Kiss of Death

Chapter Two

Disclaimers: Not mine. I asked for them for Christmas but Santa must not have heard me…

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Sam rang the doorbell a second time while Dean tugged on his tie like it was a noose. The door swung open and a man about Dean's age filled the doorway, baseball cap pulled low, two-day stubble gracing his narrow face. "Yeah?"

Dean flashed his ID and returned the card to his jacket pocket. "You Chris Norton?"

The man wrinkled his nose as if he'd smelled something disagreeable. "Yeah. Whad'ya want?"

Dean flashed his most charming smile. "We're with the CDC. We understand you were Ron Carlton's roommate?"

Shoulders sagging Chris answered, "Yeah. I found him." He took a step backwards and motioned for them to enter. "Come on in."

Dean and Sam followed Chris into a small living area and seated themselves side by side on a sway backed couch upholstered in faded green chenille. Chris lowered himself wearily into a well worn recliner and a sigh passed his lips. "So, what d'ya need to know?"

Sam regarded the other man's defeated posture and spoke softly. "We know this must be hard for you, Chris, but if we can determine what caused Ron's death hopefully we can prevent it from happening to anyone else."

Chris removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair, then began speaking in a monotone voice. "Ron had been sick for about a week. Flu, we thought. Stopped going to class, stayed in his room most of the time. I wasn't that worried, though… figured he'd snap out of it. Until…"

"Until?" Dean prodded when Chris failed to continue.

Chris cleared his throat. "One night my girlfriend, Christine, was over. We were watching a movie in here and she grabbed the remote from me and paused it. Said she'd heard something. Then I heard it, too…moaning, coming from Ron's room. It was real low, I don't know how Christine even heard it over the movie, but it was definitely moaning." Chris paused and looked down at his lap. "Like, if I didn't know better, I would've thought Ron had company, if you know what I mean."

Dean arched his lips in a knowing grin and tilted his head up in understanding. "But he didn't. Have company, I mean."

"No, definitely not. That's when I got a little worried, thinking maybe he was moaning in pain or something. But then it stopped and we kind of figured he was alright and went back to watching the movie."

"But he wasn't alright, was he?" Sam asked gently, his face a mask of sympathy.

"No, man, he most definitely was not alright," Chris said in a shaky voice. "Next morning he hadn't come out and it was like eleven, so I went in to see if he needed anything…" He shuddered at the memory and drew an uneven breath. "It was like… like he'd been freeze dried or something. Freaky, man, just freaky. He looked like an old man."

He lifted his head and fixed his gaze on Dean, then Sam. "What the hell could do that?"

"That's what we're trying to determine, Chris. Thank you for your time. You've been very helpful. We know this has been hard on you," Sam said, extending a hand as he rose from the ancient couch.

Dean followed suit and the brothers walked towards the door, leaving a bewildered Chris still slumped in his seat.

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Sam slid into the passenger seat and looked over expectantly at Dean who sat motionless with his hands on the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead but unseeing. Sam waved a hand in front of Dean's face. "Earth to Dean, come in, Dean."

"Wha'?" Dean frowned and looked over at Sam as if coming out of a trance. His eyes darted from side to side and a muscle jumped in his jaw.

Sam felt a knot of uncertainty form in his stomach. "Dude, you alright?" Dean looked positively confused, as if he'd just awoken and had no idea where he was.

Dean blinked a few times and nodded slowly. "Fine, I'm fine. Just a little tired, that's all. Didn't sleep worth a damn last night."

In fact, that was what he'd been thinking about. He couldn't seem to get the woman from his dreams out of his waking mind. It was like she'd entered his subconscious and hijacked his brain. He found himself wishing for sleep, hoping he'd see her again. Dean, get a grip. She's not real, man.

Dean turned his head to find Sam staring at him. Lines of worry creased his forehead and his lips were pursed, his eyebrows drawn down.

"You're making your brotherly concern face, dude. Quit it… you're giving me the creeps," Dean said. "I'm just a little run down and I spaced for a minute. Period."

Sam brushed away the feeling of unease that had overcome him moments before, chalking it up to the fact that he was still a bit under the weather. "I hope you're not catching this junk. It's no fun, man."

"If you got me sick, Sammy, so help me I will full on kick your ass. Now let's see what we can find out on the second victim."

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Sam scanned the computer screen, pausing every now and then to jot down a note or two. "Says here Nathan Colbert, age twenty-five, also died in his home of natural causes. Looks like he still lived at home, though. His mom, Delores Colbert, was unlucky enough to find him."

Sam shoveled onion rings into his mouth as he searched. He paused and glanced across the table at Dean, whose plate sat virtually untouched. His eyes were closed and a dreamy half smile graced his lips.

"Dean! What the hell, man? You must be getting sick."

Dean opened his eyes and squinted against the harsh light of the diner. He swiped at his lashes and swallowed. "Dude, I don't feel so good. Why don't you drop me off at the motel on your way to visit the mom."

Sam tried to remember a time when Dean had voluntarily bowed out of any aspect of a hunt, including reconnaissance. The knot in his stomach tightened and he searched his brother's face for clues to his uncharacteristic behavior. The skin under Dean's eyes looked bruised, his lips almost translucent. An image of Dean in Nebraska flashed in Sam's memory and he shoved it aside.

"You sure, man? Maybe if you ate something…"

Dean shook his head. "Not hungry. Just tired. Can you handle this one without me?"

"Sure, yeah… it's just… you okay, man? I mean, you look awful."

"Thanks to you, dude. I can't believe you gave me your cooties. This sucks out loud."

Sam nodded but felt something gnawing at the back of his brain. "Alright, let's get you to the motel."

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Sam pulled the heavy motel curtains closed and glanced over his shoulder at his brother. Dean had practically collapsed the moment they'd entered the room and he lay still atop the scratchy floral comforter. His eyes were closed and his lips moved almost imperceptibly.

Sam crossed the room and leaned down over Dean's prone frame. "You say something, man?"

Again, Dean's mouth appeared to move but no sound passed his lips. Sam reached down and placed a hand on Dean's forehead. No fever, at least not yet. Maybe some rest'll help him fight it off. He backed towards the door and paused as Dean murmured incoherently.

For a moment he considered staying but knew Dean would be livid if he found out Sam had put the investigation on hold because he was worried. Sam knew it irked Dean when he acted concerned, as if it was an affront to Dean's ability to take care of himself. Sam clenched his jaw, convincing himself Dean would be just fine without him there. After a brief hesitation he turned the knob and slipped out, locking the door behind him.

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Dean waited for sleep to wash over him, his limbs heavy, his mind weightless. He welcomed it, wanted it, knew what it would bring. And then, as if he had conjured her she appeared.

A smile pulled at the corner of Dean's mouth and the thin shaft of light through the curtains cast shadows under his lashes as he blinked lazily and reached for her. She smiled back, running her tongue over her perfect white teeth. Dean felt a shiver of anticipation at the sight of that tongue, remembering their last encounter.

He felt his body respond to her presence as his hands roamed her soft curves. What was it about her? When he was with her he felt as if he was gasping for air and she was his oxygen. As if he couldn't survive without her touch, her kiss, the welcoming warmth of her body.

A deep, guttural growl sounded low in his throat as she took his lower lip between her teeth. He wondered, not for the first time, if she had more than two hands; they seemed to be everywhere at once, stroking, teasing. His skin felt like it was vibrating, alive. He wrapped his powerful arms around her waist, drawing their bodies together. He moved against her, into her, biting his own lip to keep from crying out.

He could feel his strength ebbing away as she enveloped him, as if in order to take such pleasure he had to give something of himself away. She arched upwards and he spread his palms across the span of her lower back, feeling the rippling muscles underneath the silken skin. Dean couldn't remember ever feeling so out of control. He knew he couldn't stop himself now if he tried. His eyelids fluttered and his lips parted as a shudder ran through his body. And then she was gone.

He felt immediately cold, emptiness seeping into his heart, his limbs aching. He shivered and pulled the blanket over his exposed flesh. God, it felt so wrong when she left. If only she could be here always…

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Sam felt himself sliding over the edge of wakefulness. His body felt heavy, his eyelids stubbornly refused to open, but his mind was already alert. He pulled the motel sheet tighter around his shoulders and rolled onto his side.

He thought back to his conversation with Delores Colbert yesterday afternoon. Her story had been similar to Chris Norton's in that her son, Nathan, had also exhibited flu like symptoms in the week leading up to his death. Her description of Nathan meshed with the one Chris had supplied for Ron Carlton and the image of Randall Cohn embedded in Sam's memory.

Delores had also mentioned that she'd heard sounds coming from her son's room in the days leading up to his death but hadn't elaborated on them. When Sam had pressed her to describe them she had stammered and blushed and looked down at her hands. Her obvious embarrassment suggested to Sam that the sounds had been similar to those described by Chris Norton. He'd thanked Delores for her time, extended the usual sympathies and headed to the local library.

After several hours of research and numerous consultations with John's journal, Sam had formed a tentative hypothesis regarding the attacks. He'd returned to the motel anxious to run his theory by Dean but had been met with darkness and the sleeping form of his brother. His mind had been racing and it had been hours before he was able to welcome sleep, his concern for Dean's well being mingling with the ideas he'd formulated earlier. His dreams that night had been confusing, disjointed and he awoke feeling as if he'd barely slept at all.

After several semi-conscious minutes Sam was finally able to lift his eyelids and he turned to peer at his brother, still asleep in the neighboring bed. He glanced at the alarm clock on the shared nightstand and was shocked to see 10:37 glaring at him in accusatory red digits. He'd slept almost eleven hours. And Dean, well, Dean had been asleep for ages now. Worry crept back into Sam's mind and he swung his legs over the side of his bed and shifted onto the edge of Dean's bed.

He jostled Dean, gently at first, then more firmly when no response came. "Dean, wake up. You alright, man?"

Sam watched as Dean made an attempt to open his hooded eyes. His lashes fluttered but his eyelids remained firmly sealed. He licked his lips twice and then reached a hand up to swipe at his face, still creased with sleep. "Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm right here. You okay?"

"M'fine… so tired…" Dean's husky voice trailed off and Sam could see him battling to stay awake. He noticed the hollows under Dean's eyes and the fact that his skin was now a near perfect match for the ivory pillowcase he rested upon. The dawning of fear prickled at the base of his spine and he touched Dean's forehead. Still no fever, but something was obviously wrong.

Sam left Dean's side reluctantly to fetch a glass of water from the bathroom tap. He scrunched his lanky frame down beside Dean, tilted his chin up and lifted the glass to his parched lips.

"Here, drink this." Dean's mouth parted slightly to allow a small sip of water to enter. Sam brushed away a stray droplet with his thumb and waited until he saw Dean's Adam's apple bob before offering another sip. He repeated the process patiently until he was satisfied his brother had gotten enough then gently lowered his head back onto the pillow.

Dean, come on, man. Sam told himself that this was just a role reversal from the previous week, but the twisting in his gut told him differently. Dean had been sick before, even violently so, but this lethargy was so at odds with his usual demeanor that it sent a chill down Sam's spine.

I was exhausted, too, Sam reminded himself. This stuff really takes it out of you. Quit overreacting. Sleep is probably just what the doctor ordered.

He forced himself to leave Dean's bedside and promised himself that if Dean wasn't substantially better by the following morning he would personally drag his sorry ass to the ER kicking and screaming if need be. Somewhat reassured by this plan Sam opened the satchel that lay at the foot of the nightstand and withdrew a notepad.

He flipped to the pages containing his scrawled notes from the prior evening, hoping his now rested mind might be better equipped to piece together the puzzle than it had been last night. Words jumped up at him from the page …psychic vampire?... vengeful spirit?... young, male victims …significance of noises heard coming from victims' rooms?…attacks somehow sexual in nature?...

Sam flipped forward several pages until his eyes found the word he'd been looking for: Succubus.

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More to follow very soon… If you enjoyed or even if you didn't, please take a moment to review. I'm like a junkie with the feedback, folks. Hook me up. Thanks as always to Amanda for the beta and the encouragement.