(A/N: I haven't written in what feels like a million years, but this concept won't leave me alone. Seriously, it's been plaguing me for months. So I finally broke down and decided to roll with it, I do know what my writing was like before I stopped, though, so I'm going to set this on M so I can see where it goes without restricting myself... Personally, I prefer to read as close as possible to cannon, but my hands are a bit tied, as I haven't even started season 11 (no spoilers, I beg you!) due to my insanely busy evenings. So sad. Anyway, I don't want to give anything away, so, let's jump right in. Thanks for reading!

Good news, everyone! As of 1-11-2018, I am doing a rewrite. The more polished version is going up on AO3, same username as here! This one is staying as-is for any die-hard purists, but my writing is most certainly improved, and I have a quite compelling mundane AU with over a hundred chapters altogether over there as well.

Thanks for reading, it always tickles me when I log in here and see views on stuff that's a couple years old. Also, I have a very neglected tumblr and twitter, if you want to find me.)

"The flu? Are you kidding me?" Dean spoke loudly into the phone, his voice competing with the roar of the engine. "All the stuff that slows us down, and you're laid up with the flu? Get Cas to mojo you, and get ready."

"I'll be fine, but Cas took off yesterday morning, he was in a big hurry about it, too. I wasn't going to call him for this, but you might want to check in with him, in case he needs anything. It'll keep you from catching this. Believe me, you don't want it." Sam had stayed at the bunker while Dean had been on a simple salt and burn in Alabama.

"I'm stopping in Texas next, some kids went missing, not the party type, real straight-A nerds, I want to see what's going on. Are you sure it's not just a stomach bug? Because if you can get down here, I might end up needing a hand."

"I'll keep you posted on that, in the meantime, I'm going to get some sleep and run us out of chicken noodle." Sam said, getting off the phone in a hurry.

"Poor guy.." Dean muttered, dialing Castiel's number. "Like a week long hangover... Hey, Cas, Sam came down with the flu, and looks like we might have a case in Texas, any chance you can fix him up and get him down here?"

"I'm sorry Dean, I have a pressing matter to attend to, unless there is an emergency, I won't be able to leave just yet. Where in Texas?"

"You know what? It's probably nothing, just check on Sam for me if you can get back to the bunker before I do."

"Of course." Castiel said, lowering the phone and pressing a button to end the call. He turned his attention back to the woman at the table. Her face was blotchy, pale, and streaked with tears, tarot cards were strewn across the table in no apparent order. "Melissa, can you shift the focus of what's coming, send them to their father, while drawing the danger to yourself?"

"I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that," she said weakly, between what was left of sobs that had been shaking her entire frame a short time prior, "And if you help me, you're still not strong enough... We could both get hurt, then no one will be able to protect them."

At the bunker, after an obscenely long nap, Sam felt as though he might be up for another round of 'will it stay down,' and headed to the kitchen. Crackers seemed like a safe choice, and he wandered back out to find something, anything to read. He had spent the previous day binge watching, and felt like his I.Q. was melting. Dean had left a few books out on one of the tables, and Sam was running out of energy to continue standing, he was sure he'd find something in them as he sank into a chair.

Gods and Goddesses of India, Djinns, Mythical Creatures of North America... and John Winchester's journal. He picked up the journal, he hadn't seen this in a while, he knew Dean was probably keeping it around, somewhere safe, it had just become far less relevant since discovering the wealth of knowledge easily available thanks to the Men of Letters.

Sam acknowledged that it was probably just his fever, but for now, he felt a small twinge of nostalgic guilt, wondering about his father. They never got along, and there had been plenty of times when Sam wondered if his father had even loved him, but what besides his obsession over Mary's death, had made him tick?

Sam pulled the journal to him, rested his head in his hand, and began to flip through the leatherbound journal, only half paying attention, sticking the occasional cracker in his mouth and sipping some water.

He came to a familiar photograph of a blond woman with short hair, a firm expression, and toned muscles. Dean had described Tara to Sam after meeting meeting her as 'tough as nails, and kind of like a cougary Sarah Connor.'

Sam took the photo out and flipped it over. Scrawled in black pen across the top was Tara's name and the year, 1985. For some reason it seemed a lot further back than he would have guessed. He started to put it back but noticed more writing on the bottom of the tiny photo, mostly covered by his thumb. He set it down on the page to look more closely.

He mumbled around the cracker he was chewing, "Calls her... hm. That's smudged really bad."

His energy was almost gone. He desided to close the crackers and leave them on the table rather than trek back into the kitchen, which in his weakened, fevered state seemed like an a rather large and unnecessary chore.

Sam returned the photo to the page and closed the journal, finished his water, and headed back to his bed.