Hey there, guys! This is my Supernatural fic, so bear with me.

Feel free to read, smile, and review!

1. Witching Hour 72

"This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you." – Chuck Palahniuk

The warehouse appeared in every way a tomb. The uninterrupted dark seemed just as capable of beating back the light as it had when they'd been here earlier, before the sun had set. Looming, dust-covered figures leapt gruesomely from the shadows like the twisted gargoyles of an old cemetery, though in truth the 'monsters' were nothing but bits of machinery, odds and ends that had been laid to rest in unfortunate formations. Certainly, the stench that hung about the place held a definite element of decay.

Only one thing that smells like that, Dean thought with a twinge of nausea. Every since his return from hell, it seemed like he and Sam had completely reversed in their roles. Suddenly, Sam had become the one willing to do anything to protect him from the scheming legions of hell. That wouldn't have bothered him as much – after all, Sam had learned a few new tricks for this war – if he himself didn't have to turn into a squeamish wuss in order to make it happen.

Cautiously, he picked his way through half-rotten boxes full of rusty forks and other utensils. The whole warehouse was one big breeding pit for tetanus and all sorts of other nasty bugs – and for what? Each room was crammed almost floor to ceiling with items the black market hadn't been able to find a use for – crates jammed with Japanese golfing magazines, barrels of black peppercorn now interspersed with mouse droppings, boxes of old-fashioned metronomes with fancy, handmade clock hands. In the last room, he'd stumbled across two dozen containers of moldy peanut butter and a lifetime supply of neon leg warmers, both of which testified as to how long it had been since someone had been in here.

However, according to recent reports in this area, the entity that had taken up residence in the old warehouse was much more a something than a someone, hence the presence of the Winchester boys. Pausing, Dean dug from his pocket the EMF meter he'd repaired since last hunt; the absence of light from the machine assured him the unsavory smell clogging his nostrils might be disgusting, but it was entirely normal.

Unfortunately, the source of the smell was made no less gruesome by this fact when he stumbled onto it a few minutes later. The corpse had been given less than a beggar's funeral, the completely white eyes staring blankly up at him; the man was partially concealed by no more than a miniature mountain of ballpoint pens, an entire box of which had apparently been upended over the body. Kneeling beside it, Dean reached out to examine the dark pool of liquid beside it; he jerked back his hand with a start as he felt warm stickiness adhere to his skin. Judging by the color, the blood was dry and several days old, but its texture and warmth suggested it had been spilt quite recently.

Rising quickly, he wiped the blood off on his shirt and drew his gun. Chances were, whatever had done this hadn't gotten far since. Briefly, he checked to be absolutely sure the bullets he'd be shooting were silver and properly equipped with salt – they'd had to swipe so many guns recently, he was never quite sure which ones they'd had time to 'upgrade.'

Suddenly, there came a noise from somewhere else in the warehouse. Ducking behind a mound of critter-nibbled bags of horse feed, he clicked off the safety, listening intently to the approaching footsteps. He couldn't help but jump when a voice came from within the room, familiar and embarrassingly loud.

"Dean?" called Sam. "Upstairs is clear. Let's face it, man, there's nothing h—"

With a cascade of quiet plinking, the pile of sharp, rusty old cutlery that had given Dean cause for alarm earlier promptly lifted into the air and threw itself at the distant doorway, where Sam had no doubt entered. With a yell, Dean broke cover, grabbing from a stack beside him a rather revealing poster of Marilyn Munroe and brandishing it before him as a shield. Estimating Sam's position, he stopped and braced himself as almost two hundred assorted dining utensils impaled the actress's smiling, posing form.

In a second, the barrage ceased, and Dean dropped the mutilated poster like a hot potato; staggering backward, he turned to see Sam, standing in the doorway, apparently unharmed and wearing somewhat of a dazed expression. Unable to form words as of yet, he blinked sluggishly, eyes moving from the skewered Marilyn to Dean's face, upon which disbelief was fading into anger.

"Excellent," Dean hissed. "Now that you've woken up every demon in the county, Einstein, can we get the hell out of here? Whatever killed our guy is still out and about."

"Out," repeated Sam.

"Yes, Sammy, out. The opposite of in." Seeing he wasn't getting his point across, he sighed in frustration and started forward, grabbing Sam by the arm and ushering him towards the door. It slammed shut an inch in front of their faces. Swearing, Dean turned and was astonished to see a sheepish grin on Sam's face.

"Do we have a plan B?" he asked with a grin.

Dean stared. "What's wrong with you?"

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Japanese golfing magazines, which had quietly shredded themselves into tiny scraps and were soaring forward, ready to give the boys a few thousand paper cuts from hell. He dove for cover, dragging Sam behind like a two-year-old in a supermarket. The sheaves managed to put a few decent holes in the steel sliding door by the time they ran out of oomph, leaving the two boys panting and flooded with adrenaline, but otherwise unharmed. Sitting up with a grunt, Dean cast around for Sam, and found him lying on the floor beside him with a content smile on his face.

"Come on, Sammy," urged Dean. "We gotta go. Now."

A childish whine escaped Sam. "I just want to lie here for a while. Come back for me later, okay?"

"WHAT?!"

Just then, the pile of horse feed started to jitter; pieces of grain started tumbling off the top, serving as the small stones that start and avalanche. The other assorted goods, all in their carefully assembled towers, started to shake. Even the floor started to rumble with some unseen presence. Somewhere on the far wall, a window shattered, adding glass shards to the miscellanea of the room. Dean's hand shot to his head as he heard a very familiar high keening noise. Grabbing Sammy's arm again, he heaved the both of them up and ran to the opposite side of the room, towards the hole left by the broken window. Ascending a staircase of pamphlets for swimming pools, he gave Sam a good shove, and he got the idea, jumping up and fitting himself carefully through. Casting one last glance at the vibrating room, Dean turned and dove through, regretting the use of his hands as leverage when he felt the hot lines of cuts open up on his palms. Nevertheless, he landed safely on the other side, and the two of them made off into the night towards the Impala, noting with a chill of fear that the warehouse stood still and silent as they drove away at speeds considerably greater than the posted limit.

--

"What the hell happened back there?"

These were the first words out of Dean's mouth once the Impala was safely speeding down the highway en route to town. He drove with a ferocity unparalleled, ignoring the fact that, despite all his griping about Sam having spilled soda in the back seat, he was now royally bleeding all over the steering wheel. Sam sat slumped in the passenger seat, staring out the window with a disinterest that Dean found staggering. He had by this point registered that what had happened didn't amuse Dean in the slightest, and so his expression was at least sullen.

"I don't know," he answered, quiet and evasive.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" Dean was livid. "Last time I saw you that messed up was when you got drunk." He paused and shot Sam a skeptical look. "You're drunk?"

"No," answered Sam, continuing to evade Dean's gaze.

"Well, then, what is it? You gonna tell me that every time we go out for a job I'm going to have this to worry about?"

"I don't know!" yelled Sam suddenly, turning his gaze on Dean at last with all the scathing he was capable of. "Jesus Christ, will you stop asking me?!"

"Whoa," said Dean, raising a hand and adding blood to the list of things staining the upholstery. "Take it easy, bro."

For a minute, Sam sat with his eyes closed. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "I've just been off a bit lately."

"You don't say," said Dean, then added more softly, "I've been worried about you. Tell me what's going on with you."

Opening his eyes, Sam stared at the dashboard with a strange intensity. "I had another nightmare."

Dean looked sharply over at his brother, a sudden knot in his stomach. Sam continued without prompting.

"Three days ago. I dreamt about a man in a darkened room. The room started to shake, and everything got really bright, and then—" he took a breath. "—and then his were eyes burned out of his head."

"But that's not right," pointed out Dean hopefully. "Our guy just went blind. His eyes were still there."

Sam shot him a look. "Yeah, but I mean, it was pretty close. How many people have dreams that come that close to coming true?"

Dean shrugged. "I think you're being paranoid."

"You want to believe I'm being paranoid," amended Sam. "But I haven't been able to sleep since. That has to mean something."

Dean very nearly slammed on the brakes. "Sammy, are you telling me you haven't slept for three whole days? Like, seventy six hours?"

"Seventy two," admitted Sam. "It's a sign."

"Yes," said Dean, looking at Sam in a new light. "Of insomnia."

Sighing, Sam looked once more out the window. "Maybe."

"Look," said Sam, "we'd better lie low for a bit anyway after what happened back there. Tomorrow, we'll find a hospital. Maybe you can get something for it."

"Pills?" offered Sam, clearly unenthusiastic about the idea.

"Hey," said Dean, shrugging, "This warehouse thing is going to be a bitch, I can tell ya right now; I need you a hundred percent. If it'll get you to be a hundred percent, I say it's worth a try. Besides, to not sleep for that long just isn't natural."

"Oh, and we deal with things that are natural so often," scoffed Sam.

"Touché," said Dean with a smile, giving the Impala an extra kick of speed. "Touché."