Author's note:

Once upon a time, from a continent six thousand miles away, my l'il sis e-mailed me and said she had this scene in her head, a story prompt that I could use. The funny thing is, I'd had the same premise but needed the right scene to set the tone for the whole thing. (Cue two weeks of me turning it on its head, and here we are.) Coincidence? No. Sisters being sisters who are really quite scarily attuned to the same eccentric frequency? I think so. I might also think that she's the moral-compass-holding bitch and I'm the facetious, dumbass jerk. Some days.

For my sister. Cos she 'gets' me.

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One

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"Status report?" she asked curtly.

"All engines smooth at half capacity, Skipper," the female engineer reported immediately. "A slight imbalance in the starboard renal hold - too much ballast."

"Right." She turned and walked across the red, bouncy grating to the side wall. She reached out and took the mouthpiece from its hook, clearing her throat before flicking the side switch. "Pilot to Renal Control."

A beat. Two. Then the communications channel crackled into life with another female voice. "Renal Control."

"We're reading too much ballast in your starboard hold. Is there a problem?"

"Aye, Skipper. We've requested a flush but it's not been confirmed. We're looking to re-balance the sides ASAP."

"Who are you waiting on?"

"Ah…" There was a pause as readouts were consulted. The voice became more confident. "Renal Control is a go, Logistics Interface is a go, Impulse is set to default… There's no physical reason for the delay. It must be an Action Pending or some kind of intervention from EP."

"Right. Monitor the levels. If the balance isn't redressed before it reaches critical, we'll go for an emergency evacuation of the starboard hold."

"Right you are, Skipper. Renal Control out."

The Pilot slid the switch the closed and hung the comms piece back on its hook. She put her hands behind her back and turned with thought. She looked back at the young woman manning the monitors, her dull red jumpsuit looking even darker in the overhead lights, and then crossed the slightly bouncy red matter to see the read-outs for herself.

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"So I'm thinking this werewolf is--. Will you stop jigging about like that?" Sam snapped from the passenger seat.

"Can't help it."

"You should have gone before we left."

"Don't start, Sam. I'll be fine."

"Then stop wriggling!"

"Just go over the notes, alright?" Dean growled.

"Fine!" Sam cried, glaring at the driver's seat. He tried to ignore his elder brother's right knee as it appeared to shiver up and down inside of his jeans. Instead he flicked the map out straight in his hands and cleared his throat. "Right. The werewolf has to be based at the school - Bobby's covered half of this place already, and he reckons one of the teachers could be--"

He was jerked forward. He gasped in surprise and dropped the map to clutch at the rapidly approaching dashboard. "What the Hell--" The Impala had already screeched to a halt.

He heard the door creak open on the driver's side and looked over to see Dean hopping out of the car. Sam sighed and began to fold the map a little smaller, listening to the car idle. He caught sight of his brother's back disappearing slightly into the brush at the side of the road. Sighing, he pointed his Maglite down at the map, the interior light helping to make out the town centre within the faint red circle he had drawn on it.

A few minutes later and Dean re-appeared, much calmer, sliding back into the car and squeaking the door shut.

"Feel better?" Sam asked, pre-occupied.

"Yeah."

"Dude, you were ages. How much coffee did you drink?"

Dean ignored him, revving the engine before sliding her into Drive. He checked his mirrors and pulled back out onto the road. "So carry on, what we doing here?" he asked quietly.

Sam slid his eyes to his brother, thought for a moment, and then pretended to look back at the map. "You… ah… feeling ok?" he asked lightly.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Cos that's like the fourth pee-break you've taken in an hour," Sam pointed out, his voice still havering around 'careful'. "Either you're actually drinking water like it's whisky, or you got a problem, dude."

"Just work out how we're gonna find this wolf when it's not going around advertising the kills it makes," Dean groused. "How do we kill it?"

Sam kept his head pointed down, but his eyes slid over again to gauge his brother's slightly red face. I hope that's anger and not a physical symptom, he realised. A sick Dean is the last thing I need. "We ah, shoot it," Sam said with deliberate sarcasm. "Or did you forget about the two boxes of silver bullets we just picked up last week?"

"I know that," Dean grumped. "I meant how do we find it? Is it a straight lure or something more complicated?"

He's defensive, Sam observed. Aw crap. There might really be something up with him. Great. "I don't know yet. Why don't we find a motel, hole up for a night and come at it fresh?"

"Sounds good," Dean nodded, accepting the olive branch for now.

Sam folded the map neatly, sniffing innocently as he looked out through the front windscreen. "When you see the first turn on your right, take it," he instructed. "Should take us into town. There's bound to be a motel there." He looked back at Bobby's circle on the street plan.

"Super," Dean allowed. The car rumbled on until Dean glanced at his brother. Another minute, another glance. Then another one.

Sam dropped the map into his lap and turned in the seat, glaring at him. "Ok, what?" he demanded flatly.

"Nothin'," Dean managed, but his chin tipped up too far as he tilted his head left, watching the road. Sam continued to stare. Eventually Dean's gaze fell level again. "Just… Do you ever wonder… why we're bothering?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He reconsidered. He frowned but his eyebrows were going with concern. "Bothering with what?" he asked carefully.

"Well… Werewolf hunts. When the world's going to end anyway," Dean said quietly.

"The world's not going to end - we'll stop it," Sam said firmly.

Dean snorted mirthlessly. But he said nothing.

Sam stared for another minute. Then another. But Dean appeared to be oblivious of the car and in fact anything that wasn't the road in front of him.

Sam turned round and sank into the seat. His eyes slid to his brother in a way that conveyed an entire encyclopaedia entry on Worry. He looked back at the map.

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"Pilot, this is Renal Control," came the overhead call.

She turned and walked straight over to the comms piece. She whisked it up and slid the switch up. "This is the Pilot. Report."

"We've established balance between port and starboard renal holds," came the crisp reply. "However, we have a problem."

"Well?"

"Adrenaline Control reports interference from EP with flush and replace," was the answer. "We've double-checked and it looks like it was the cause of the renal hold imbalances over the past twenty-four hours."

"Check all other stations for instances of interference or imbalance - and I want to know how they relieved the problem and what EP has to say for itself. All data is to be forwarded to me up here ASAP."

"Aye. We're also showing signs of another imbalance building up - port renal hold."

"Holey pores, girl. How much needs to be flushed?"

"It's negligible, much less than should be a problem, but with the other stations also near capacity it needs flushing soon before the pressure builds too high."

"Get on it. And… Keep me informed of any more ballast trouble with the renal holds. This doesn't look good."

"Are we expecting trouble, Skipper?"

"With this vessel? Always," she replied dryly. "Get to it."

"Aye, Skipper."

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Sam opened the motel door only to be pushed aside by Dean. He dumped his duffle on the bed before making a beeline straight for the bathroom. Sam frowned as his brother didn't even bother to close the door properly before relieving himself in as fast a manner as possible.

"Dude - do you have to?" Sam protested.

"No, I thought I'd force myself," Dean snapped back. "What do you think, Einstein?"

The tinkle of water stopped and Sam heard a zip before the door shut completely. He tossed his duffle to the bed farthest from the door and plonked himself down. "Seriously, you alright in there?" he called.

"What are you now, the Pee Police?" Dean shot back above the sound of taps running.

"Whatever," Sam muttered. He peeled off his jacket and then bent over to his trainers, unlacing them and letting them fall to the threadbare carpet by the side of his bed.

The bathroom door opened and Dean appeared, his face creased by worry but not saying a word. He managed three words to his brother before stripping down to shorts, shoving everything off his bed and rolling in with an entire rain cloud hovering above him.

Sam watched him bounce onto his left side to put his back to him. He got up and put his hand on the table between the beds, leaning over and clicking off the lamp over Dean's headboard.

Dean didn't react. Sam could almost hear the breath frowning out of his brother and sighed with unease.

An hour of checking notes and maps later, and Sam himself turned in for the night.

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"Skipper, we have the reports," the younger girl said from the bank of monitors.

"Assessment?" she pilot asked, crossing the red decking.

"It looks like a system-wide problem," she managed, shocked. "Renal Control is having problems due to the shunt from the Detoxification Centre. They're working double-time but can't compensate - it's all coming down from Adrenaline Control," she added.

"It's system-wide?" the pilot asked, putting her hand on the desk and the back of the girl's chair, leaning in to look at the main screen. "How can than be?"

"I'm not sure, Skipper. I've never seen readings like these."

The pilot straightened, putting her hands behind her back. "Bundle the reports. Seal them 'Urgent'," she instructed. "And send them to High Command."

"Skipper?"

"Now. This sounds like it will very soon be an emergency."

"Aye, Skipper." The girl tapped away at her keyboard.

The Pilot took a step back, sweeping her gaze around the hard-working crew members, every one female, bent to their tasks. She thought back over the years, the decades, the stress and strife, the battles they had won, the near-misses and actual direct hits…

"Wait. Belay that order," she said suddenly. She took a step back to the rear of the girl's chair. "Show me Stress Central."

The girl nodded, her blond pony-tail bobbing to and fro as she worked her terminal. "Here, Skipper."

The pilot bent to see. "Hmm. Stress levels are way up across the board. Do you have the report from Cardiac Services?"

The girl's fingers flew over the keyboard and she bent to see over her shoulder.

"And you say there's no mechanical or physical reason for this?" she mused. "Interesting. I think we have our reason." She straightened and thought for a long moment. "Collate all the reports. Create a timeline so I can see all incidences of emergency purges, spikes in levels, anything out of the ordinary - all together."

"Aye, Skipper."

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Sam heard a crash and a shout and jerked awake. His hand was around the gun under his pillow before he felt something pulling at his blankets.

"Goddamn--!" a voice hissed. "Like hidin' out in a friggin' kindergarten! You'd think the Gigantor and his freakishly deformed feet would be able to sling his swamp-boats on the other side of the goddamn bed!"

Sam let himself relax, correctly realising his brother had tripped on a wayward shoe and collided with his bed. He pushed his elbows under him and looked down his blankets in the gloom.

"So what's this? A pee break or just stretching your little legs?" he said maliciously.

"Screw you, that's what this is," Dean retaliated as he bumbled into the bathroom and closed the door.

Sam sighed and flopped back to the sheets, trying to stop the tension creeping up his spine.

He was asleep before Dean emerged from the bathroom, negotiated the obstacles in his path, and made it back to his bed safe and sound.

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"Skipper?" the girl called. "The overview is ready for you."

"Good work," she said approvingly, crossing the dark red flooring. She stopped behind the chair and read the display slowly. "This, however, is… not good."

She stood, thinking for a long moment, before crossing to the comms piece and taking it down. She pushed the switch on the side and took a deep breath.

"All hands; this is the Pilot speaking. We have a Code Yellow situation. I repeat, we have a Code Yellow situation. All hands to stations. Allstation heads to their comms. Stand by for orders from High Command. Pilot out."

She hung the mouthpiece back on the wall, crossing to the monitors again.

"By all that's holey," she sighed, shaking her head. "We'll need High Command to navigate us out of these treacherous reefs."

"Can we… Will we be alright, Skipper?"

The Pilot looked down at the girl on duty. "How long have you been here, girl?"

"Three months," she said immediately. "I replaced Iota-Five."

"Ah yes. She was good. You are too," she nodded. "Well, Iota-Six, listen to me very carefully." She looked around the small operations centre, straightening her shoulders and lacing her hands behind her back. "In fact, all of you listen to me very carefully."

Female heads and pony tails moved and bounced until every monitor-watching crew member had their full attention on her. She cleared her throat.

"I have been the pilot of this vessel for thirty-one years. I have seen all kinds of trouble, all manner of high seas, rocky shores - not to mention hostile creatures that I'm not even sure existed once we were shot of them. But there's one thing I am very sure of."

"Yes, Skipper?" Iota-Six asked hopefully.

"I am not watching the good ship Dean Winchester go down because we didn't jump-to when needed. This is not going to beat us. This will not be our iceberg."

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Thanks for reading, people. :) We're off again - weeeeee!