Author's Note: Hey everyone, I am trying my hand at a Supernatural fanfic and its my first one. To all of my faithful readers you know that I need reviews more than water so kindly drop a few. To any new readers the same idea goes for you because they are key to my motivation to write, so, if you like what you read then tell me and I'll continue. Hope you enjoy! Thanks!

Something was wrong with Dean. Of course, if Sam Winchester had a nickel for every time that thought had entered his head over the years he and his brother might not have to commit credit card fraud as often as they did. Even with this admission, however, Sam couldn't help feeling that this time Dean's moodiness and general withdrawal had more to it than simple Hunter's Syndrome.

Hell was always a possibility, of course. Dean had only recently informed him that he remembered the tortures he went through in the pit, despite his earlier assurances that his time there was a giant blank. The notion of his brother being ripped into over and over again made Sam sick to his stomach and he wondered what torture like that did to a man on the inside. Dean had made a big show of waving his ordeal off like it was no big thing, but Sam heard his agonized mutterings at night and had even woken up once or twice to the sound of his brother's screams.

Not that he'd ever mention this to his older brother. Dean wasn't exactly keen on the subject and if he ever learned that Sam had overheard him in his nightmares it was possible that the man would shut down entirely. His brother had a keep-it-to-yourself mentality in regards to anything even vaguely requiring some emotional commitment and Sam had learned the hard way that pressuring him into talking got him nothing but weary glances and sullen silence. And blasting music that made him want to claw his eyes out.

Even with Sam's new understanding of his brother's psyche there was something extremely off with Dean's behavior and he didn't really believe it had anything to do with Hell. No, this was something different. Something worse.

It started, he supposed, when they had traveled to the little plot of rural heaven called Harrison, Arkansas. The little town was no different than any of the other numerous havens they had frequented in their time together. The same plethora of eclectic townsfolk, the same mom and pop stores on every corner, the same little town square that held quaint events like line dancing tournaments and the town's yearly Crawdad Festival. And, if one were to ask Dean, the same diners serving the same cheeseburger and pie combo. Utter bliss.

Of course, not all was well in rural suburbia. If it was they wouldn't be there, slumming it up with the locals and sleeping in hard motel beds that Sam dimly suspected were infested with fleas. There had been five deaths in the past two weeks, which wasn't entirely odd, but each of them had been from drowning in the nearby Buffalo River.

According to locals the river wasn't horribly treacherous unless it's current was fueled by the numerous rainstorms that hit the area during the spring months. In fact, if one retired doctor named Chester Barkins could be believed, there was a spirit of an old miner that protected the children who frequented the river's sandy banks from the dangers of abandoned mineshafts and copperhead snakes.

A spirit was exactly what the Winchester brothers didn't want, especially if the spook had died in a mineshaft. It would be a bit unrealistic for them to think that they could salt and burn the bones when they rested beneath miles of rock and were blanketed by the dark, cold waters of the Buffalo. In their brief time there, however, they had not found any evidence that even vaguely suggested a haunting and as their time there lengthened both brothers found themselves nearly pulling their hair out in frustration.

Even Bobby, their trusted albeit surly mentor, couldn't come up with a logical explanation for the recent deaths. Of course, sitting still had never gone over well with Dean. He was a man of action and always had been, though Sam suspected that his brother wanted something to do only so he could keep his mind off other, less pleasant aspects of his life. Whenever Dean remained stagnant for too long he started drinking and a drinking Dean was never a good Dean, though he would argue differently.

"You bitch too much, Sammy," he would say. Or Sam's personal favorite: "Must be your time of the month, Sammy. Quit nagging like a suppressed housewife and grow a pair."

Sam grimaced as he sipped his coffee, watching his brother from across the table in the dingy little dive called Neighborhood Diner. Dean was munching away on his cheeseburger, making little mewling sounds of pleasure as he stuffed a large portion of the sandwich into his mouth and tore it off with his teeth. He caught his brother looking and immediately stopped chewing, seemingly unaware of the shred of lettuce that clung desperately to the side of his lips.

"Wha," he asked, mouth full of food.

"Nice," Sam sighed. "Didn't Dad ever teach you to chew with your mouth closed?"

"I wasn't chewing," Dean replied as he swallowed the gob of food. "I was talking. There's a difference. Besides, you were the one looking at me funny while I was trying to eat."

"Dean," Sam grimaced. "You don't eat, you inhale."

"Thanks, Dr. Phil," Dean muttered, looking down at his half eaten pile of food with slight disdain. "You ruined my burger, Sammy. What kind of bastard ruins another man's burger?"

Sam rolled his eyes and picked absently at the Cobb salad that Sally the Waitress had brought him. He liked Sally, if only for her ability to withstand Dean's rugged charm and corny pickup lines. Sam had almost keeled over with embarrassment at his brother's latest addition to his ever-growing repertoire.

"If you were a McDonald's hamburger," he had said with a sultry smile. "You'd be called the McGorgeous."

"Honey," she had replied in her sweet Southern twang. "I've got a husband at home with a beer belly and two kids who think their God's gift to the world. I'm a limited edition sandwich that will be out of your mind the second you walk out that door. I'll give you points for originality though. Now, what can I get you?"

Dean went back to his burger and chili cheese fries with the gusto of a dying man. Obviously, Sam had not ruined his brother's meal in the slightest. The younger Winchester continued to watch the eldest and couldn't help but feel the stirrings of worry in his belly at what he saw there.

Dean's eyes were shadowed, even more than usual and though Sam knew that a hunter lives on little sleep his brother had been burning the midnight oil a bit too much for his liking the past few days. It seemed like the older man had lost weight though how he could have possibly managed that feat Sam would never know. The thing that concerned Sam most about this little detail was that his brother didn't exactly have any weight he could afford. He was naturally small and though he was strong for his stature Dean wasn't a man who would ever be able to pack on a few pounds. His diet was testament to that.

Dean's eyes were glassy, not quite feverish, but not far off and Sam debated between lack of sleep and something more sinister as its cause. His brother's hands shook, not horribly but certainly noticeable, and he moved with a slow stiffness that suggested a dull pain echoing throughout his entire lean frame.

Even more concerning was the man's increasingly erratic behavior over the last two days. There were moments that Sam would speak to him but Dean was entirely unaware of him doing so. He would become agitated and defensive, then moments later be his normal self again with no memory of his previous behavior. Once Sam had even watched him trail off midsentence and stare blankly at the stucco wall of the motel room for over an hour before suddenly resuming his rant on the recent episode of Grey's Anatomy. Of course, when Sam had confronted Dean about his behavior the older man had scoffed, calling him dramatic and insisting that since he had no recollection of any of it then it couldn't possibly be true.

"Dean," Sam said quietly. "Are you feeling alright?"

"What," Dean asked, looking up at his brother perplexed.

"You just seem…you don't look so good," Sam sighed. "I think that maybe we should—"

"Not this again," Dean groaned. "I told you I'm fine, alright?"

"So you don't feel sick at all?"

"Sick?"

"Yes, sick. Headaches? Chills? Anything like that?"

"Jesus," Dean snapped, earning a glare from nearby patrons who clearly felt that their illusion of a family establishment had been shattered rather rudely. "I feel fine, Sam. Great in fact, now will you drop it?"

"You've lost weight," Sam continued, reckless with concern.

"What," Dean blanched. "No, I haven't. I wouldn't look this good in this shirt if I had lost weight, Sammy. You must be seeing things, or maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something. Maybe the self-confidence is getting a little low, eh? It would explain why you haven't had sex in months. Not since that cute little piece you had hidden in your hotel room the night I got back from the pit."

"Dean," Sam snapped, guilt churning in his gut at the thought of Ruby. "My sex life has nothing to do with this. You can't honestly tell me that you feel fine."

"Fine," Dean growled. "So maybe I feel a little bit under the weather. It's nothing to go hormonal on me for. Probably just a bout of the flu or something."

"Or something," Sam muttered. "Dean, you haven't been sleeping. Half the time you don't even remember the conversation we had five minutes ago and that is if I can get you to answer at all. Something is going on with you and I want to know what it is."

"Drop it, Sammy," Dean warned, tone bordering on dangerous. "Nothing is going on."

"But—"

"I said drop it," Dean snapped loudly, making more than one head turn in their direction.

Sam glared at his brother beneath furrowed brows and Dean met his eyes defiantly for a moment before returning his attention to his food. Sam hated it when his brother acted like this. It was like he was staring at a brick wall though he thought that a real brick wall would be easier to break through.

Then again, Sam reminded himself, it isn't like you are being entirely honest either. He hadn't told Dean about Ruby and he knew that his brother would never learn of the events that took place while he'd been gone if Sam had anything to say about it. His elder brother would never understand, but Sam would be lying to himself if he said that he truly understood his actions either. It was all about Lillith, of course, it had to be all about her. Otherwise, what he was doing was wrong and perhaps even a bit demented, but since he had a good reason—

Sam couldn't help but shiver at the thought of Ruby and all the things they had done together. He craved the blood she offered him like a drug and the smallest part of him wondered if that was a good sign, but in the end his conscience was kicked to the curb, allowing pleasure to overtake him in waves of lust and passion. There was no love there, Sam knew, and there never would be. His relationship with Ruby was something primal and so disconnected from anything he'd had before that he almost didn't recognize himself when he was with her. She would do this thing with the pads of her fingers and—

Sam swallowed hard and shook the thought away, feeling flushed and dirty beneath the bright wallpaper that featured doll-like cowgirls with fake plastered smiles on painted faces with rosy cheeks. The bell on the front door rang with an almost overzealous cheer and Sam grit his teeth against the onslaught of annoyance that briefly followed.

Turning in his seat, he watched the newcomer stagger wearily into the restaurant before plopping his rather large girth into one of the diner booths, belly popping proudly over the top of the table. He was a man that was made for laughter, all wrinkled smiles and a sparkle in his eye that reminded Sam of a picture of Santa Claus he had seen as a kid. Today, however, with arthritis crippled hands covering his face in grief and his sheriff's hat lying dejectedly and unforgotten beside him, Sheriff Walter Peterson was anything but happy.

The sheriff didn't seem to notice the two Winchester boys, though he had spent a great deal of time answering their questions with the sort of forced joviality that Sam had come to expect from local law enforcement when dealing with members of the FBI, fake though they were. His eyes were glued firmly to the table and he didn't stir until Sally came round the corner with a pitcher full of water and a sunny smile. It fell almost immediately after seeing his face.

"Walt," the woman exclaimed. "God, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The man said something unintelligible in reply and Sally frowned.

"Honey, you've got to speak louder. I can't hear you."

"The Collins boy," Walt said slowly. "He—Christ, what the hell kind of world do we live in where three year old boys drown in two feet of water?"

"Oh God," Sally said, paling visibly and sitting down in the seat across from Walt with a sort of dazed plop. "Jimmy Collins? Dead? Walt, are you sure?"

"I wish I wasn't," Walt whispered harshly.

"Poor Melinda," Sally cried, covering her pixie mouth with a petite, manicured hand. "And Johnny—he's already lost his little girl from his first marriage. Oh, Jesus, Walt!"

Sally started to cry, her mascara dripping down her face in little rivulets of black that left bitter trail marks across her pretty cheeks. Walt gripped her other hand tightly, as if she was a lifejacket in a stormy sea.

"Excuse me," Dean said quietly, suddenly appearing beside the grieving pair. "I understand if this is a bad time, but—"

"Damn right, it's a bad time," Sheriff Peterson growled. "Just because you're a Fed doesn't mean you can just barge in demanding answers any time you want."

"Walt," Sally said, shocked. "What on earth has gotten into you?"

"They come in here wanting answers to questions that don't make a lick of sense," Walt snarled, looking at Dean with something close to disgust. "I ask you, why the hell is the FBI interested in a few accidental drownings? Buzzards, the whole lot of you are nothing but buzzards, picking and pecking at people's pain for a few lousy scraps from the institution we call government."

"That's not—"

"You listen to me, boy," Sheriff Peterson hissed, standing up far more quickly then Sam believed capable and pointing a stiff finger at Dean's nose. "If I hear so much as a rumor that you went and bothered those poor people so help me God I'll—"

"Walt," Sally snapped. "Sit down before you have a heart attack. The man is just doing his job."

Walt stared back at her incredulously for a long moment then seemed to deflate before their eyes. He went from a fierce, wild looking cop to a withered, world-weary old man in seconds. He sat back down in the booth and stared up at Dean with a mixture of chagrin and sorrow.

"I shouldn't have said all that," Sheriff Peterson mumbled. "I'm sure you didn't mean any harm, it's just—"

"We're a family," Sally continued. "What happens to one of us happens to all of us. He was just protecting his own, is all. You understand that, right?"

"I understand," Dean replied softly. "But, it doesn't change the fact that I have a job to do. My partner and I are going to need to ask you a few questions, Sheriff. Take some time if you need it, but the sooner we can get this investigation wrapped up the sooner we can leave your town in peace."

"I'll answer them for you on one condition," Sheriff Peterson replied evenly, staring up at Dean with suddenly shrewd eyes.

"Sorry," Dean quipped automatically, mouth running away from his brain as usual. "I don't swing that way, old man, but I'm flatte—"

"Agent Barker," Sam coughed, interrupting his brother smoothly.

"Right," Dean said, blinking back at him. "Bad joke. Very bad joke. Don't mind me. What's your condition?"

The Sheriff stared at Dean for a long time and Sam could tell that his older brother wasn't entirely comfortable beneath the man's penetrating gaze. He shifted uneasily and the muscles bunched at the apex of his shoulders turned rigid with discomfort. His fingers twitched incessantly and his fists seemed to flex and release on their own volition, his brother seemingly unaware of his nervous tic. Sam, however, was very aware and frowned as yet another sign of Dean's deteriorating condition made itself known to him.

"My condition," the sheriff said after a moment. "Is that you stop bull shitting me about why you're here and tell me what the hell is really going on."

"Believe me," Dean sighed. "If only we knew."

The sheriff nodded, seeming to ponder Dean's reply. His eyes shifted to Sam and he narrowed them in thought, rubbing a pudgy finger down his chin. Sam couldn't tell what the man was thinking, but there was something the sheriff wasn't telling them, some tidbit of knowledge the old man was choosing to keep to himself.

"Son," he said finally, addressing Dean once more. "Tell me, do you believe in ghosts?"

Dean's lips quirked into a smile at this and Sam sent a fervent warning to his brother to not get carried away with his answer in his mind.

"Do you," Dean countered, small grin still plastered on his lips.

"That's not how this is going to work," Sheriff Peterson said with a shake of his baldhead. "I ask the questions and you answer, boy. Or didn't your parents teach you how to respect your elders."

"I respect them plenty," Dean replied, a small flicker of annoyance creeping across his face.

"Then answer the damned question," Walt snapped. "Do you believe in ghosts or not?"

"My personal beliefs don't pertain to this investigation," Dean said, mustering up every piece of acting gold he'd picked up from the various crime shows he watched.

"I think they do," Walt said quietly.

"Walt," Sally interrupted timidly. "Walt, what are you saying? Do you honestly think that a ghost is responsible for—"

"Hush, Sally," Walt ordered gently. "This is between our FBI friends and myself at the moment. Go get us some beers, will you?"

"Are you sure," Sally asked quietly. "You haven't had a drink in over—"

"Yes, yes," Walt said testily. "You're right, Sally. Thank you. Jenna would never forgive me if I fell off the wagon now. Bring me water, if you would. And these two gentleman a beer."

"On duty," Sam reminded the sheriff blandly, but Dean shot him a penetrating glare.

"Speak for yourself," he said. "Sally, would you—"

"Two waters and a cold one," she said with a small smile. "Coming right up, McGorgeous."

Dean flashed her a winning smile and she disappeared with a swish of her cotton skirt. He looked back down at the sheriff and his grin immediately fell and was replaced with what Sam was sure Dean thought was FBI stoicism.

"Tell me," Walt said the moment Sally was out of earshot. "How long have you worked for the FBI?"

"Ten years," Dean answered automatically. "Now about that ghost theor—"

"I'll get to that in a minute," Peterson interrupted. "How about you, Agent Carter?"

"Eight years," Sam replied mechanically.

"Hmmm," Walt sighed. "Interesting."

"What," Dean snapped. "This mysterious act is really starting to get on my nerves, Sheriff. Just say what you are going to say, will you?"

"I know you aren't FBI agents," Walt said, staring at them with an unreadable expression on his face. "In fact, I think you two haven't been honest with me about a damned thing this whole time."

"That's ridiculous," Dean yelped. "Listen, we've shown you our badges—"

"Shit," Walt drawled. "My six-year old grandson could make one of them things if he had the right tools. Just because you've got a badge it doesn't make you any more legitimate then a crow calling itself a hummingbird, kid."

"Call our superior then," Sam said, thinking immediately of Bobby and his dozen phones.

"I don't need to," Walt replied. "I already know who I'm going to get and I really don't fancy talking to that old fool with him jabbering on about you two being hell-begotten Feds."

Dean's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water for several seconds before he could finally get control of himself. Sam stared at the Sheriff like he'd been punched in the face and it took him a long moment to wrap his head around what the old man had said.

"I don't understand what you mean," Sam croaked.

"Bobby Singer has been playing that old ruse since you two were pups," Walt grumbled. "He must have the power of God on his side or something because I don't know how he hasn't gotten himself caught."

"You know Bobby," Dean spluttered. "Since when?"

"Since he helped me out of a tight spot about twenty years back," Sheriff Peterson answered. "My sister got herself possessed by one of those black smoke sons of bitches and Bobby Singer saved her life. He called me this morning and told me who you two really were, which isn't to say I didn't have my fair share of suspicions before that. He said that he'd owe me one if I kept you two idgits out of trouble and I figure he's done right by me, I can do right by him and if helping you means saving the lives of the folk down here then I'm at your disposal."

"Why didn't Bobby mention you," Sam asked in confusion.

"Dude," Dean said, shooting him a withering glance. "It's Bobby."

"Right," Sam swallowed. "Sorry. Earlier, the whole speech on us being vultures, I thought—"

"Oh," Peterson growled. "All of that still stands, son. Hunters aren't exactly known for their bedside manner, are they? You lot can be some cold sons of bitches when you want to be."

"Well, I don't care what you think about us," Dean purred happily. "This makes things a whole hell of a lot easier. Listen, maybe you can help us with a little bit of the local folklore around here and—"

Suddenly, Dean trailed off and lifted a shaking hand to rest against his stomach, grimacing in what could only be pain. His face was ashen and there was a fine sheen of sweat dotting his brow. He swayed slightly and put a hand out to steady himself against the table.

"Dean," Sam said, concerned. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah," Dean replied hoarsely. "I just—Shit, this feels bad."

"What," Sam demanded, looking from the Sheriff to his brother in a panic. "What does?"

"I think I might have eaten a bad hamburger or something, Sammy. I don't feel right all of a sudden."

"I thought you said it was the flu," Sam pointed out, rather snidely.

"I don't know what it is," Dean groaned, hugging his arms across his lower chest. "Damn it, let me sit down for a second. I just need to—sit, yeah, just need to sit."

Sam stood and reached a hand out to help steady his brother as he made his way over to the booth, but before they reached their destination Dean froze, clutching his stomach as he bit down on a cry of agony.

Suddenly, he coughed and Sam was horrified to see a great deal of blood spatter the shiny white tiles, marring the sheen surface in graceful arcs and elegant spatters like some macabre form of splatter painting. Sam was unaware of Sally dropping the glasses and the lone beer in shock, the clear stream of liquid mixing with Dean's blood in a shocking hue of pink. He was unaware of the little towheaded girl in a booth on the opposite side of the diner shriek in fear. He was unaware of Sheriff Peterson barking orders for someone to call an ambulance and to give them some goddamn room.

Sam was only aware of his brother sagging against him, all the strength suddenly gone from his legs. Dean's breath was harsh in his throat and he stared at the blood on the floor with a sort of sick fascination and dazed amazement.

"Is that mine," he asked, words slurring slightly, before wincing. "Jesus, Sammy, this hurts. What's happening to me?"

He slumped to the floor and if Sam hadn't been supporting him he probably would have smacked his head against the tile. His breathing was a harsh rattle and Sam supported his head so that his airways were clear. Dean's eyelids fluttered like camera shutters and Sam felt a fear so strong he could take the bitter metallic bite of it in his mouth.

"Hey," he all but shouted at his older brother. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't you dare pass out."

"Say," he breathed, smiling slightly with bloodstained teeth. "One hell of a cheeseburger, huh?"

And with that Dean's eyes fluttered closed and the Winchester man saw no more.