?

"Then prove it." In the distance, he heard a rattling sound. "I want to hear Dean's voice… come from Dean's mouth."

Drew's response still came just as quickly as the first--no hesitation, no reconsidering. "No."

"Then we'll mail you a house warming gift." They had to do something with all those flowers. Dean resisted the urge to smack his forehead. He looked over at Sam; a vein pulsed in his forehead, mentally yelling at him not to start things up yet as much as he wanted to.

"Then have fun learning sign language." Sam's voice had been cold, a threat underlined, as did Drew's. The window rattled violently until the glass shattered. With one arm raised in front of his face, Dean staggered back and grabbed Sam's shoulder, pushing him away from the flying shards. "Why are you being so mean to me?" Dean's voice demanded, or rather whined, sounding so childish, so hurt, and Dean wondered if he ever really sounded like that.

"Because--" Sam turned back, facing the creature, his voice trembling with anger. Dean knew what was coming, but didn't stop it—he closed his eyes and cringed. When they finally ended what they started, Dean made a note to make sure Sam stopped channeling him. Gosh, it was like looking into a much less handsomer mirror… "---We're not kind to murderers."

Part of the ceiling above them caved in.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"An old friend of mine… she examined Drew… and she told me that she believed me, that it wasn't my son. I knew he was a good boy. She told me she could help me—us, and I was desperate." Corinne's earlier words came back, mixing in with the darkness that grabbed and poked at him, but in his mind, he saw everything—Drew forcing his infant brother under the shallow water, a tearful yet hopeful Corinne talking to a woman…

"She told me an exorcism would work, but something went wrong… nothing had happened." It was only months earlier, and Sam stood in the middle of the house's living room, watching the scene unfold in front of his very eyes. There was an aching itch behind his eyes, but he pushed it away, ignoring it for now. "She said the spirit had latched onto my son, and told me a spell would work, a spell would save him… it didn't."

"You liar!" Corinne had screamed at the older woman, holding her unconscious son in her arms. His hands tingled, like they'd fallen asleep and were starting to wake up, and suddenly he was in the room upstairs. He noticed how different the house looked then… it looked more alive, friendly. It was just a small house that needed a willing, happy family to fix it up. "What did you do to him?"

The woman had stood with her back to the sobbing Corinne, facing the window. "I saved him, like you wanted." She replied evenly, and for the first time, Sam noticed the candles circling them, he noticed the symbol scratched into the floor, and the blood that was smeared into the markings. "He had a dark soul… there was no spirit. Makes you wonder what really happened the night your husband died, doesn't it?"

Horror and shock flashed in her bewildered eyes. "You bitch!" Her son was a middle school student, he made the honor roll, he played soccer, he loved making rubber band balls… he was a murderer. You can't destroy the house… only breaking the spell will work… Her mouth opened, and she continued screaming at her friend, but Sam let out a hiss of pain, grabbing at his forehead, and he fell to his knees. He closed his eyes…

And when they opened, he found that Dean's fingers were really digging into his shoulders as the older male shook him. He gasped loudly, like he'd been hold under water over his own limit, and immediately sat up. Dean was on his knees, breathing hard. He looked so tired, so defeated. His face was covered in soot, and blood dripped from his lips and off his chin; Dean had been calling to him, but obviously failed.

"I know what we have to do." He whispered, lightly touching his fingertips to his forehead. When he pulled away, he saw blood, and winced. Luckily, the Winchesters were blessed with Wolverine-esque healing powers, but he knew he'd have one hell of a headache later. With Dean's aid, he got to his feet, and he pulled out his knife from his pocket.

Dean's face was full of confusion, and he tried to shoot Sam some "give me answers or else" looks, but his younger brother was too busy kicking around the debris from the ceiling.

"On the floor—there's a symbol." Sam tried to explain, cursing at the lack of light. He picked up the flashlight, and got on his hands and knees, feeling around on the floor. "Oh, god." He mumbled, when he found that parts of the floor were rotting; yet there was a space where the floor looked nearly preserved… Eureka.

But you know, Drew's presence was still there. He demanded to know what he was doing, and Dean shrugged, sticking out his lips.

Sam didn't say anything. Using the blade of his knife, he scratched against the markings in the floor. "I'm breaking the spell." He finally yelled in annoyance when he heard wood cracking, and cold wind hitting his back. "This is what you want, isn't it? I'm freeing you!" Oh, why did this feel like such a mistake? He stabbed at the floor, refusing to reason with himself. He had to do this… for Dean.

"Why?"

Sam's body tensed up, and he slowed down, but didn't stop completely. "Don't worry, I'm not doing this for you."

And Dean stood there, not agreeing with Sam, but not stopping him. Dean never hesitation at the thought of killing a warped, evil mortal before, but now…

He couldn't change his ways. He couldn't.

But would he?

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

"Corinne? It's Sam—listen, we did it, and you've got to get to the hospital now." Sam had tried Corinne's home phone, but only got the answering machine. Twenty minutes later, he was outside the house with Dean, who was sitting on the porch stairs, coughing, wheezing. He grasped Dean's shoulder, waiting for it… "I don't know if it worked, but… you know." He disconnected the call, and clumsily dropped the cell phone, not caring. "Dean?"

Dean waved his hand at him, trying to control his breathing. It had happened so quickly… Sam jumped up after finishing destroying the wood, and any wood near the symbol just in case, when Dean had the wind knocked out of his lungs. It suddenly got very warm in the room, and they got out as quickly as possible.

"Dean." He repeated, like a command, but then his cell phone rang. He reached down for it, and answered, Corinne's shaky, accusing voice reaching his ears before he could say a word.

He's not there… he's not at the hospital… he's gone… what did you do?

"Where could he be? Where could he go?" He could still hear Corinne's babbling voice on the other line, but he turned to Dean, and their eyes met.

The motel.

Which was closer to the hospital than the house.

Which was where they had a few weapons.

Oh, shit.

♪♫♪ … ♪♫♪

Apologies! This chapter… really sucked. By the third time I started rewriting it, I lost the feeling for it. The next chapter should be the last, but I probably won't update ever again because I'm going to explode from suspense before the finale airs next Thursday. Le sigh.