*The cheap motel room hummed with the relentless, irritating buzz of a dying fluorescent bulb, a sound that seemed to amplify the tension already thick in the air. Sam, all of six-foot-four of him, was practically swallowed by the flimsy plastic chair he was perched on, his long legs cramped and restless. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he stared intently at the glowing laptop screen, the light casting harsh shadows on his angular face. Dark circles underscored his hazel eyes, a testament to too many sleepless nights fueled by lukewarm coffee and the weight of the world. Empty pizza boxes, crumpled takeout containers, and a graveyard of Sam's half-empty water bottles littered the small, scarred table, a chaotic landscape of their current existence. Across from him, Dean sat with an almost unnerving stillness, a stark contrast to Sam's barely contained energy. Dean, a compact and muscular figure, was the picture of focused calm as he meticulously cleaned his Colt 1911. His worn leather jacket was slung over the back of a chair, revealing a faded AC/DC t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. The faint scent of gun oil mingled with the lingering aroma of stale beer and something vaguely metallic, a smell that Sam had come to associate with their life on the road. Dean's emerald green eyes, usually dancing with a mischievous glint, were narrowed in concentration as he worked, his movements precise and practiced. "It's not just a simple poisoning, Dean," Sam said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the buzzing of the light. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy brown hair, leaving a smudge of dust on his forehead. "The M.E. found traces of something highly unusual in Abernathy's system. This isn't your run-of-the-mill cyanide or arsenic. It's different." Dean paused, the cleaning rod suspended in mid-air, his gaze sharpening. "Different how, Sammy? You talking some obscure, ancient curse kind of different, or just some fancy, hard-to-synthesize toxin that only rich guys can get their hands on?" Sam sighed, the sound heavy with frustration. "The report details a very specific and disturbing sequence of symptoms. Rapid muscle paralysis, vivid and intense hallucinations and acute photosensitivity in the final hours before his death. The guy couldn't even stand to be near a window." Dean snorted softly, a hint of dark humor in his voice. "Photosensitivity? Maybe our Mr. Abernathy was finally embracing his inner vampire. Should have invested in some SPF 5000." Sam shot him a tired glare, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. "Not likely, Dean. I'm cross-referencing the symptoms with every known toxin, both natural and synthetic, as well as obscure alchemical compounds. There has to be something that creates this specific profile." He scrolled through a seemingly endless list on the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. Dean carefully set down his gun, the click of metal on metal echoing in the small room. "You know, for all your impressive brainpower and encyclopedic knowledge, sometimes I think you overcomplicate things, Sammy. All this late-night research is admirable, but a little old-fashioned detective work might actually get us somewhere faster. Like, you know, talking to the people who actually knew the poor bastard." Sam hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He knew Dean had a point, as much as he hated to admit it. Sometimes, in his relentless pursuit of knowledge, he lost sight of the human element. "Okay, fair enough," He conceded, his voice grudging. "I'll check the local news archives, see if there's anything about Abernathy's background, his connections, any potential enemies he might have made."