∞∞∞

"You got beat up by an old lady?"

"I did not—"

"You got beat up by an old lady!" Sam couldn't find a smile to match his lighthearted tone. Dean had already been looking a bit rough around the edges, and now he donned a new bruise on his hip. "What the hell did she do that with?" He asked after his brother hesitantly lifted up the hem of his button down shirt.

The older male cleared his throat, averting his gaze up and around; an eye roll. "A, er, cane. And not the mint candy kind." He tried for a smile; failed, and shrugged. Dean's full lips suddenly pouted a little, as if he were offended. "I did get some information from her."

Sam silently apologized to his brother, because there were too many jokes that could be had with this one. "Really? What did you have to do for that? Hold her up at knifepoint?" Wearing a smirk, Dean lightly shoved his shoulder. Apparently getting smacked around by little old women puts grumpy people in better moods.

"No, but it was actually helpful when I…" He trailed off, making a face. The brunette gestured for him to continue, mouthing the words, 'when you…?' "When I read her mind." Sam's face deadpanned. His arms dropped limply to his sides.

"Read her mind? I thought you could only… with me!" He pointed his thumb to his chest, and stuck out his jaw with a huff. This changed things ("confused" to "more confused"), but, Sam realized, made slightly more sense; it wasn't just me he was hearing in the vision.

Dean's mouth hesitantly opened, but then closed. He tried again, and asked with uncertainty, "the vision?" He looked down, absently sliding his tongue over his top set of teeth as he tried to remember any earlier discussions of any vision. "What vision?" When his brother hadn't answered, he asked, his voice unusually even, "Did you have a vision, Sam?"

Sam felt much like he was a child and just admitted it was him who stole the cookie from the cookie jar. He thought of ways he could answer; the truth, a lie, a white lie, but when his eyes met Dean's, he knew the shorter male already knew the answer. He knew not because he could read his mind, but because Sam's guilt ridden eyes betrayed him.

"What the hell? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sam stood staring down at the ground, his shoulders slightly hunched, his hands shoved into the shallow pockets of his jeans. He shrugged a shoulder. "You're the telepath."

Dean's eyebrows rose. A look of hurt flickered in his eyes, but was quickly replaced with anger. He scoffed, sarcastically thanking his brother, and sharply added, in the same breath, "and you're the visionary."

The brunette frowned. And a horrible one at that, he bitterly thought. "You think I should have seen this coming." It wasn't a question. Blame had been laced within Dean's earlier words, Sam was sure of it, but who was it directed at? Who else?

"No, I think you're being a smug little fuck." Dean was giving him that look. The look that just stared right through him; the look that sent a shiver down his make, the look that made him feel almost invulnerable. Dean noticed how uncomfortable Sam had gotten, and smirked. "Just don't ever use those "'cause you're the telepath'" cards ever again, or I swear I'll kick your ass."

"But you should know when—"

"And you should see my foot—"

… I've got you under my skin… I've got you deep in the heart of me…

Two sets of eyes shot up to the ceiling. Dean cursed, muttering that they needed to find this "Sinatra loving, home-wrecking pyromaniac" now. Sam merely snickered, mouthing the words as the song continued, playing over and over again.

… So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me… I've got you under my skin…

∞∞∞

Dean was right about the old woman taking to Sam. It wasn't surprising, really. Sam worked better with adults, while Dean, oddly enough, was the one with the gift of communicating with children.

The elderly—whose name was Fran—smiled warmly at Sam's polite introduction. She didn't attack him with her cane, spit at him, or accuse him of being a thief. She invited him in, just like Dean had figured. I really am a psychic.

While Sam and Fran swapped stories over cookies and milk, Dean walked around the haunted house, his hands clasped behind his back. The music was still playing, so he hummed some of his favorite tunes.

The line, "I've got you under my skin," suddenly skipped, and played repeatedly, overlapping itself. After several seconds, Dean yelled out, "enough! I get it, I get it, Jesus, Betty." A light flickered, and the music stopped repeating, and played on smoothly.

"Could you at least play a different song?" He tried, and there was a long pause before the music stopped. A few beats later, Sinatra was heard singing, 'unforgettable… that's what you are…' Dean heavily sighed, defeated. "Whatever, man, whatever."

He had mostly only learned from Fran that a woman named Betty used to live in the house, and she loved Frank. He received a sad, depressing vibe from the woman though; there was more, thus Sam was sent over, without Dean in tow, obviously.

Dean touched his bruised hip. Crazy bitch. His hand slipped up his abdomen, and rested over his heart. He rubbed gently over the still infected scratches on his chest in a circular motion. While it hurt, it felt nice, almost soothing for the constant itch.

Ron called while he poked at the shredded wallpaper in the living room. His thumb lingered over the button to ignore the call, but he sighed, and accepted. "You have reached Dean Winchester, but he's dead and can't answer right now, so leave a—"

"You're getting on my nerves."

Dean was uncaring. "And you know what's getting on my nerves?" He lifted the phone up, waited a few minutes, and then brought it back to his ear. "I can only take so much Sinatra."

"You've got a problem with Frank Sinatra?" Ron's tone was cold, which wasn't new, but there was a new, daring edge to it that made Dean mumble an incoherent answer. "That's what I thought, little fool." Dean groaned; time for a subject change.

"I do have some devastating news about your unfortunately purple curtains…"

"Purple? They're mauve!"

"Dude, they were purple."

∞∞∞

Fran turned out to be a very nice woman. She used her cane only to aid her walking, although she did use it once to push the sugar across the table to Sam. He forced a smile, warily glancing at the cane as he inattentively stirred his tea.

"You're much nicer than that other man." Fran admitted after Sam fed her the right lies. "Is he your boyfriend?" Sam, who had just taken a sip from his cup of tea, choked. "What, you kids using different words for it these days? I can't be damned to keep up."

"No, no, we're, uh, brothers, despite popular belief." He set down the tea, enough of that. "Speaking of my brother, Dean, I apologize for his behavior. He's, ah, always been like that, so it's not a recent development, but he means well."

The old woman wasn't convinced, but nodded. "Now, what is it you want to know about Betty? Such a wonderful woman she was. Lived in that house for over twenty years, don't you know." She lifted up her cup of tea but didn't drink from it.

"How'd she die?" Sam asked bluntly, dropping a cube of sugar into his tea. He had turned down her offer of tea when he came in, but she had poured him some anyway. There was a plate of vanilla wafers in front of him that Dean would probably be eating if he were here.

"Oh, that gal died of a broken heart—no close relatives, no children, it was sad, but she always wore a smile." Fran chuckled, staring down distantly into her tea. "Oh, that Betty. She had a fiancée, seemed like a good guy, but I saw them fighting a lot."

"Saw them?"

She looked at him like he had just accused her of being a nosy neighbor™. "They left their blinds open a lot! For the whole world to see too! During her last year alive, she put up curtains, and kept them closed."

"So, a broken heart, huh? That's not usually the cause of death on autopsy reports." Apparently Sam must have been channeling Dean there, because Fran frowned, and told him that he sounded just like his brother. "Sorry."

Fran never went on to explain how Betty had died, although she did go on about how the woman's fiancée left her. "It was just another day! He left for work, but didn't come home. He waited about two weeks before he came back to get his stuff."

"And what did she do?"

"She threw out most of his stuff—his clothes, his shoes. She broke anything that could be broken, and just tossed it into a plastic bag and threw it away. He didn't get anything back, in one piece anyway."

"So, she went crazy?"

"Crazy? He broke her heart! Her actions were completely justified. Don't you ever run out on a girl like that, Sammy. It'll kill her." She finally took a long sip from her drink after blowing on it even though it wasn't steaming hot.

Sam shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, and set down the white ceramic cup. He swallowed hard, and murmured, "Sam, it's Sam." He blinked rapidly a few times, his vision blurry. He was exhausted. "When, um, when did Betty die?"

Fran eyed him suspiciously, but answered after thinking about it for a few seconds. "Oh, about ten years ago, maybe longer. It's been a while." She paused thoughtfully, taking another mouthful of tea. "So, I see you found her old records."

Sam went along with it, and nodded, smiling. "Yeah, Dean's a real huge Sinatra fan." And then, not five seconds later came the sounds of Metallica, blaring from Ron's house.

∞∞∞

"So, all we know about Betty is that she was a crazy woman who died of a broken heart?" By now, it was after suppertime, and the boys were back at their motel room, eating tacos. "How anticlimactic." Dean admitted through a mouthful of food.

Sam, who hadn't wanted tacos, lay back on his bed. He rolled his eyes. "Sorry it's not interesting enough for you." He turned onto his side. "Maybe it was suicide? We just have to find out the why, and this might be over."

"It won't be over until I get my cell number changed. I argued with Ron over freakin' colors for a half hour, dude. I don't want to get a call from him ever again."

"Colors? Aw, why, does Ron make Dean question his sexuality?" With a string of lettuce hanging from between his compressed lips, Dean slowly turned his head, giving his brother a murderous look. Sam broke out into a bout of laughter.

"I don't think I'll ever understand what goes on in that empty head of yours, Sammy." Dean polished off his taco—and what Sam hadn't finished of his own—and pushed the wrappers off the bed into the plastic gray trashcan besides the bed.

"Want to?" Sam pushed himself off the bed, and sat down next to Dean, who moved back, a brow arched inquisitively. "I've been doing some thinking, and I want to try something…"

"I'm flattered, Sam, really, but no, why don't you try practicing on the back of your hand?" Sam unexpectedly reached forward, grabbing both of Dean's hands. He wrapped his long fingers around his brother's wrists. "I said your hand!"

"Just…" Sam shrugged. Calm down? Listen to me? Shut up? Maybe even all of the above? He brought Dean's hands to his head, and pressed a palm to either side, above his ears.

"I think my hands are supposed to go on your hips, dork." Dean really, really tried to joke, but he winced, suddenly… cold, and then very warm. A muscle flexed in his chest, and the abrasions burned. His jaw tightened. "Ah, Sam…"

"Get inside my head, Dean. Get it done and over with, because I'm never going to offer this again." He smiled widely, his white teeth glowing in the dimness of the room. Dean tried to jerk his hands away, but Sam kept his own locked tightly over Dean's.

"I don't know what you want me to do, Sam, but could you try not to sound like you're offering me your virginity?" For once, it was Sam who was making Dean uncomfortable. What was this loon getting at? Oy, they really need that vacation.

You jerk; I'm not a virgin.

"But you were living in sin." Sam laughed at the irony, and Dean jumped slightly when he realized that he was hearing Sam inside of his head. It was just weird, creepy, and rather unnatural, to have your little brother in your head.

But Sam wasn't in his head—he was in Sam's. He closed his eyes, and concentrated. Sam asked him how it felt, and he smiled. "Just as I said—empty." But he was lying; it didn't feel empty. It felt the opposite of that—full, congested.

Thoughts! So many thoughts, so many ideas, so many words, so much Sam—too much Sam. He could not only hear his brother's thoughts, but he could feel emotions, he could see memories.

It was different than with other people. He may have caught a thought, but… it was just different with Sam—he felt… he felt everything. And everything really fucking hurt.

"Enough." Dean managed to hiss out. His head throbbed in strong waves of pain that made every fiber in his being ache. Sam immediately dropped his hands like hot potatoes and jumped to his feet, apologizing.

"Are you all right? Oh, my god, Dean, I didn't mean—I just wanted to see—oh, god, I'm so sorry, Dean, I'm—" Biting back remarks, Dean shoved at Sam when he grabbed his shoulder. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the hurt look in his brother's eyes, but it didn't matter; he felt it anyway. "Dean?"

Dean opened one eye—kept the other closed. "Who… who are you?" He cleared his throat, and cocked his head to the side, peering up at the younger Winchester.

Sam's eyes widened, and his stomach flopped. "Oh… oh, god." Sam whispered, his hands trembling. He was left speechless, and could only sputter out curses. But then Dean cracked a smile, and he let out a long breath of air while shaking his head. "You jerk! You big, stupid jerk."

"'K, fair enough, but I'm a big, stupid jerk in need of aspirin. A lot of it too—enough to make this damn headache to back the fuck off." Sam disappeared into the bathroom, but came back empty handed. He told Dean that he'd be right back, that there was more aspirin in the car, and Dean just waved at him with one hand, telling him to just go already.

"I did this, didn't I?" Well, duh, it was your idea, Sam, but that wasn't what he meant. Dean shook his head, swearing that it wasn't, that it was just this stupid power, and to just get the freaking drugs already. Sam hurried off, and once he was out the door, Dean fell back, closing his eyes, whispering, "It's not you, not you…" He slowly opened his eyes.

I'm a liar.

But he could handle this—he really could, and he would. Hopefully without Sam, 'cause, holy shit, did that boy ever think so freakin' loudly. He means well, Dean silently figured, feeling some déjà vu creeping up on him. He wonders what it would be like if their roles were reversed, and reasoned that he'd probably hit Sam if he ever tried to intrude on his personal thoughts.

His cell phone went off, and he told himself not to answer it. He mumbled a loud not to answer it. He was not going to answer that phone. Oh, hell, yes he was, and he answered it with a grunted, "what?"

There was a pause on the other line. "Sammy?" It was a woman. Her voice hadn't rung a bell yet.

Dean considered his options, and shrugged. "Maybe."

"No." The voice suddenly barked. "Put Sammy on the phone." Ah, Fran.

Sam walked back into the room, holding an industrial size bottle of generic aspirin. "Ron?" He mouthed to an unhappy looking Dean.

"One of Santa's little helpers." He turned his attention back over to Fran, rubbing his forehead. "All right, what do you want?" And how the hell did you get my number? The older woman repeated Sam's nickname, which sort of angered him. "Yeah, I got that, but I'm not really into passing love notes, Frannie."

Sam dropped the bottle next to Dean on the bed, and took the phone from him, mumbling he gave Fran his number in case anything came up.

"My number?"

Sam cupped his hand over the length of the small phone. "Yeah, well, after you wrote, 'want a good time? Call Sam,' in a bathroom stall at—"

"Dude, I did no such thing!" Ow, okay, and talking? Was starting to hurt. He let Sam talk to his new girlfriend, and he retired to the sacred bathroom. He popped a few pills dry, and sat down on the toilet after he put down the lid. Before he could even process thinking 'goddamn, I'm so fucking tired,' Sam tapped at the door.

"We need to get back to Ron's house, now." I can go alone…

"No, no, I'm coming. Just give me…"

"Fran said the music's back, and much louder. She also said there's crashing…" Stay, you need to rest…

"I said just give me a minute!"

"It's time we just stopped tiptoeing around; we need to find her body." Dean's getting worse… "Salt and burn."

Burn.

There's the sound of a kettle going off.

Burn.

His face feels flushed; he can feel the steam.

Crash and burn.

He was back at Sam's old apartment with Jessica pushed up against him; trailing butterfly kisses down his cheek. Dean slapped a hand to his cheek. There was no way Sam was thinking about Jessica right now—the guy didn't have a one-track mind, did he? No, no, this had to be something else, just had to be…

The pills left a chalky taste that lingered in his dry mouth. Dean stood up, and took a step over to the sink, where he turned on the water full blast.

Dean! Sam pounded on the door.

He splashed the cool water on his face, pointing a finger at the door, one minute, Sammy, one minute. He quickly dried his face off with a hand towel, and causally opens the door.

"We better get going, huh?" But Sam has had enough. He grabbed his brother's shoulder, turning him around to face him. "Something wrong, Sam?" For a split second, he saw a flash of Jessica, burning on the ceiling, and rapidly blinks the image away, paling.

"What's going on with you, man?" Sam pleaded to know, concerned, worried, and fed up.

"Well, you see, a few nights ago, I got in a little fight with this demon—put on a real good show too, glowing eyes, and—oh, you know those details."

"I fail to see the humor in this."

"Yeah, and that? Doesn't really surprise me. But, you see, I may have caught something from this demon—"

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "Like a disease?" He only played along, knowing that it would be the only way to get Dean to spill what he thought. He wasn't, after all, a telepath. "You think you caught a disease?" Dean has something. Something was stressed, like an echo.

"Oh, Sam, you're right—I have many communicable diseases. I wouldn't want you to catch svelte, charisma, or charm." He smiled, and for some reason, it comforted Sam, who finally relaxed.

"You don't make any sense. You're like a random word organizer, you know that?"

A bullet grazed the tension, maybe even lifted it for a while, but things could only go uphill now, right? Whatever. The brothers left, exchanging a few more lighthearted words, but it was all a mask, a cover up, and each one knew it.

∞∞∞

Sam drove to the house. He kept one eye on the road, and the other on Dean. Dean felt the one-eyed stare, but kept his gaze fixed outside the window, on the passing land. He kept one hand on the handle, and Sam wondered if Dean planned on jumping out.

"I remember when you were… eight, and we were driving down the highway after a hunt. You were tired, and leaned against the door in the backseat, but the door wasn't closed all the way, and opened." Dean's gravelly voice pierced the air.

Sam nodded, and felt the hairs on his arms stick up. "Yeah, and I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. I remember leaning out, screaming, and seeing the dark pavement as a blur."

Now it was Dean's turn to nod. "I pulled you back in." He shifted, but kept staring out the window. "Before we left, I called shotgun, but you bitched I always got to ride next to dad."

"I believe I used the words, 'always got to ride upfront.'"

The older male ignored him. "So dad made me sit in the back with you." And now he looked over at Sam, who met his eyes halfway. "If I hadn't been in the backseat with you…" But Sam looked straight on, and chewed on a nail.

"I was seven, not eight." When Dean hadn't answered, he turned his head, wondering if he might have pissed him off, but Dean just smiled faintly.

"I know."

Sam knew something was up, and asked about it, but Dean merely shrugged a shoulder.

"Just testing things out."

Yeah, that sounded innocent. No need to worry over a statement like that…

Sam chewed on the fingernail harder, more aggressively.

∞∞∞