A very old story I wrote for some school assignment.

Very AU.

Warnings : Horror. Blood. Vomit. Character death.

Spencer was sleeping soundly. A hefty book with 'Astrophysics' printed on the spine lay open on his chest and his thick brow-line glasses were slightly crooked on his face. Dean wondered how the book wasn't crushing Spencer's bird-like frame as he lifted it with great difficulty, shaking his brother awake and handing him the map. Dean hadn't wanted to wake Spencer, as he knew sleep was hard to come by, but he needed his brain.

"Well?" Dean asked. "Where are we, genius?"

Spencer snapped without looking up, "Just keep going straight. I think."

Dean ignored him. His brother was a touchy little bitch when he wanted to be. But given the circumstances, it wasn't like he could blame the kid. He still felt a pang of guilt every time he thought of what Spencer could have become. With a brain like his, he could have made millions. He'd been studying his PhD in Engineering at CalTech before it all started. Before the world effectively ended. He would have been the youngest in his graduating class too, only sixteen. Dean could bearly remember being sixteen. it seemed like a lifetime ago. Back when the grass was green and the sky was clear and all he had to worry about was keeping all the girls he was dating from finding out about each other's existence. Spencer's voice pulled Dean out of his thoughts.

"Can't we just, you know, hide? Like everyone else?"

Spencer liked to think the sudden population decrease was down to 'hiding'.

Dean shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, the other one clutching the steering wheel like a stress ball.

"No." He said, probably too sternly. "We've been over this, kid. We're the only hunters left."

"You don't know that. How do you know that?"

"Spencer."

"What? Haven't you noticed that hunting these - these things - is a lot different from hunting deer with dad? Two of us against a hundred of them? We don't have a chance! We'll end up sacrificing ourselves trying to save the others..." He trailed off, shrugging and looking out the window, despondent. "What's the point? They'll win in the end."

Dean chose to ignore Spencer's last comment. He couldn't handle the dramatics. No matter how many times he told Spencer he'd keep him safe, he still didn't seem to believe him.

"The Greater Good, Spence."

Spencer shook his head, refusing to make eye contact.

But after a while, he tapped Dean's arm. "Dean...I...I think there's something out there."

Dean could feel it too, eyes burning into the back of his head. Even over the engine of his gas-guzzling American Muscle, he could hear their giant footsteps and the gravel road underneath them shaking as they came closer.

"Dean..."

"Dude, relax. It's just -"

He was interrupted when the Impala hit something hard. Spencer shrieked, forced against the back of his seat.

They found themselves frozen, the one tonne car at a complete stop and shaking as the - the something - scraped along the undercarriage like nails on a chalkboard. Then as soon as it started, the scratching stopped.

"We must have hit a deer." Dean lied, looking out the window, praying to see a mangled animal carcass and nothing more. Instead, he noticed something else. A dark shadow, soaking into the gravel road and spreading out, like a glass of red wine spilt on a dark grey Berber carpet. It was close, and Dean sat transfixed.

He turned to warn Spencer to keep quiet, but instead, he was met with a face full of broken glass as the passenger side window was smashed, and his brother was dragged from his seat. Spencer's converse-clad foot was briefly wedged between sections of the broken window pane until the beast pulled again, and Dean heard Spencer's ankle snap like a twig under the strain. Then his brother was gone.

He told his body to move. To do something. But nothing happened. He watched helplessly as his brother was encircled by them, his frail body humorously small in comparison. Then it was like some violent dance, limbs convulsing as his soul was sucked from his body. Scales appearing, creeping up his arm and leaving his skin cracked like hardened, melted wax. Blood pelted down over the boot of the car, as if it was being baptized in the liquid. And Spencer screamed no more. Even from such a distance, Dean saw his brother's glazed, green eyes close.

The beasts disappeared, and finally, Dean was able to move. He felt for his shotgun under the seat and fought against his belt that was suddenly far too difficult to undo. This wasn't happening. He'd seen countless men, women - even children - murdered by them. But this was different, Spencer was his brother. His vision blurred, he felt sick. He moved to Spencer's seat and pushed the door open, falling out of the car and on to the gravel road. He felt a sticky, familiar warmth on his hands. The streetlights were off - they had been for months - but aided by the moonlight, Dean was able to see the vibrant, crimson red that coated his hands.

He crawled towards his brother. The boy lay beaten, broken, helpless. He looked so damn small. Dean gripped the sides of Spencer's face and ran his thumb over his cheeks, wiping away the blood that was streaming from his eyes. There were several flesh wounds on the boys arms, and another on his chest. They'd feasted on him, turned him. Dean must have interrupted them before they could kill him. But being turned was a fate worse than death. Dean saw his brother laying unconscious on the ground, but he also saw a monster. He couldn't ignore the green scales, evidence he was already one of them, and when he really looked, Dean understood it meant that everything human about him was already gone. There was no 'Spencer' left, there was only a beast that would soon be taken over by the desire to kill. To hunt the innocent. Dean couldn't let that happen.

"Son of a bitch!" He swore, thumping his fist into the road, and not caring when he brought it up bloodied. He'd failed his brother, he'd promised to keep him safe and he couldn't. Dean's chest ached, his stomach churned again, and this time he was sick. His throat burnt, his eyes too. "You're all I got, Spence." He choked.

Spencer groaned and cried out in agony, the venom coursing through his veins. His too white, too sharp teeth glistened.

Fangs.

Dean cradled Spencer's head, carefully removing his brother's glasses and setting them down beside him. He was blind without them.

But Dean didn't want him to see.

Spencer looked around, dazed, as Dean stood on shaky legs. He hesitated before he lifted his shotgun slowly, cocking it. He felt like a farmer, taking the old cows out the back when their milk dried up. He tried not to think about the fact it was his brother laying on the dirty road.

One shot.

Right between the eyes.

Dean had always had impeccable aim.

"The Greater Good, Spence." He tells himself out loud, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself cry. "You understand."