∞∞∞

"What do you think of the name Samuel Dean? Oh! No, no, how 'bout, Samuel John Dean?" After taking a long, hot shower, Sam emerged from the bathroom, skin brightly flushed, clad in a pair of ripped jeans. He found Dean sitting at the green folding table, hunched over several different papers. Next to a half empty Styrofoam cup of black coffee sat a crumbled up bloody tissue. Sam's inquiring eyes flickered from it, to his brother, and back as he walked over to his bed, picking out a shirt from the duffel bag on his bed. He slipped the said shirt on, later rubbing his palm flat over wrinkles "I'm filling out credit card applications." Dean looked up, the rim of each nostril tinted red. "What?" His tense shoulders rose with the flatly asked question.

Now wasn't the time to argue about fraud. Although something was up when Dean wasn't using the names of his favorite rock and roll musicians and whatnot. "Samuel Dean's fine." Next he grabbed a comb out of the bag, and ran it through his tangled tresses. Excess water dampened the area around his collar. Once he was done, he tossed the comb onto the unkempt bed, and then he stood there, motionless—unsure what to do next. Long fingers tugged uneasily at his damp mane. His upper teeth dug down deep into the flesh of his lower lip. He knew if he sat down, he would end up crossing his legs… and then uncrossing them… crossing them again, and rise, rather, and repeat—or he'd continuously tap his foot, or his fingers. Sam felt Dean's eyes on him, and ducked his head. "Oh, god." When did he turn into such a neurotic twit?

"You look like you're about to puke." Yeah, and not to mention that Sam's swirling mess of thoughts were starting to make him nauseous. "How's the head?" Dean tapped his uncapped pen to his temple, leaving a speck of black ink to stain the tanned skin. Sam kept his eyes focused on the beige carpet, and shrugged, working his jaw soundlessly. The pen was set down softly on the table. "Sam, it's rude to ignore someone—"

"How can you just sit there and pretend nothing happened?" The younger brother asked desperately, lifting his wide orbs up to meet Dean's. "How's the head, Dean?" He tapped mockingly at his own temple with his index finger. "Wh—what happened, Dean, it felt like I was—" Channeling you—feeling your pain. "I don't know, but we have to do something, figure this out." Help—save you. "You're—it's getting worse." Or so he thought so, with Dean's cheeks continued to wear that feverish glow, but now his brow and upper lip was slick with perspiration; before his skin had been bone dry and hot to the touch, now it was clammy and still very much warm. However, what concerned Sam the most was the fresh bruising around the old markings. I won't let this destroy him. "What are we going to do?"

Dean picked his pen back up, absently twirling it between his index and middle finger. He was quiet for several seconds, stopped twirling the pen, and bit down on the cap of the pen. He pressed the cap against his bottom lip when he halfheartedly offered, though with the ghost of a smirk, "stay away from shadows?" When Sam gaped at him, he tried again, this time trying not to smile. "Okay, let me revise that… 'away from…' suspicious shadows?" How ridiculous of a warning was that? Watch and beware of the shadows? Ooh, how very ominous! Oh, come on now! What the fuck ever. Uh-oh, Sam wasn't happy, and was cursing out his dear older brother in Sammy Land. "'Sides, bro, relax; it was a demon telling us that. A demon. Demon. Demon. Remember what those are?" He brought his left hand up to his forehead, imitating a waggling horn with the index finger.

… impossible! Sam looked like he was about to explode—he was breathing heavily, and totally glared at Dean like he just stole the last fucking Milano cookie. It was a look that was more worn out than a two-dollar whore. "Yes." He hissed, "I remember what those are—and I also remember it was a demon that killed our mother—and my girlfriend." No, Jess! "What if—what if—" Sam was suddenly less angry, and looked deflated, as if he were an air balloon and someone just jabbed him with a sharp spork.

"What if… this demon has something to do with mom, with Jess—their killer? The demon?" Dean finished quietly, shaking his head. "I don't think so, Sam, it doesn't really… fit. I'd be…" He winced as the words flew out of his mouth, "stuck to the ceiling, on fire—" –and burn—and burn. "—Not reading your stupid mind, or anyone else's."

"'Has something to do with.'" Sam repeated, his voice so loud it seemed to echo off the walls. "Not the." But it could be. "We've never faced a demon like this before…" Never had a demon's blood mix with yours.

Dean did not want to hear this right now. He could practically smell the presence of Jessica stirring in Sam's thoughts. "Coincidence?" Denial, yeah—denial worked. It was how most of their cases would begin, thinking what whatever was going on, it couldn't be supernatural, just couldn't—there were other explanations, just had to be! Bullshit.

The brunette laughed sarcastically. We've been through this before. "Is anything ever a coincidence in our lives? Look me in the eye and say all this shit is just going to pass, that nothing's going to come from it." He won't. Dean chewed on that cap like it was a piece of beef jerky. After a few seconds, he dropped the abused pen, which screamed for more, letting it roll off the table, and pushed back in the chair, standing up. He can't.

"Okay." Dean stated simply, but it was much more than that. He took his cell phone out from his pocket, and then grabbed Sam's hand. He pressed the phone into his palm, wrapping his hand around his with a squeeze until Sam held it tightly in his own grasp. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "If you think this does have to do with the demon, then call dad." The demon was John's obsession, his will to live, to hunt. Dean had a feeling that this hunt was nothing more than bad luck, or else John's ears would already be ringing. Sam tried to push the cell phone back into his brother's hand, protesting physically, mentally, and verbally.

"Dean—"

"Tell him about your visions—"

"God, Dean—"

"Tell him about my sudden case of—" Between their hands, the cell phone went off, vibrating in rhythm with each ring. Sam's eyes locked on Dean's, waiting for the next move. "You take it—I need to go clean out my ears." Sam huffed, clicking the accept button on the phone as Dean walked into the bathroom, crankily mumbling something about jabbing q-tips up his ears. He brought the phone up to his ear, still carefully watching his brother.

"Hell—"

"What—did—you—do—to—my—house?"

Ah, guess who?

Ron.

Oh, snap. In the bathroom, now with a q-tip sticking from his ear, Dean cursed like a hybrid of a sailor and a trucker.

∞∞∞

"You missed the turn." As usual, Sam sat in the passenger's seat, preoccupied with checking his e-mail on his cell phone doohickey. Some pieces of electronic mail were from his friends. Others asked him if there was much to be desired about the size of his penis. He flicked a glance at Dean after he repeated himself and earned silence in return. "Dude, you missed the—" He paused abruptly, setting down his phone on the dashboard. "You don't plan on going to Ron's." It wasn't a question, but Dean shrugged a shoulder, and nodded his head as if he were considering it.

"Maybe." The combination of a dull, consistent headache, and the frustration of being frustrated fused together, so, all in all, Dean wasn't in the mood to deal with a loud mouthed jackass at the moment, or any moments in the near future. "Food first, Sparky second." He reasoned, his eyes skimming for a crowded diner, or restaurant—just a crowded something. He'd even be so kind to pull into a crowded pub, or strip club. "I hate to banter on an empty stomach." He verified before Sam had a chance to ask.

"Yeah, right." Sam wasn't as nearly hungry as he was tired, so a pot of coffee sounded oh so lovely right about now. He leaned more so against the side of the door, and tucked hair behind his ears. "What do you think he's more pissed about—the hole in the wall, or his smashed collection of cutesy glass animals?" Because Sam and Dean were totally the definition of manliness, they could poke and tease at prissy Ron all they wanted. "We already know he didn't take the death of his curtains too well."

"Yeah." Dean grunted, pulling into the congested lot of a very quaint looking diner. "We." Sam hadn't been the one subjected to the torture of hearing a grown man whine about his curtains, and how he went through so much trouble to find the perfect shade to patch the walls. Dean had been more than happy to announce the damage done to the walls in the living room, much to Ron's dismay. "Order a steak or something—something that takes a while to cook."

"Why, sure, I'll order three steaks while I'm at it."

"Dude, watch it. I'm just telling you not to get a dainty little salad, a small cup of soup, three crackers, and a glass of water." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean, who just parked the car, looked over at him, brows raised appraisingly. "And don't forget dessert."

"Dean, it's lunch time." Before Dean could tell him to chew his food forty-six times before swallowing, Sam hurried out of the car, rolling his eyes so quickly and hard he nearly got dizzy. Also, since he did have a conscience, an overworking one at that, he mentioned that he told Ron they'd be there shortly. Dean met him at the trunk and they walked towards the diner shoulder to shoulder.

"Car trouble." Sam rolled his eyes again, this time at the speed limit.

"Whatever." The diner wasn't as crowded as made to believe. There were a few empty tables, and Dean picked out the one closest to the air conditioner, which sounded like it had better days.

"Order whatever—" And by, "whatever," he meant, "whatever I tell you to," "you want, princess—this meal's on Stephen Stills." Ah, so kind of Mr. Stills.

"Just remember this isn't a five course meal." Sam mumbled, offering the young waitress a friendly smile when she sauntered over, handing them two menus. She wore an apron, and kept a pencil through the back of her tightly wrapped bun of hair. Her ears turned red as she asked them what they'd have to drink. Right off the bat Sam ordered coffee—"definitely not decaf," and ordered for Dean ("same for him, black"), because, well, he did.

"Thanks, mom."

"You're welcome, sweetie." Neither smiled at their exchange of sarcastic words.

"If you even try to cut up my meat, I'll stab you with my fork." To let him know he was very much serious, he picked up the respective piece of silverware, frowning at all the spots on it. He exhaled deeply on it a few times before wiping it off on his shirt. Sam wrinkled his nose up, but let it go.

"I wouldn't expect anything less." Ironically, it was just a little more than a decade and a half ago when Sam tried to convince Dean he didn't need to have his meat cut up. "I'm not a baby." He had pouted, and John, who never really noticed before, snapped at Dean with, "He's not a baby." Enough was said, and Dean stopped doing it.

"You always cut your own slices too big." Dean's voice broke through Sam's thoughts, and he looked up from the menu in surprise. "Still do—you may have a huge mouth, but your throat—"

"What did I tell you?"

"Wipe before I flush?"

"Dean!" He hissed as the waitress came back, carefully setting down the two mugs of steaming coffee. She smiled awkwardly, and mumbled something about being right back to take their orders as she scrambled off. "I told you not to… not to…" Go into my mind? Read my thoughts? What exactly was Dean doing? It seemed a little more than just a case of telepathy.

"Not to go all Xavier on your ass—er, mind? I don't know, dude, just don't…"

"Think?" Sam clenched his jaw, and because he was obviously pissed off, Dean got pissed off. He closed the menu that he had been looking at, and stared his brother down.

"I can't control this, Sam, all right? Just like you can't control your visions." In other words, he was saying, "don't be a fucking hypocrite about this."

"Then I guess you know how I feel when you bitch about my visions." He may have actually said, "complain," but Dean was sure he heard, "bitch."

"This is different from—"

"Is it?" Sam challenged, his brow arched, head slightly tilted. He now shut, without really looking at, his menu, carelessly tossing it on top of Dean's discarded one. Dean ignored him, but sighed, and greedily reached for his sweet, sweet coffee. He brought the mug close to his nose, deeply inhaling the scent. On the other side of the table, Sam mirrored him, but was the first to take a sip. "Ugh!" He sputtered, remembering it was Dean who liked his coffee black, not him.

"Need some cream and sugar, Frances?"

Several different snappy retorts ran through his mind, but he ended up nodding his head, smiling widely. "Actually… yeah."

∞∞∞

"You put a monstrous hole in the wall! Curtains were wrongfully scorched, wallpaper was diced, my priceless glass sculptures collection? Smashed into unrecognizable pieces! Furniture messily rearranged, my stashes of candy? Stolen!" Ron, with his mouth wide open, had thrown his arms up in the air.

"Damn ol' Sam and his sweet tooth." Dean whistled, elbowing his little brother in the ribs. "He refuses to believe he has a problem." For once, he allowed himself to mentally absorb Sam's insults, unable to keep from smirking. That was his boy all right. Still standing on the porch, he asked loudly, while wagging his brows, as a jogger passed, "so, uh, did we not fulfill our services, sir?"

"Are you getting surly with me?" Ron's eye twitched, and Sam sighed, reminded of how he, being the rebellious one, acted with their father once upon a time ago.

Dean, now with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, rocked back on his heels. "Surely not." He answered, purposely mispronouncing the word "surely," with a faux innocent smirk quirked on his lips. "But," he shot back in a smug business-like way, "you didn't answer my question. Did we, or did we not, fix your weeping Casper problem?"

The older man blinked, confused, but finally nodded, albeit stubbornly, "I haven't had any problems… yet. Besides, what was it that you two did exactly?" He looked from one brother to the other, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. At the same time, Dean cracked out, "a true hunter never reveals his techniques," and Sam blurted out truthfully, "we burned a phonograph." Ron ignored the blonde, and cocked a brow up at Sam. … hear him correctly. "You burned a what?" … Couldn't have…

Dean pulled on his earlobe, distracted, his brow deeply furrowed, so Sam hesitantly continued. "Phonograph. It was hidden behind a wall—we think the ghost's spirit was attached to it." He clapped a hand to Dean's shoulder; the common gesture came with a concerned echo of, you okay, man? In response, Dean shrugged until the hand dropped. Sam went on, squinting down at the older man, whose face had gone pale. "You… haven't heard the music? It was playing regularly…"

"After you left." Dean observed, and another headache, this time located behind his eyeballs, began to form as he tried to read Ron's mind. He knew something was up, there was something being kept from them, but he wasn't able to catch much. He suddenly felt warmer—almost hot, and even a little dizzy, but he was able to overcome it, and he hadn't even noticed when Sam's hand found its way back to his shoulder. "You a fan of Sinatra, Ron?"

"Are you interrogating me?" He uttered 'interrogating' as if it were the worse they could possibly do, but he knew better than that—or, at least, he should, unless he was worried about something; unless he was letting his own level of increased anxiety cloud his judgment, distract him. Ron calmed himself down, forcing a smile. "What are you up to, boys?" There was this dark, distrustful glimmer in his eyes. Unnecessary meddling, should've known.

Meddling? Dean was forced to stifle a chuckle, and tightly compressed his lips, trying not to smile. He instantly thought Scooby-Doo, and ripping a mask off Ron's head. He easily heard Ron's anguished cry of, "And I would've gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling Winchesters!" Okay, and the mental image of that? It made him laugh, sorry. Ron shot him a look that easily read off, "did I say somethin' funny?"

Sam squeezed his brother's shoulder. "We're not up to anything, Ron. You wanted the ghost out of your house, and we did it."

"Yeah, at the cost of nearly wrecking my house." He pointed behind his shoulder at his house, which looked undamaged from the outside.

"Sorry about that. Next time we'll ask the ghost to take it outside." Sam had opened his mouth to professionally answer, but Dean's retort cut him off before he made a sound. "Although, hey, better yet, maybe next time, you shouldn't keep stuff from us."

What does he know? Ron's eyes widened, but he remained nearly expressionless. The silence betrayed him, but even without being able to read his mind, Sam knew something was up. His eyes darted from the elder man to his brother, who smirked slyly.

"It's getting stronger." Dean stated to Sam without taking his eyes off of Ron. The way he was staring so intently at Ron was familiar to the younger brother. That's how he's been looking at me. He thought, hand falling from Dean's shoulder. Like he's looking for something. "Not lookin'."

"Hearing." Sam said flatly, the realization making him bitter, though he wouldn't admit it. It wasn't a fair advantage, he figured. Big deal, he could see the future, but Dean? He could read minds. He could see into people's heads, which was something Sam had always wanted to do to Dean. "Man."

"What in the hell is going on here?" Not only was Ron looking suspicious, but he was also starting to appear way paranoid. His mind was racing. Tension was building up, thick and heavy, and he hated the way Dean stared at him, the way Sam just stood there, brooding while waiting so patiently for something, the damned way Dean blinked, wetted his lips, and finally, the way his face softened as if he just heard some bad news.

"You were Betty's fiancé."

∞∞∞

This story was put on the back burner while I finished a story (which I recently put up), and now I just want to finish it. I don't know when that will be, but I will. (Also, this chapter was written before I put it on hiatus; it's not supposed to end where it does, but I can't remember how I wanted to end it, so opps.)