∞∞∞

Dean immediately either flinched at his choice of words or the pain, Sam wasn't sure, but that hadn't stopped him from feeling like he'd been punched in the gut. "Me?" His eyes widened, the element of surprise missing, and he looked like a kicked puppy. At the same time, the brothers looked away from each other, like a sharp slap to the cheek, ashamed and guilty. "Right…" The brunette realized as he sat down at the edge of his bed. He pulled his pillow into his lap, and leaned forward with his forearms digging into the feather-filled cushion. "Of course it's me." Sam stated with a shaky breath, no malice or bitterness coated in his softly spoken words.

On the bright side, Dean found out where the weapons of mass destruction were—or rather, what they were: Sam's pitiful puppy dog-esque doe eyes. "Oh, god, Sam, don't give me that right now, man." Dean asked of him with a grunt, furrowing his brow with a wince. "I didn't mean it like… I didn't… shit. I don't blame you, all right? Don't go thinking that, but you will, because you're Sam." He gestured Sam without as much as a glance as he let out a soft humorless chuckle. "It's this damn… this damn thing, Sam." Dean looked rather pensive, and his eyes were brighter than usual. "Not you."

"Then what the hell is all of this?" The younger brother wanted to know, his eyes finally falling on Dean. His gaze lingered on the new bruises, on the dark circles around, and the hefty bags under his eyes. He felt helpless and lost—he wanted so badly to make Dean's pain and suffering go away. Jesus Christ, how was he supposed to stop his train of thought? How was he supposed to not think so loudly? Sam's eyes began to tear up, although with much resistance.

Dean hadn't even blinked before he rattled off an answer. "Disney's newest amusement park ride. Crazy bastards. Not quite the attraction, huh? Needs a little work, and maybe—" Sam surged over from his bed, clapping a warm, clammy hand over Dean's mouth. "What?" His voice was muffled against his brother's palm. His eyebrows narrowed forward dangerously, and Dean had no problem biting Sam's hand if he didn't start to slowly back away. Sam, being psychic himself, was able to note this, and retracted his arm.

"Don't do this to me, Dean. Quit trying to cover up the truth with half-assed one-liners. I'm here." For you.

"Aw gee, that's really nice and all, Sammy, but honestly, a card would do just fine." Sam gaped at him in disbelief, and Dean shrugged a shoulder.

"Nice, real nice." The brunette remarked coldly. He practically stormed off to the bathroom—ah, the bathroom. A series of slamming door flashbacks flashed in Dean's mind. Where else to run off to when your brother pisses you off? The small room that reeked of cleaning solvents and urine, of course!

With a heavy sigh, Dean fell back, his head falling against the flat pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, noting the lack of pain that had gruesomely attacked his mind earlier. It had felt like scolding needles were tirelessly pricking his brain, one after another in quick jabs. Dean sighed again; a hand now rested upon his chest, his palm sprawled out against the burning abrasions. A frown toyed at his pouted lips, and he rolled onto his side as the door tentatively opened. I'm sorry, Sam.

∞∞∞

Dean grumpily wore a vicious scowl that would make Oscar the Grouch wave a white flag while he cowered in utmost fear in the deepest, darkest, farthest away spot in his grubby trashcan. Somehow, in just a few short hours, Sam went from the one in a bad mood to the one doing the sarcastic quipping, and Dean, ah, well, vice-versa to the max, man. Dean was suddenly a force not to be reckoned with.

After a light breakfast—a bag of chips and a bottle of soda for Dean, who shook his head when Sam asked him if he was up for breakfast, and, for Sam, two packages of powdered doughnuts and chocolate milk—they headed to Ron's perky palace of happiness. They really needed to get the job done, as Dean had earlier pointed out with a glower—"Chesty LaRue's due back Monday, and we're already on Saturday without any leads." Sam wordlessly nodded, ready to kick some… no, wait, research; ready to research.

The house's interior condition altered a bit since their last visit. Furniture was overturned. Shreds of paper and broken glass and ceramic bits littered the carpeted floor. Books were scattered everywhere, some opened, some closed, some with torn or missing pages. Wallpaper looked like it had been clawed at relentlessly. Black marker decorated a wall in the living room with thick, squiggly lines—there was even a shaky looking sad face drawn on a peach colored lampshade.

"Cute." Sam smirked down at the said lampshade, nudging the broken lamp with his foot. He stood in the living room, the EMF meter already out, just in case. "And utterly creepy. Ron's not going to be happy." Not that he ever was, really. By 'not going to be happy,' he meant, 'going to murder us… he's going to throw us in a hole in his basement, make us lather ourselves with lotion, and then he's going to wear our skin.' Yet another movie Dean let Sam watch.

"Right, so then you better get to cleaning, huh?" Dean stood in the doorway, shoulders tense under his t-shirt, arms tightly crossed. God, the man just looked like he'd rather be outside having a smoke, and he wasn't even a smoker. He was, however, a drinker, and did, in fact, look like he'd also rather be having a few beers.

"Oh, hell no, man, I am not…"

Dean waved his hand, already turning around. "I'll be upstairs." He shifted his shoulders, tossing his cell phone at Sam, who one-handedly caught it. "If Ron calls, and he will, tell him I died again. It was a beautiful funeral and everyone cried." He monotonously stated.

Upstairs? Sam arched a confused brow. What's—?

"Computer, genius. Someone has to research." Dean called out, out of sight as the floorboards squeaked as he made his way up the stairs. Sam made a face, but then vaguely remembered seeing a computer in Ron's study. This only asked for more questions, like, for starters, why couldn't Sam run to the car, grab the super duper laptop, and they could research together? Given their time limit, wouldn't that be helpful than Sam playing fucking maid? The creaking stopped, and Dean never answered.

∞∞∞

Come on… Dean silently begged, banging the mouse against the desk with impatience. Deaths… homicides… suicides… "Something." The twenty-seven year old was not at all picky, just any old heart-wrenching story would do. As long as he could dodge a few blunt objects, find some bones, salt them, burn them, and be out of the town by dinnertime, he'd be happy. But, of course, that would never be the case. Dean leaned forward on one elbow, scratching the back of his head. He even googled Ron, but that proved futile with too many results, none of which had what he was looking for.

Well, when all else has failed, you still have nosy neighbors. Keeping that in mind, Dean pushed back in the computer chair and away from the desk with a hard enough shove to wheel him over to the nearest window. He pressed down on his heels to stop, and stood up, his hand immediately finding and tugging down on the string to pull up the deep purple blinds. Dean peered outside through the glass, noting all the trees, and the neighboring houses.

What he noted the most was the old woman staring across the back lawn from him, through the second story window of her own house. She jumped back with a huff and closed the curtains when he had spotted her and waved. Nosy neighbors all right, probably wondering what two hot young men with fantastic hair, great tans, and awesome teeth were doing in a rude, mean old man's house.

His thoughts were all of a sudden interrupted by a blast of music—I've got you… under my skin. I've got you… deep in the heart of me. He stalked over to the door, pulled it open, and then peeked out. "What the hell, Sam?" He asked loudly right before he realized the music was coming from above him. So that was what heaven was like. Was his mullet rock stored in hell? He glanced down quickly, arching a brow in consideration. "Sam?" He moved forward out of the room as Sam came into view from downstairs, looking as clueless as he did.

"You know me, can't work a feather buster and broom without good ol' Sinatra playing in the background."

"Where's it coming from?"

Sam, with an oblivious grin, pointed up. "Above us." When Dean shot him a threatening 'why I ought to…' look, he tried again, with the point and all. "Attic, perhaps?"

Dean easily recalled the construction of the house. "There isn't an attic."

"The roof, then. Frank Sinatra's ghost is singing on the roof." Sam maintained a somber expression for two point seven seconds before his lips tugged back into a wide, goofy grin. It dropped when Dean stared blankly at him, not amused. "'Though it is an oxymoron when a ghost is listening to a song titled, 'I've Got You Under My Skin.'"

Don't you know little fool… you never can win…

"Yeah, the irony is just crippling, little brother." It's not what you say; it's how you say it, and Dean's insulting tone was no exception. Sam frowned, and asked him what the hell was his problem. His brother almost seemed surprised at the question, but kept his eyes locked on the cracked ceiling. "Nothin' Sam, it's nothing… sorry." He said his mumbled apology like one would say mayonnaise—there was no feeling behind his words.

… Use your mentality, wake up to reality…

Sam nodded at Dean, and quickly glanced up at the ceiling before he broke out the elder Winchester's EMF meter. He had grown attached to the little fellow, and noted that it probably wouldn't be long before Dean finally realized Sam kept snatching it. Dean blinked twice before lowering his gaze from the ceiling… down to the EMF. He smirked, but didn't say anything, much to Sam's surprise.

And much to neither of their surprise, the EMF meter reacted as Sam pointed it up towards the ceiling, and he glanced down at Dean. "Recall ever dealing with a Frank Sinatra loving demon or poltergeist before?" And, oh dear, his heart nearly melted when Dean smiled.

"Frank Sinatra loving? No. Jackson Five loving? Unfortunately yes." He shuddered, but wistfully added, "The paranormal comes with many different playlists."

"That was deep, man. Real deep."

"You're deep."

"Nice one. You totally burned me." Sam hissed in mocked pain, grabbing his arm like he'd been burned by something incredibly hot… like his brother.

"Oh, shut up."

… 'Cause I've got you under my skin…

∞∞∞

"Well, at least Dean started to get in a better mood." Sam mused aloud, grunting as he lifted the couch upright. He was back downstairs, and finished vacuuming—he drew the line at any mopping—minutes earlier. The tension between the brothers had lifted, but as the Sinatra music died down, Dean's mood pummeled. He told Sam he was going to go interrogate the neighbors, and had rejected Sam's offer to tag along three times before the younger brother could even verbally object.

The living room was looking back to normal, save the shredded wallpaper that was also drawn on. Yeah, there was no way in hell Sam was going to scrub that shit off. He figured Ron could take the money he wasn't going to pay them with and buy some paint. After all, a paintjob was desperately needed—the paint matched the frowning lampshade in the peach color. It wasn't like a man's house at all, well, a man—brute—like Ron. There was almost a feminine touch to it… Sam shrugged off the thought. Maybe Ron was gay.

Yawning, with his arms stretched out over his head, Sam flopped down on the couch, arching his back enough so that it would crack. He rested his head back, and closed his eyes, just for a few seconds though, he tiredly reasoned, allowing himself to sink into the deep, soft cushions of the comfortable sofa. Sleep sounded like just a great idea, but no, he couldn't, not now, and silently promised that he was just resting his eyes.

Across from him was an old fireplace that was closed off with bricks. On the mantel, however, innocently laid a near empty carton of cigarettes and a lighter. The said lighter twitched once, and then twice. It barely made a sound as it slid off the mantel and floated into the air. It danced over to the window, stopping just as it touched the purple curtains that were tied together, shutting out any light. It flicked once, but nothing.

Sam scrunched up his nose.

It flicked twice, but nothing.

Sam scratched at the back of his ear.

It flicked twice, and fire ignited. The hot flame swayed against the thick material of the curtains, and spread.

Sam opened an eye.

∞∞∞

Dean causally strolled around the block to get to the house behind Ron's. He paused when he found it, looking it over. Bushes, just under his own height, were lined up directly in front of the porch, giving it a shady feeling. All windows were closed with the blinds down. He took a step forward, and a cat ran out from between two hedges. He jumped slightly, cursing at it, and then looked around before he coolly brushed something invisible off his elbow and moved forward up the stairs.

There sat a crate at the top of the stairs, a dirty rag thrown over the side. Inside were a small, old fire extinguisher, a sticky bottle of antifreeze, an empty bottle of oil, and several miscellaneous objects. If it weren't for the fact Dean nearly tripped over the crate, he wouldn't have noticed it, but his eyes lingered on it as he moved forward, hitting his head against a wind chime. He whipped around; glaring at it like it grabbed his ass. "Shh!"

The porch was shaped like an L, with the front door behind located at the longest end. He slowly turned the corner, briefly wondering why he was moving so suspiciously during the daylight, especially when he wasn't even breaking in, but before he could even shrug in response, a cane flew out of nowhere and connected with his hip.

"Sonofa—"

"Oh boy, you picked the wrong lady to mess with! If you think you can waltz into my home and rob me blind, oh, you have another thing comin'!" An elderly woman, who was about half his size, stood in front of him, breathless. Her white hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore glasses—another typical evil senior citizen. "It's always the pretty ones too, but I ain't fooled, boy, oh, no, I ain't. You better get going."

"Jesus, what bong water have you been threading in? Cool it, Grandma, I'm—" The woman, with a snarl, raised her cane at him, and he backed away slowly, both hands up in the air. Damn, should have sent Sam. She would have taken one look at him and invited him in for milk and cookies. "I'm just here to ask a few questions, not to rob you, geesh. Don't be so flattered."

"Do I look like I was born yesterday?" Her eyes widened and twitched up at him.

"No, you look like you were born during Washington's term, you—ow!" She now smacked him in the arm with her wooden cane, and threatened to call the police.

"I need to ask you questions about the house in back of you, but never mind, I'd rather drink bleach. And call the psychiatric ward while you're at it, freakin' crazy-ass hag." Gosh, he did not have to put up with this shit. Screw the ghost, screw Ron, screw this woman, and, really, just screw everyone. The stranger impatiently tapped her cane as Dean stalked away, mumbling obscenities under his breath.

Betty loved her Sinatra.

He nearly lost his footing, and had to grasp the wooden railing to keep from stumbling down the porch stairs. He glanced behind his shoulder, wetting his lips. "What can you tell me about a previous owner and--?"

"I told you to get! You have some nerve—"

"Frank Sinatra?" The woman's wrinkled face softened. "You heard it, didn't you?"

∞∞∞

Sam's eyes lifted up, and to the right, quickly flashed to the left, and then down. He smelled the smoke, heard the fire cackling, and jumped to his feet. Why now? Why him? Oh, shit. The curtains burned quickly, and Sam's breath caught in his throat as he looked around for something. There was a water-filled vase with withering roses sitting besides the television that he had forgotten to pick up, but he did now, and tore out the flowers before splashing the contents at the fire in front of him. Yeah, that didn't exactly help at all, and he threw the ceramic vase at the flaming curtains, disgruntled. "Come on!" He snapped, his pulse racing. He pulled awkwardly at his long dark locks with on hand while he used the other to take out the cell phone from his pocket. He'd have to call the fire department unless he could put out the fire with his tears.

Dean came rushing in carrying a small fire extinguisher as Sam pressed the 'one' key on the phone. His eyes shot up to the ceiling before the fiery mass of what used to be curtains, and he bit down on his lower lip and his eye seemed to twitch as he put out the fire. Once it was out for good, he still held the extinguisher ready and aimed, like he expected the flames to flare up again, but after half a minute, he tossed it onto the couch behind him. Dean looked down at the vase that lied at Sam's feet, the pile of dead roses, and then up at him with a brow cocked inquiringly as Sam shuffled his feet. The only noise heard was the blaring of the smoke detector, which acted up after Dean came to the rescue.

"Where'd you, um, get one of… those?" Sam asked, imitating squeezing something with his right hand while looking pointedly at the couch.

"Grabbed it off the neighbor's porch after I heard you shrieking like a girl."

"I did not shriek!" Dean smirked, tapping his right temple. Sam crossed his arms, and looked away with a sharp humph sound.

"Say, Beanstalk, you want to do something about that—" But before he could finish his sentence, the fire detector went silent, and Dean's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "Thanks." He took a few steps forward before he waved his hand in front of his face, scanning the damage—the curtains were toast—literally—and the white wood paneling and even some of the wall area around the window was scorched. "Just freakin' lovely."

∞∞∞