A/N: Happy birthday, LivingForTV! I hope Dean shows up today with a huge hug for you and a birthday pie.

It lives on voices. Canned won't do.

Sam's stringy-haired on the couch, talking a blue streak. His eyes widen as he spots Dean. Chapped lips keep working, pouring words.

It's on the floor, flat on its back, soaking up sound. It's rosy with food, could pass for human.

Dean winks at Sam, slips in and stabs it through the throat. It gawks, convulses. Blood pools like grey gravy.

"You OK?"

Sam nods, spouting algebra.

"D'it drug you?"

Sam clamps his lips shut with his fingers, helplessly vocalizing.

"C'mere, pal. I got a lozenge for you."

Sam sighs shakily between formulae.