"Got something?" Dean asked when he opened the motel door to find Sam hunched over the table, staring intently at his laptop. He set the coffee down and slid Sam's breakfast sandwich over to him.

"Thanks," Sam acknowledged. "And yeah, I think so. Check it out." He swiveled his laptop so Dean could take a look.

Dean sat down in the chair across from his brother. Sam had an article pulled up from theNew York Times. "Whoa, hold up," Dean said. "You found something in our wheelhouse that made national news?"

"Maybe."

Dean squinted as his eyes adjusted to the screen.

"'Return of the Black Death?'" He read the headline out loud, frowning at the obscurity of it. He flicked his eyes at Sam. "Seriously?"

"There've been three cases of bubonic plague already," Sam told him pointedly. "All in Cincinnati, Ohio. Two have been fatal and one is heading in that direction."

"I thought that disease died out. Like… isn't it eradicated?"

"No, that's actually a common misconception," Sam explained. "It's rare, but there are still about 10 cases per year in United States."

"So if this thing's still around, why are you so sure this is our type of gig?"

"I'm not," Sam admitted, reaching for his coffee. "But there are some things that don't add up." He took a sip.

"I'm listening."

"Well, for one, all the victims were employees at the Cincinnati Art Museum."

"Okay," Dean said slowly, unwrapping his breakfast burrito. "So maybe that's where they contracted the disease. Maybe the museum has a rodent problem. Don't people get the plague from rats?"

"Fleas, actually. Sometimes carried by rats. And the CDC is stumped, man. They can't find any trace of the genome of the bacteria on the museum's property. Or anywhere in the city for that matter."

Dean took a bite out of his burrito and chewed, mulling it over

"That's not all," Sam continued. "All of the cases in the U.S. in the last ten years have all been contained to the west coast. Cincinnati is midwest, closer to the east coast than the west coast."

Dean acknowledged that was unusual, sure, but supernatural?

"And," Sam said pointedly, letting Dean know that he was on his third and concluding point. "In this day and age, the plague is actually very treatable with antibiotics, as long as it's caught in time. And all the victims reportedly sought medical attention as soon as the symptoms began."

"Did the article shed any light on why the treatments might not have worked?" Dean asked.

Sam pushed himself back in his chair, leaning on just two legs. "Nope," he said with a sigh. "Like I said, the CDC is stumped." He raised his eyebrows at his brother. "So what do you think? Case or no-case?"

Dean wasn't sure what to think. There weren't any clear-cut signs that pointed to the supernatural, but to be fair, they'd hit the road for a lot less. Dean exhaled and ran his hands through his hair. "I dunno, man. It kinda seems like you're fishing."

Sam lowered his chair back to all fours and propped his elbows on the table. "It's quiet out there, Dean. Yellow-eyes has completely fallen off the radar... Ava is nowhere to be found... And this… This is the only thing I could dig up that even remotely resembles a case." He shrugged. "I think it's worth looking into."

Dean licked his lips, fairly certain that Sam wouldn't agree with what he was about to say. "Or maybe we lay-low for a few days," he suggested, as casually as he could manage. He closed the laptop gently and calmly waited for Sam's reaction to his proposition.

Sam stared at him incredulously for a few moments. "Why in the world would we do that?" he asked finally.

"Because, Sam, you've been high-strung ever since Cornwall and that Pierpont Inn gig." Dean craned his neck so that Sam would meet his eyes. "You've had us chasing case after case – and that's fine, it is – but you're running on fumes, man, okay? And if you want me to choose between a 'maybe' job and you getting some decent rest, well I'm gonna have to vote for the latter, kid."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"Look, I get it, okay? I know you think that the more people you save, the more you can change your… your destiny, or whatever…"

Dean still shuddered when he thought about the words that were exchanged between the two of them that night at the Pierpont Inn. Sam had been drunk, sure, but all that had done was let Dean see a glimpse into what Sam was really thinking. He saw how poorly Sam thought of himself when he begged for Dean to kill him. And worse, he saw how complacent and relieved Sam became when Dean promised he would, just to get the kid to shut up. Sam had truly given himself a death sentence if things were to get out of hand – if he couldn't change his so-called "destiny."

"…But you're going to run yourself into the ground before you get a chance to do that," Dean finished softly.

Sam scoffed. "I appreciate your concern," he said, in a tone that conveyed quite the opposite. "But you're wrong, Dean. I'm not running myself into the ground. Hell, hunting is the only thing that allows me to get any sleep at all, man. I need the distraction."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. That and booze."

Sam's features turned hard. "This isn't a joke, Dean."

"No, Sam. It's not."

Tit for tat.

His brother closed his eyes and spoke softly. "Dean, please."

Dean loathed that six-letter locution. "Please" truly was the magic word, and Sam knew it and abused it. Dean could never say no to a Sam Winchester "please."

Especially when they were accompanied by those damn puppy dog eyes, which Sam just happened to sporting right now.

Dean scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Okay, fine," he relented. "We'll check out the museum. Get to the bottom of this plague business. But I have some conditions."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched up. "Naturally."

"First, there will be no unnecessary monologues about famous artwork or the artists who painted said artwork, because frankly, Sam, I do not give a damn about what you learned during your art history course at Stanford."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, I figured you got enough of that in New York with Sarah."

"You can say that again." Dean cleared his throat. "Okay, second – and lucky for you, last – condition: It's a seven-hour drive to Cincinnati. You, little brother, will be sleeping the entire time. Even if I have to drug your ass."

Sam pondered this. "Sounds manageable." He extended his arm so he and Dean could shake on it. "Deal."

They finished their breakfast, packed up, and hit the road.

TBC…