Okay, so this is my first attempt at a Supernatural fic. I only recently got into watching the show but I've really enjoyed it. Can't help but love Sam and Dean ;) I don't know how I really feel about this story, but I thought I would post it anyway, I've read so many super good SPN fics so I hope this one is okay, even though it's not nearly as good as some. This is a TeenChester fic, Dean is 17 and Sam is 13. The first chapter is a little slow, but it will pick up in the next one, I promise. I'd like to know what everyone thinks as this is my first fic writing Sam and Dean and I want to make sure I'm doing it right :) Hope you all enjoy!

Monster Calling

A Supernatural Fanfic

Chapter One

It started with a cold. Dean could feel it dragging him down as he was shopping in the grocery store for the next week's food and tried to push it off as he fought to remember everything he needed, but that all too familiar heaviness in his stomach and pain resting just behind his eyes made him know he was getting sick and he hated it. He didn't have time for this right now! Not only did he have stupid school to worry about, which, while he didn't necessarily care about his own grades, he knew Sam did and if they missed a day because of Dean Sam was not going to be a happy camper; but there was also the fact that their dad was on a hunt a few towns over and he had already been gone longer than he promised and Dean was getting worried. He couldn't afford to be sick because if Dad needed help, he needed to be sharp and on his game to go offer it. Besides that, what if he and Sam were put in danger? It could happen, it had certainly happened before, and though Sammy was getting to be a much better fighter, he still wasn't up to taking on some creatures alone.

He cashed out with the dwindling money their dad had left them, and tried to ignore the sympathetic look the motherly cashier gave him as he tried to refrain from wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. He took up the bags and left the store, walking down the street to the apartment they were staying in.

Dean had been surprised when their dad had actually gotten them a room in an apartment instead of a crappy motel. It was still crappy and he and Sam still had to share a room, but it was better than normal and made him feel a little more like they had an actual home.

He got to their room and fumbled for his key, having to balance the bags precariously and nearly tipped over, slightly dizzy. He cursed under his breath as he finally found the key and jiggled it into the lock, kicking the door open.

"I'm back," he called.

Sammy was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework, but he stood up to help Dean with the bags, smiling. His hand brushed Dean's as he took the bag and he frowned.

"You're hot," he said.

Dean forced a cocky smile. "That's what the girls think, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes at his big brother as he set the bag on the table. "No, Dean, gosh, I mean you're hot, as in, fevered. You feeling okay? Cause you don't look too good."

"I'm fine," Dean muttered as he set about pulling the groceries out of the bags as Sam went over to the door.

"You sure? Cause you forgot the key in the door and you never do that."

"Crap," Dean muttered as Sam locked and bolted the door properly. "Yeah, all right, I think I caught a cold or something."

"Flu's going around at school," Sam said, all too helpfully. "Rick and Sarah were out today from it."

"Oh, thanks, that's some great reassurance you got going, Sammy," Dean said sarcastically, but couldn't ignore the pounding in his head, and how much sicker he felt to his stomach with every passing minute.

"What's for dinner?" Sammy asked, rummaging through the bags as Dean tried to put the cold things in the fridge.

"Tomato soup and grilled cheese," Dean told him, throwing the loaf of bread at Sam who caught it with a smile.

"Great, I got some more homework to get done. I picked up yours too."

Dean snorted derisively. Like he didn't have a million other things to worry about besides algebra and literature. Once he had put all the food away he rummaged in a cabinet to find the first aid kit and dug out the bottle of Tylenol. If he was getting a fever like Sam said, it would be best to catch it now. Besides, his head was pounding even worse now than it had been before. He left Sam to finish his homework and after grabbing a cup of coffee with the hope it would aid his headache, he went to lay down on the couch and watch TV.

Sam joined him when he was done, looking at Dean pointedly until he pulled his legs up to give him a place to sit, growling under his breath.

"Did Dad call today?" Sam asked him.

Dean idly watched the game show on TV. "No, but he said it shouldn't take too long. He should be back within a couple days. Said it sounded like a shifter." He sat up, feeling uncomfortable and peeled off his over shirt. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"You really don't look good, Dean," he said unhelpfully. "You're eyes are all hollow and your cheeks are red."

"Thanks for pointing it out; what are you, my personal make up artist? It's not like I have a date tonight." Dean laid his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. They hurt, his head hurt, and his stomach felt even worse after the coffee. He distastefully put the cup aside. He cracked his eyes open as he felt a hand descend on his knee.

"You should rest, Dean," Sam said with a kind smile on his face. "I'm sure you'll feel better tomorrow if you get some sleep."

Dean didn't reply but he knew Sam was likely right. However, he felt too hot to sleep right then. "I think I'll take a shower," he said. "Then we can have dinner."

"Okay," Sam said and grabbed the remote from him, immediately flipping the station to something he wanted to watch.

Dean grabbed some clean clothes and went to take a shower, but found it didn't make him feel much better. He had planned to use the cold water to bring his fever down, but it hurt too much on his overly warm skin so he cranked it up instead to where he was only hotter when he got out. He looked into the mirror, seeing he really did look as terrible as Sam claimed. He sighed and got dressed then went to make dinner.

Sam heated the soup on the stove while Dean manned the sandwiches in the fry pan. His stomach gurgled dispassionately. Just the smell of the food cooking was enough to make him want to hurl, but he was going to have to try and eat something. Usually that made him feel better. Then again, if it was the flu, he'd likely just spend the night on the bathroom floor puking his guts up.

So he tried to eat as much as he could, but a few bites in, he realized it wasn't helping at all, and only made his stomach hurt. He pushed the sandwich away. Sam looked over at him with concern on his face.

"You okay, Dean?"

"Fine, just not real hungry that's all," Dean mumbled.

"What, is it 'that time of the month' again?" Sam asked with a smirk, thinking he was hilarious.

"Real cute, Samantha," he growled. But his stomach gurgled again and he decided he was not going to eat anymore. "You can have mine."

Sam didn't protest and finished Dean's meal after his own then hopped off to take a shower. Dean checked the time and realized he should take some more Tylenol. Even the act of swallowing the pills was nearly enough to push him over the edge. His fever had seemed to get worse. He felt like a baby crawling into bed so early, but to be honest, he didn't want to be anywhere else. He went to the room he shared with Sam and stripped to his t-shirt and boxers and crawled into his bed with an involuntary groan, burying his face in a pillow.

Sam came out of the shower, his longish hair wet, and stood by the foot of Dean's bed.

"You gonna need a bucket?" he asked.

"Just go 'way," Dean groaned into his pillow and Sam went to his own bed, slipping under the covers.

"All right then. Good night, Dean."

He flipped the light off, but Dean was already asleep, exhaustion finally winning over. He only barely remembered that he had left his rifle out in the kitchen but he was too tired to care right then, even with the thought of his dad tanning his backside if he ever found out. The fever was burning and sleep claimed him.

He woke sometime in the night with his stomach hurting and he rolled over onto his side with a groan, curling around himself. He heard a stirring across the room and a sleepy voice saying, "Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth…oh crap. He threw the covers back and raced for the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet.

He leaned against the toilet seat and rested his head on his arm, moaning. He heard light feet padding into the bathroom and felt Sam's presence.

"Go 'way," he groaned.

But Sam stubbornly stayed and wet a washcloth in the sink, pressing it to the back of Dean's neck. Dean was silent, but he had to admit it felt good. Sam patted his shoulder.

"You'll be okay in a few days, Dean," he said reassuringly. "You want me to help you back to the room, or are you done yet?"

"Think I'm gonna stay here," Dean mumbled, swallowing hard as he felt his stomach flip over again. As the feeling became too much to bear, Dean pulled his head up with a groan and rose to his knees, throwing up again. Sam rubbed his back and let Dean lean against him as he fell back, exhausted and shivering.

"How come I'm so damn cold?" he asked, as his teeth chattered.

"Don't know, that's just how it is," Sam said, washing his face off with the washcloth. Dean was in a bad mood; he hated being sick, but he couldn't find the heart to snap at Sammy. His quiet, sure ministrations were a comfort. In the past, Dean had always been there for Sam when he was sick, and now it seemed his little brother was returning the favor.

He felt a moment of regret when Sam stood and left the bathroom suddenly, wanting to call him back, but obviously not wanting to, because he wasn't a baby and he could take care of himself. But, even though he would never admit it, he was really glad to see Sam come back with a blanket from the room.

He grabbed a towel from the cupboard and rolled it up, setting it on the floor and then wrapping the blanket around Dean's shoulders. Dean still shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around him as Sam pressed him down.

"Put your head on the towel. You can at least try to get a little sleep," he said.

"You know, Sammy, if I wanted a nurse, I'd get a hot one," Dean told him with a small smirk and listened to his little brother's long-suffering sigh as he shoved Dean onto the floor and tucked the blanket tighter around him.

"Just shut up and go to sleep."

"Bitch," Dean mumbled, making a face.

"Jerk," Sammy retorted par normal.

But Dean closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off again, not entirely against his will. He was aware of Sam sitting next to him for a while and then he finally gave up and fell into a deep sleep.

The next time he woke, it was to a sound coming from the outer room. Dean sat up with a groan, his body aching and shivering with the fever, his stomach sore from throwing up. He looked around with bleary eyes, and realized finally why he was sleeping on the bathroom floor. His stomach still hurt, and he felt hotter than he had before. The fever must have set in, but at least he hadn't thrown up for a while. But why had he woken? His mind was still fuzzy.

Then he heard a sound again and it was unmistakable now. Someone was at the door.

"Sam?" he called, his voice so weak, it barely carried. Sam was no longer in the room; he must have gone back to bed. Dean hauled himself to his feet, reaching for a weapon and remembered with derision that he had left his gun in the kitchen earlier. He cursed and searched the room for something. The only thing he found was a plunger.

"That's great, Dean," he muttered to himself. "Some ghost of ghoul comes in and you're going to suction sup it to death."

But he felt better with something in his hands as he pushed the bathroom door open all the way and made his way out into the hall. He could hear someone moving around inside now, and knew that whoever had been at the door had come in. Even though he was sick and could hardly keep his feet, the only thing he could think of was making sure it didn't get to Sammy, even if he had to play roadblock to do so. He just wished he hadn't left his gun in the kitchen.

He saw the dark silhouette in the living room, fumbling around, and he stood his ground, clutching the plunger dangerously. He thought he probably looked ridiculous. Maybe the intruder would die laughing.

"Stop!" he shouted and the figure froze. "Who are you and what do you want?"

"Can you turn on the damn light?" the irritated figure asked.

Dean frowned and fumbled at the wall, finally finding the switch. As the light flooded the room, he saw who the intruder was.

"Dad!"

Well, hope this wasn't too terrible! I usually only post stuff on the weekends, and as I have other stories going as well, I probably won't get the next chapter of this up until next Friday. Until then, if you enjoy Hobbit fics, you can check out my other stories :)