Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It owns me.

A/N: BEWARE! This story is unedited. You have been warned. Anyway, this was going to be a oneshot based on my E/O Challenge Drabble "Worn", but it kind of expanded itself. Expect three parts.

For those of you reading "Carry On", don't worry. I'm not stopping it, not even really taking a break. Just had to get this bunny out of my system for a few hours. For those of you who haven't read "Carry On", go read it. Read it now.

Hunter's Fatigue: Part 1

When John came home from a hunt weary, shaking, pale, and cold, Dean was ready for him. Warm blankets replaced the leather coat, mugs of tea or hot cocoa shoved into the older hunter's hands, shots of whiskey finding their way into them when Dean wasn't looking, but the boy knew. He'd learned early on that his dad didn't drink to forget like other men did, and as long as the alchohol helped him to sleep at night, Dean was okay with it.

Afterwards, John would talk to his boys, make up for lost time, ask about school, maybe. Sometimes he would break down in the process, and Dean was always there with a hug and a neverending stream of comfort. "It's okay, dad. It's okay. Me and Sammy are right here and that's all that matters." In those early years, Dean never spoke as much as he did when his dad needed him, and it meant something that he could help.

But there was one night when it wasn't enough. John had come home, had twice as much whiskey as he usually did, but it didn't still the violent shaking of his hands that sent the mug clattering to the ground. No amount of hugs could chase away the tremor that ran through his body, and even though John smiled weakly and told his son that he would be all right, the pale man that fell into the cheap motel bed that night was far from all right. Dean waited silently for him to improve.

The next day, while flipping channels, John all but jumped out of his skin when an old horror movie flashed across the tv screen and he grabbed the remote from his sons, grumbling that Dean wasn't even old enough to watch that nonsense, much less Sammy. John coughed loudly, then sneezed, then trusted the boys to look after themselves ("I don't want you turning on anything scary, Dean, that's an order!") while he took a nap.

The next day, John could barely peel his eyes open, and Dean was content to bring him whatever he needed. By that night, he wasn't eating or drinking anything.

Around midnight, Dean awoke to the unmistakable sounds of his father retching into the toilet bowl.

Dean panicked. He'd already lost mom, and he didn't want to lose dad. He couldn't lose dad.

Trembling, he grabbed the phone and dialed Pastor Jim's number. Jim arrived two hours later, smiling and gentle, assuring Dean that his father would be just fine; and he was.

o-o-o

"Man, I hate witches," Dean groaned "But that guy almost deserved it."

"No arguments there," Sam grumbled as they loaded into the impala. Shawn Decaulp had been a real piece of work. Dated a witch, dumped her, and got back with her only after he'd been married. Then he'd talked said witch into hexing his wife without telling her it was his wife. Thankfully, they'd managed to save her, but when the witch had found out... well, Mr. Decaulp was stuck in the ICU after suffering severe burns. They'd let the witch off the hook this one time, on the promise that she'd swear off magic forever.

Dean wasn't convinced, but after describing a little bit of hell, her promises began to sound a lot more truthful. But wasn't that just the trouble with witches? No one ever really deserved a witch's hex, but you couldn't just go up and kill one for it. After all, most witches were still human, which meant they could still be reached.

They could still be saved.

Dean sighed, easing into his seat before popping the key into the ignition. He's been sore the last few days, and it was hard to tell whether that was the job taking its toll or the fact that a flaming Mr. Decaulp had seen fit to throw him against a coffee table in his panic. Or maybe that haunting back in Massachussetts. That had been one nasty mother, and he hadn't felt quite right since.

"Dean, you want me to drive?"

Dean started and stared at his brother as though he had just grown a second head. Him? Give up the wheel?

"Good one, Sam," he grunted, shifting the gear into 'drive'. "But if we're gonna find out what's going on in that place in Virginia, we can't have you behind the wheel."

"Are you serious?" Sam blurted, his eyes widening as he put on the ever-famous, eternally-annoying, potentially-patented Sam Winchester Bitchface. "You already have another hunt lined up?"

"Yeah, well, don't wanna hang around this place."

He glanced in his rear view mirror as the witch's perfect, tidy house faded into a speck, relieved to turn the street corner and disappear onto a main road.

"Dean, I've been telling you, man," Sam groused. "We need to take a break. Two years ago you were begging to go on a vacation."

Two years ago I didn't have anything to atone for.

"Come on, Sammy, you don't really want to stop," Dean insisted. "Business is booming right now, and every day there're fewer people people in the business."

"Dean, even businesses have weekends off and a paid vacation."

That was three times in the last ten minutes that Sam had started off a sentence with the word 'Dean'. It meant he was seriously working himself into a tizzy and, really, Dean wasn't in any kind of a mood to put up with it. All he wanted to do was reach Virginia, take a hot shower, and drink enough of the good stuff to chase away the memories so he could catch a few hours of sleep. Sam glowered at the road, crossing his arms like the pouty teenage girl he was, and slumped in his seat. Dean would have sighed in relief if he hadn't been afraid it would set Sam off again.

The rumble of thunder rolled over them, followed shortly by a light shower of rain. Dean grit his teeth and flipped on the wipers, not bothering to slow down. Sam clenched his jaw, but said nothing.

As the city melted past them, Dean's head began to ache, like a tight rubber band had been wrapped around it, but after all that, he couldn't turn the wheel over to Sam. That would be giving in.

Minutes ticked by and, as though the aching limbs and the throbbing head weren't enough on top of the constant exhaustion that followed him wherever he went, a tickle ran through his chest and up his throat. He grimaced and swallowed it, earning a 'look' from Sam.

The tickle writhed in the back of his throat like some sort of worm, and the thought made Dean want to gag. And that quickly, he lost his fragile control and began coughing.

"Dean?" Sam asked, but before he could utter another word, Dean pressed the waiting cassette into the player and cranked the volume up.

"Dean, come on," Sam groaned over the loud wails of AC/DC, but Dean ignored him, focusing on the music. It was easy that way, and after a few minutes Sam gave up, sinking into a sulk as he watched the rain run along the window.

The coughs continued for another hour, and by the time the cassette ran out, Dean thought he might just fall asleep at the wheel. Sam watched him expectantly, lips pursed, brows raised until, at last, Dean pulled over on the side of the road. They switched and, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, he was glad for the chance to relax in the passenger seat, listening to the sound of the rain as it chased away the ache in his bones.

He didn't even feel his eyes as they slipped closed, but he sure felt the knife slicing across his stomach, sure as his name was Dean Winchester, sure as the grass back topside was green, sure as...

Hell.

He tried to scream, but blood filled his mouth and he could only gag and choke as it fell from his lips in a frothy foam. Gasping around the pain in his throat that tore like a thousand shards of glass, he pulled weakly at the hooks that held him in place as Alastair smiled at him, his inhuman face filled with twisted pleasure as he ran another knife, this one blunt and ragged, across Dean's throat. Or, he ran what looked like a knife against what felt like a throat. Everything shifted in a distorted haze, and the only thing that came through loud and bright and clear was the pain, the neverending pain.

Dean gagged, wide eyes searching desperately for something he could cling to, but there wasn't even a shred of comfort to be found in the pit.

"Do you want the pain to stop, Dean?" Alastair crooned. "Or do you maybe like it, just a little bit?"

Another blunt force pummeled into him, digging into his gut, clawing, tearing, ripping until he felt something give, something come out in a wet slap against his legs. In life, those would have been his intestines.

Dean's mind was torn, one half screaming, howling with an agony that could never be soothed, the other dully noting everything that was happening to him. What hurt the most, what took the longest...

"It can all stop, Dean," Alastair reminded him. "All you have to do is pick up the knife."

And, like magic, the glass was gone from Dean's throat. He stared at the shifting, flashing form of Alastair, and he ached for it. He wanted to be there, wanted to stop this.

He opened his mouth, uncertain of just what his answer would be, but all that came out was another fountain of blood and spittle, and he was choking on it again!

"Too bad."

Alastair raised the knife again.

"Gah!" Dean gasped, and the sudden motion set off another round of coughs, more violent than the last. He pressed a fist to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as his chest rattled with fluid, something wet dislodging itself from the back of his throat and slapping against his fist. A hand pressed against his shoulder, and he fought his hardest not to flinch away from the touch.

Sammy, it's Sammy, just Sammy...

But even as the coughing abated and he opened his eyes, he had to stare for a moment to remind himself that the figure before him was really his brother.

"Here," Sam offered, handing him a napkin leftover from some fast food restaurant. Wearily, Dean accepted it and wiped the mucus (not blood, no, it wasn't blood) off his hand, then he looked around.

They sat in the parking lot of a cheap Mom-and-Pop inn, with only two or three other cars to suggest the place was even populated. The rain had given way to a cloudy, clear evening, the first few stars just peeking between the fluffy gray sheets.

"Sammy, what-"

"I called Bobby," Sam explained. "He found someone to take over the hunt in Virginia. You need to rest."

"No," he groaned, but he didn't have it in him to really protest as Sam left (taking the keys with him) to get them a room. It was all he could do to keep from drifting off to sleep before his brother returned, key in hand. Sam opened the door for him, not daring to help him stand, and tossed him his bag. Dean grunted under the weight. Geez, he didn't remember loading the thing with bricks.

Irritated as he was that Sam had given the job away, he had to admit that it felt good to stumble into the shower of the motel which, thank God and all his angels except the really crappy ones, had hot water and complimentary soaps and shampoos. He nearly passed out right there, under the steady showerhead, except he knew the bed would be much more comfortable.

Wearily, Dean changed into a T-shirt and boxers, relieved that his aches and pains had abated for the duration of the shower. He was determined to reach the bed before they could return.

He stumbled forward a few steps, blinking against the dizziness that assaulted him. Must have taken too hot a shower, now he'd gone and thrown himself off...

He blinked, shaking his head as he wandered to the bed. Sam was still up, clicking away on his computer atop his own bed. Dean made to make some sort of snarky joke about it, but the jibe died on his lips as he fell back against his own bed, heat washing over him in nauseating waves.

"Shower's all yours," he mumbled, pulling himself up into a sitting position and reaching for the remote on the bedside table.

Sam didn't move. When Dean glanced up, his brother was giving him that worried, puppy-dog look. Brows furrowed, eyes widened ever so slightly as he worked his jaw, trying to think of something to say.

"Go on," Dean ordered. "You smell."

Sam hesitated, but when Dean flipped on the television and pretended to focus on the infomercial that came on, the younger Winchester reluctantly closed his laptop and headed into the shower. Dean allowed a shiver to rip through his body and tucked himself under the covers, despite the heat. It didn't help. The shivers continued until Sam returned, after what must have been the shortest shower ever.

"You okay, Dean?" he asked, his hand coming down. Dean deftly dodged the concerned forehead-touch and tried to shake it off.

"Yeah, hush. This is good."

Sam glanced back at the announcer on the screen, brandishing a set of silver cutlery before an awed audience. Dean couldn't have cared less, but he said,

"Bet you could take out some nasty sons of bitches with those things, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, returning to the laptop. Dean sank deeper under the covers, trying to fight the shivers that rattled his sore body. The announcer brandished the knife and, with a flourish, sliced straight through a cooked ham.

Dean's stomach lurched at the sight, his mind running to a thousand times like it, the carving of flesh from bone with neat precision.

Fighting a gag, he changed the channel, landing on some cop show. Gunshots reverberated through the room once, twice, and Dean had to change the channel again.

The Hallmark channel. Couldn't be too bad. Dean stiffened against another shiver, focusing on the screen. Sam's brows shot up into his hairline.

"Dude, seriously?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled. "This chick's hot."

And safe. Not matter how hard it tried, the true story of Becky's struggles with anorexia couldn't shake him to the core. Unfortunately, neither could it keep him awake.

Admitting defeat, Dean let his eyes slip shut, inwardly flinching at the darkness that waited on the other side. Just before he slipped back into the pit, he thought he felt a a cool, dry hand pressing up against his forehead.

Sammy. I think I need you right about now.

o-o-o

Will pick up next chapter. Tell me what you think!