Title: Two Cents Worth

Notes: I'm not sure if I like this story yet, but we'll see. Furthermore, Eric Kripke is the creator of Supernatural, not me, and Two Cents Worth is also the title of an awesome Kansas song. A special thanks to Jessica (no, not that one!) for helping me edit a bit.

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"Your vision? Sucks."

"I'm terribly sorry, Dean--next time you can have the vision."

"I should! At least with me we'd end up in, oh, I don't know, the Bahamas, or Las freakin' Vegas, not some creepy ass basement of some creepy ass rundown building."

Ah, well, it was getting late, and our sleep-deprived boys were getting quite cranky.

"No, if you even had visions, they'd only take you to where there's trouble."

"Dude, no, my visions would totally love me."

"Right, man, and the Bahamas? I'd love to see you get on a plane again."

"Aw, shut yo' mouth."

And if there were any chance the demon they were looking for was eavesdropping, it would probably decapitate itself by now in utter gratitude of not having to hear the goddamn Homo sapiens bitch at each other anymore.

This was supposed to be a weekend of rest—and the second Sam announced that, he had jinxed them; not even halfway through dinner when he was suddenly painfully whacked in the head with… a vision. His fork had clattered onto the table and he grabbed awkwardly at his forehead through his bangs, his face scrunched up in agony. Not again…

Even now, hours later, he still wasn't sure what he saw. The vision was distorted, almost static-y. However, he had made out the form of someone, hunched over, like maybe they were wheezing or crying, and what he presumed was a demon, what with the clichéd glowing red eyes, angry scowl, mutilated skin, and abnormally long limbs.

Luckily, he had gotten a quick glimpse at the outside of the building—an old factory that probably shut down in the early 90s. Sam recalled passing it when they first rolled into town, but then he hadn't gotten any strange vibes. But, hey, there's the story, and now the Winchester brothers were wandering through the maze-esque basement, flashlights out, guns cocked.

Ten long minutes passed as they aimlessly pranced around, both bored and overwhelmingly exhausted. "Maybe it… maybe I was wrong." Sam had hesitantly admitted, not believing his words for a second. His visions had never given him a reason to doubt them, and Dean knew that, which was why neither one put down their gun, or slowed down their pace.

"And to think we'd ever pass up this excitement for a weekend of "relaxation and peace."" Dean grumbled, lazily flicking his flashlight on and off, perhaps to gather attention. He twisted around the words Sam had earlier used in his pitch to convince his brother that they needed a weekend off from "the endless game." Sam noticed, and, of course, wasn't amused.

"There was someone in that vision, Dean. Someone is here and needs our help. We… we… stop doing that!" He reached forward, shoving Dean's shoulder. This had just tempted Dean to stare him straight in the eyes and continue turning his flashlight on and off, on and off…

"You stop doing that." He pushed back Sam's shoulder in the same harmless manner, his fingers wrapped tightly around the flashlight, which was now on the 'on' position. The younger brother shot his elder an exasperated look, and Dean smirked, waggling his brows suggestively as he nonchalantly slipped his gun into his coat pocket.

Sam smiled humorlessly, looking a bit peeved. "You're such a—" His mind suddenly went blank. His flashlight slipped from his fingers and dropped onto the ground, still on. It was as if the quips that usually rolled off his tongue so easily suddenly got wedged between his teeth, and he blinked, confused, and looked down at the ground, an itchy pain located between his eyes.

"Sam, you all right?" Dean switched to concerned brother mode, and his eyes shifted around suspiciously, one hand grasping his little brother's shoulder. "A vision? Is that what it was, Sam?" His voice got deeper and gruffer as he went on with Sam not answering. Sam finally looked up, staring into Dean's narrowed eyes, his lips slightly parted.

"N—no, actually…" Those familiar glowing red eyes came into his line of vision behind Dean's shoulder, his bottom lip quivering slightly when he realized that it wasn't a vision. "Shit, man, look out!" He shoved Dean back, grabbing a fistful of the back of his clothing to twirl him around. The sudden motion caused him to lose some balance, and he stumbled back into Sam.

"Well, hello there handsome." The cool metal of his gun was back intertwined within his fingers, fitting there with such ease, like the gun and his hand were part of a two-piece puzzle. The pair of red orbs floated closer in the darkness. "I suppose it's not going to invite us over for some—"

"Enough Dean, shoot! Shoot first, and make wisecracks about it later, all right?" When the hell did Sam get a John tone of voice? Dean flinched at the thought, grasping the gun tighter, his finger wanting so badly to squeeze that trigger, baby, but—but he couldn't. He sputtered out four different curses at once, blinking rapidly, trying to fire his freaking gun. "Dean?"

"Give me a second!" The older male snapped venomously; his face faintly flushed. The eyes came closer, and closer, and closer, and his hand began to shake with such strain. He heard Sam rattle off his name a few more times, but ignored him, glowering at the demon, knowingly. "You Sonofabitch."

An unusually soft voice violated Dean's mind. Put down the gun, Dean. I've---

Something changed. The room temperature, which had been reasonably comfortable, suddenly dropped and it became damn near cold. It was as if the wind had shifted directions. The red eyes flickered, replaced by void darkness, but the demon still lingered there, his deformed body still detectable in the shadows and shades of dark. The strong scent of sulfur invaded the air.

A piercing shriek caught Sam off guard, and his head whipped back like he'd been punched in the face. He grunted in pain, staggering back, his eyes tightly shut. A trickle of blood escaped a nostril, barely noticed when he opened his eyes to see the demon lunge at his brother, who had been standing in front of him like a shield. He quickly picked up his flashlight.

"No!" Oh, god, no. He watched in horror as Dean fell hard to the ground, immediately rolling onto his back. He shone the light at his brother—his family—and when he saw the claw marks that now painfully decorated Dean's chest area he felt enraged. He tore his hardened gaze away from Dean and up at the demon, which merely stood there, like it was waiting. Waiting.

But in the blink of an eye, cold fingers attacked his neck. What the hell was the obsession with his neck? He fought back, arms colliding, and he kicked at it, punched at it, feeling the gun still clutched in his hand, but it was like his hand had suddenly gone numb, and disobeyed any orders.

"You're really getting on my nerves!" Dean's voice seemed to have roared out of nowhere. Sam blinked, getting shoved to the ground, and tried to figure out which one of them Dean had been talking to, since it worked both ways, or so he figured. "Do something, Sam. Pretend it's a spoon, dammit!"

Breathlessly, Sam looked up, watching the silhouette of his injured brother fight with the demon. A spoon? Yeah, like Sam had any luck with the whole telekinesis deal since he had moved that cabinet. He had forgotten about that, and hoped Dean had as well, but no such luck.

Suddenly, that tingling in the back of his head faded away, and Sam wasted no time raising his hand in the air, and shot at the demon, who had just thrown Dean against the wall, and had been standing over him, still. Dean slumped to the ground, looking a little dazed, but the sound of bullets being fired woke him up. The first, second, and third bullet struck it in the chest, and it snapped forward with each attack.

Dean cursed up a storm as he got to his feet, staring down the demon's, whose bright eyes were now back, and glowed more brightly than before. He raised his own gun, seeing to it that he finished it off, but it was suddenly pushed up against him, its bloody wounds against his, and it grabbed each side of his head. Vertigo stuck through him like lightning.

Sam cried out when he heard the choking noises Dean started to make, and dropped his gun, knowing he couldn't risk shooting it now with it so close to his brother. He pushed himself to his feet, and clenched his jaw as he forcefully separated the half-dead demon from Dean. Both of them fell limply to the ground once he tore them apart.

"Oh, god, Dean? Dean, look at me, Dean, look at me." He positioned himself hunched over him, and lightly slapped Dean's cheek. "Come on, big brother. Say something." He begged in a breathless whisper. What had the demon done to him? You know, other than the gashes in his chest.

A deep sound erupted from Dean's throat, sounding irritated, and vaguely sounded like 'Sam'—at least, to Sam it did, and that was enough. His eyes went from the blonde to the demon a few times, because in all his years of this shit, Sam had learned that sometimes, being dead wasn't being dead enough.

"That's it, you… you jerk, you. Just tell me…" His hand now cupped Dean's dirty cheek, and he exhaled sharply, trying to control the wheezing breaths that his overworked lungs managed to produce. That's when it hit him, and he froze, his eyes widening. His damn vision. He looked down to find Dean's glossy eyes staring right back at him. "I… we… shit."

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With his mouth scrunched pensively to the side, Dean gingerly touched the side of his head. The sides where the demon had grabbed him were tender, and felt like a nasty sunburn. He half-expected to wake up to two bald spots—oh, boy, wouldn't that have been just his luck?

"All right, I found some gauze—would you stop pacing and sit down? Geesh, man." Sam walked out of the bathroom, holding a white first aid container. He frowned at his brother, and even lightly wrapped his fingers around his elbow, leading him to the bed. When Dean attempted to resist, he pushed him down on the bed, carefully, albeit impatiently.

"I love it when you get rough." He kicked back, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling while wearing a smirk. He let Sam probe at his torn shirt—he had earlier peeled off his jacket—and listened carefully for any hitches in his breath. He had to go by Sam's reaction, not his words. Dean never was one who wanted the sugarcoated truth.

"What… what is… the demon's blood? Black?"

"Were you expecting it to be a sparkly fuchsia color?"

"It's all over you, Dean."

"So? A lot of things get all over me." He lifted up his head (and when the hell did it start feeling like it packed on a few extra pounds?) as Sam left the room and came back a moment later with a sponge and a pale orange bucket that was filled halfway with water. "What the hell—you're going to give me a sponge bath now? I thought we'd at least wait until after—"

"Shut up." He set the sponge in the bucket, and then set the bucket besides the bed on the ground while he worked on getting the shirt off Dean. "You could sit up for this you know."

"Why, so you can have easier access to my mouth?" He tried to bat his killer eyelashes, but his head in general felt screwed up, so his eyelids ended up looking a bit twitchy instead. He propped himself up on his elbows, and then slowly shifted into a sitting position. The chest abrasions were shallow, and unknown to Sam, were the least of his problems.

"Shut up." Sam repeated in a mumble with an eye roll, moving forward to take off his brother's shirt, but Dean scoffed, slipping the long sleeved shirt off himself, and then followed that movement by pulling off the t-shirt that was under the first one. He put a steady hand on one shoulder as he leaned in, examining the, while thick in width, shallow cuts. He bit down hard on his lower lip, noticing the black and red crust that outlined a few (there were ten all together) of the wounds. Their blood mingled…

"You're holding your breath." Sam felt the hot breath hit against his forehead, and he heard the faint trace of amusement in Dean's voice, but he just suddenly felt out of it as fear clutched at his heart. He looked up, his worried and guilty gaze meeting Dean's, and the older male recognized it instantly and looked away. Sam would blame himself for world hunger if he could.

"Am not." Sam stubbornly stated through a long exhale.

"Were too."

"Were—oh, bite me." He used his hand that was still on his brother's shoulder to lever him down, and with his other hand, he reached down off the bed and pulled out the sponge from the pail of warm, soapy water. Dean tensed up before the sponge touched his flushed body, and really didn't look quite happy about this. He asked why they couldn't just sprinkle a little holy water and call it quits, but Sam hadn't really answered his question when he replied with, "the holy water comes next."

"You sadistic little bitch."

"Hey now, I could be cleansing these wounds with a steel wool pad." Keep the mood light. Sam silently urged himself. Just keep the mood light… Everything would be fine. The scratches were shallow, but they had bled, and a battered Dean had messed with bleeding demons before. Hell, many times before… right? "I'm going to have to scrub a little, man, so this is going to—"

"Hurt. Ah, just bring it, dude." Dean's eyelids started to droop. He raised an arm and waved his hand. "They're a bit itchy, too, so put some muscle into it, 'k?"

Sam worked diligently on his brother's chest for over fifteen minutes. The water in the pail was now tainted a grayish color, and the once yellow sponge was stained with gray and pink. The older hunter's chest was cleaned and raw. With uncertainty of the situation, he decided one more time wouldn't do any harm, but that was when Dean just had to crack, "well, you know Sammy, I hope demons aren't positive," and Sam dropped the sponge.

"If there's one person in the world who could do it, it would be me. Yeah. I'm the only person in the world who could ever manage to get infected by a demonically-transmitted—"

"Shut up, Dean, shut up." Sam pushed himself off the bed so heavily and quickly that the bucket tipped over. The pink carpet turned a deep red where the water spilled. Dean's eye went from it and up to his brother's, and he asked, raising his voice, "what the hell's the matter with you?"

Sam knew something was wrong, that something was off—he knew it, and he could feel it with every fiber of his being. It scared him, it really freaking scared him but Dean would never understand. He couldn't understand—he'd just blow it off, and Sam was not about to let that happen.

"Nothing's the matter with me." Sam finally answered, his voice calm and even. But what's the matter with you?

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'Shut up, shut up, shut up…'

Breathlessly, he staggered into the small bathroom, the door closing shut with a soft click behind him. He was breathing heavily through his nostrils, grinding his teeth distractingly, and he relaxed against the door, his chest heaving, his shoulders hunched forward. The palms of both hands were pressed against either sides of his head, his eyes now tightly shut, and his forehead deeply furrowed.

The healing wounds that decorated his chest constricted painfully when he slid down the doorway into a sitting position, hissing in pain. His hands were still clamped against his head, and now beads of perspiration popped up along his hairline. His breathing became more erratic and he fought to control it, but his blood and brain demanded their full fix of oxygen.

"Jesus Christ." He swore in vain, the pain in his head getting worse and worse. Voices mixed together and overlapped each other, each one louder than the last. Some whispers, some screams, some pleas, some—

'Shut up, shut up, shut up…'

He pushed himself up, the wounds re-expanding on his chest, and he scrambled to the tub where he hastily turned the metal shower knobs on full blast. Small blobs of unusually dark blood peeked through his gray t-shirt, and he gasped for air, unable to even make his own coherent thoughts in the mess that was his mind.

'Shut up, shut up, shut up…'

He closed the shower curtain in one quick movement, nearly tearing it off. He turned around to the sink, turning both faucets all the way. He needed to drown everything out. On the ceramic counter was a small radio, and he even turned that up, the volume blasting, not even caring what station it was on.

'Everyone shut the fuck up!'

He fell to his knees, his handsome face scrunched up in pain. He collapsed forward onto his wounded chest, barely feeling the physical pain, and hummed. He hummed any song he could think of, one after another, as loudly as his voice box would allow. Water escaped from the side where the curtain curled and ended, and sprayed against the side of his face, and country music boomed from the plastic radio, but he concentrated only on his humming, and slowly succumbed to the pain.

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The sheets stuck to his skin like wet Velcro. Sam pulled himself into a sitting position, a headache throbbing at his temples. His hair, lightly damped with perspiration, was matted to his forehead and the back of his neck. When did it get so warm in here? He made a mental note to turn on the air conditioning.

'Shut up, shut up, shut up…' He blinked once, twice. Memories from his… his vision… or maybe, his nightmare, flooded back in quick flashes. He hunches forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, a palm pressed to his forehead. The air in the room felt so thick, and his skin felt warm and clammy. 'Shut up, shut up, shut up…'

"Dean." His brother's name croaked from his throat, and though he meant to call it out as more of a question, it was a statement, and his head shoot up. Dean. Even with his mind racing, he pushed away his headache, the vision, and turned on the lamp between the two beds. The light flickered several times as his eyes trailed over to the opposite bed.

Dean stirred enough in his sleep to roll onto his back, flinching at the suddenly exposure of light, so Sam quickly turned it off, not wanting to wake him up. What was that all about? Sam wanted to ignore it, say it was just a nightmare, but it wasn't—it had felt so… real. He bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Sam let out a shaky breath, getting up to turn on the air before he returned back to his bed, his eyes still fixed on Dean. Finally, he sighed, turning around his pillow, and he lay down, facing the older hunter. How does one tell their brother that they had a vision of him—in absolute agony?

His eyes fluttered closed, but minutes later, he opened an eye, glaring down at his wristwatch. His hand was positioned under his chin, his fingers curled inward. The ticking of the watch annoyed him, so he tugged it off, lazily tossing it onto nightstand. Tick, tick. He tried to settle into slumber again, but so much was nagging at him.

I'm here, Dean. He silently promised. For you.

But from learned experience, he wasn't sure if that would suffice.

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