To be perfectly honest, I have no idea how long this is going to be... I have some idea of where I want to go with it, but, I'm wondering how well I'll be able to do that. I guess we'll see? At any rate, thank you for checking out my story! I really hope you like it. Have any suggestions?

"Here."

Sam reached out, catching the Gatorade bottle with both hands. He set it beside himself on the ugly, puke-resembling carpeted floor. The motel was quiet, for the most part, except their neighbor's bathroom was just on the other side of their room's flimsy wall, and it sounded as if too many bean burritos had been had all around. Sam let his head thump back against the bed's wooden frame. His usually smooth light brown hair was in disarray and red rings circled his eyes, hazels that had lost their spark over the duration of the bug he had caught. Only two days ago all had been well, John had been out of town on a hunt, Dean had been uncharacteristically pleasant, and Sam's teachers hadn't been threatening to call CPS. Which, that had been happening often, ever since the young teen had started hunting. So yes, things had been going well. Until he woke up with a fever at two in the morning, and was throwing up by three.

That had put a damper on Dean's mood, too. He'd fallen behind in school, and their father was on his way back, saying they were ready to hightail it out of Wisconsin. Sam sighed, and suddenly regretting doing so as his stomach roiled, threatening to send what little dinner he had eaten back up in a tsunami. The thirteen-year old groaned at the mental image (Or the feeling, but probably both) and clapped a hand over his eyes. "I hate my life."

There was suddenly a flurry of motion beside him, but he didn't open his eyes to investigate. He already knew who it was, and what they were doing, and why. Dean's hand gripped his bent knee and a shoulder rubbed up against his as someone sat beside him on the floor, back also leaning against the rickety bed. "Don't be a princess, Sam – drink. You barfed up your electrolytes."

"Thanks," the younger breathed sincerely, cracking open the orange lid and putting the rim to his lips. The liquid felt cold against his throat, and pushed away most of the nausea. He was unexplainably grateful for that last bit.

"And tomorrow we'll go out for chili dogs slathered in dripping, greasy cheese…" Through his peripherals Sam could see his brother close his eyes in bliss. In response, he elbowed the man in the ribs. Hard. A satisfying grunt of pain made him crack a smile (more of a smirk, really). "Did you keep down the soup?"

"Yeah. I feel like I went a round with a truck. Or a house."

"One of those mobile homes?"

"Too small, dude. Too small. Think…" Sam's voice grew strange, coming from the back of his throat, "bigger." He tiredly motioned with his arms.

"Hey," Dean began, a grin plastered on his face, and Sam should have taken that as a warning, "Nothing on me is small."

Sam blanched and wrinkled his nose. "Dean…" It came out more of a choke than he would have liked. "No, I'm not even going to dignify that with a reply. But I hope you go to the Confessional next time we're at Pastor Jim's." The older only laughed.

"I'm gonna get coffee from the lobby – don't die while I'm gone," Dean kidded, already pushing off of the floor again.

"Dude, I can take care of myself," the teen grouched his reply, visibly rolling his eyes.

The older brother disappeared through the ugly motel door, and Sam stared vacantly at the microwave clock. One minute turned to two, the red letters flipping by. It seemed to be taking Dean too long, but maybe Sam's internal clock was just off now. Yes, that was definitely it. He couldn't wait to sleep again, and… Well, just sleep. He was trying not to think about food, drinking was hard enough as it was. One step at a time, and he was opting for baby steps. His head lolled forward and he let out a miserable groan; his limbs were still quaking, his muscles quivering from the near-constant vomiting.

A knock on the door made him flinch. Dean wouldn't knock, would he? Sam's thoughts were already rushing. But, yes, if he had gotten more than just a coffee and couldn't open the door himself. The thirteen-year old still snatched the 45. off of the bed and set the drink down, moving to the door and standing on tip-toe in order to look out the peep-hole. Someday he was going to be taller than Dean, he promised himself that much. Dad always said he would get taller eventually, and just give it time, son.

No one stood outside of the room. He frowned and rocked back on his heels, still gripping the handgun tightly. Was it just some prank? He hated pranks. He locked the door and moved back to the bed, over the mattress and dropping himself onto his back with an unhappy sigh.

The knock came again, and this time he was both annoyed and concerned. He stood again, his body angry with him for moving so soon. If it was a prank… A surge of anger sat in his heart, but he kept it at bay. Then again, if it wasn't a prank, what was it? It could be any number of things. Or maybe it was just Dean, having a good laugh. Yeah, Sam would kill him if it was.

Still, no one was outside the door. The hairs on his neck stood on end, something niggling in his brain, a feeling he often ignored as it felt… Like a creature desperate to crawl out of his skull by any means necessary, ready to ruin him to protect itself. He wouldn't have known how to describe it if asked, and, Dean had asked him before. His failed attempts at explaining had made him the brunt of even more teasing than usual.

With a swallow, he suddenly began to hope that it was in fact his brother playing a stupid prank. More than that, he wanted Dean to show up. Now. This was starting to freak him out.

He checked the salt lines.

He looked for his flask of holy water, the one that John made him carry.

He checked the gun's magazine then slid it back in, tapped it, and racked the slide.

His nose whistled as he breathed in. C'mon, Dean, he mouthed, his eyebrows drawn together. The knock came again – what on Earth?

"Yes?" Sam spoke, keeping the wariness out of his tone. He hated being suspicious, cautious at every turn.

"I need help," a young woman's voice came back through the door, and it sounded as though her teeth were clattering, "my car broke down, I've been trying to get someone here to help me b-but they're all asleep, or… Or something. I'm sorry, I just need help. Maybe to use your cell? Then I'll get out of your hair."

Sam took a moment to think before he tucked the gun into his jean's waistband, then proceeded to pull his phone from his front pocket. He fiddled it distractedly before unlocking the door and pulling it open, looking both ways until his eyes met a pair of bright green ones. The young teen offered her a smile. "Hey, you know, my brother's pretty good with cars, if you wanna wait around for a few minutes? He just went to get some coffee from the lobby."

She looked torn. "I…I think I'll just call a tow truck. Sorry, I have trouble trusting people." She gave a smile of her own. Oh, Dean would love her, definitely. Sam inwardly snorted.

"Yeah," he agreed, "Me too. Here." With that, he reached his arm out, offering the phone to her. "I'll wait here while you make the call."

"Oh, thank you, I was scared no one would help." The girl's green eyes swam with tears and Sam gave her a slight nod just as she turned around, dialing a number and then holding the mobile up to her ear. He tried not to eavesdrop as she began speaking, but still, it was hard, being so close.

"…Come…? Oh, no…" He glanced down the long walk from the room to the main office.

"Yes, please… Thank you."

She flipped the phone closed and turned, handing the phone back. "Thanks so much."

"Yeah, course. I'm Sam, by the way."

Her smile was welcoming, it was the first thing he really noticed about her. She had long black hair and pale skin. "I'm Dany – it's nice to meet you, j-just wish it were under dif-different circumstances."

Sam worked off his jacket, "Here; you're shivering."

Gratefully Dany accepted and the tears sprang back into her eyes. "I can't thank you enough."

It really was cold outside. He kept from hugging himself – when the fever had broken, he had been left feeling too cold. Still.

Where was Dean? It really didn't take that long to get coffee from the lobby. He looked anxiously towards the main office, deciding if he should stay to make sure Dany was all right, or check on his brother. He was probably just flirting with the woman behind the desk, she had been pretty, Sam remembered that. The wind ruffled his hair and he didn't stop himself from shivering.

Squealing tires pulled his focus back to the present. He jerked in surprise, looking out towards the parking lot – a blue van with an ugly fish painted in white on the side was coming to an abrupt halt. He automatically reached for the handgun in his waistband, but stopped himself just inches short of the grip. It wouldn't do well to brandish it when both Dany and her friend were standing nearby. A feeling of unease prickled at his senses and he found himself stepping away from the others, saying,

"I gotta check on my brother, seems he got lost trying to find the coffee machine. I hope your car gets fixed."

The woman locked onto his eyes, her expressing falling, and if he didn't know better he would have thought she was disappointed. He offered a smile as recompense and held up his hand in a half-hearted wave. Sorrow and anticipation flashed through Dany's eyes, he saw that much, he was fairly good at reading people, but to be fair she didn't give any other odd signs. She returned the smile and tossed out a quiet 'thank you again' then turned back to her friend, speaking in quiet and hurried tones. Sam couldn't help but notice the glances towards his retreating back.

Someone was getting out of the van, he saw them in his peripherals but paid them little mind. Both John and Dean had taught him to be mindful of his surroundings, though they hadn't really needed to – he was generally aware of everything a little too much.

"Hey, Sam!"

Dany? He spun on a heel to face her as she came jogging after him. "I forgot, I was going to tell you…"

Running footsteps behind him, he reached for his 45.

Pain lanced through his head before he had even fully turned – a flash of white, his face rushing to meet the concrete. His nose cracked, and it was the last thing he was completely aware of; everything else was a blur of darkness and hands and falling.

His head hurt.

And God forbid he ever admit it aloud, he was scared, because when he woke again he was faced with too many painted eyes staring down at him, and they were on horrible, wretched and disfigured faces hidden behind smiling red lips, snow-white skin and ridiculously unnatural hair.

Why, why did Dean leave?

Not to beg, but, your reviews are precious to me and... Well, you know? *Grins*