Chapter two

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The stretch of road was long and boring. Dean couldn't wait to get to their destination. It'd been a long ass time since he'd done any fishing. Even longer for his brother. Speaking of his brother...kid could barely stay awake. That in itself was not too unusual. The motion of the Impala and rumble of her engine always had that sleepy-time effect on Sam during extra-long cross country rides. Or maybe it was all the food he'd been eating. Maybe his body was going into hibernation like a bear. Maybe he was dream. Who knew what? Certainly not about show girls in Vegas.

What was completely freaky to Dean was the fact Sam couldn't and wouldn't keep his hand out of the chip bag situated on the seat next to him. Even as Sam's head bobbed, and drowsy eyes fluttered, his salty fingers picked up a bunch of chips and popped them into his yawning mouth.

No easy task.

Dean chuckled to himself while watching drool and chips drop into Sam's lap when blind fingers couldn't hit the intended target.

Every few seconds, Sam would startle awake and happily munch on the few soggy chips that actually did hit the bull's eye, but then just as quickly his eyes would go back to fluttering, and he'd drop back off, only to start the process all over again a few seconds later.

Drowsy eyes, fumbling fingers, bobbing head, missing mouth, startle awake, munch a chip, drop back off to sleep.

Dean amused himself watching the loop his brother was trapped in for another mile and a quarter before he finally had to intervene when Sam popped a chip into his mouth and his body got so relaxed, and his head tilted at such an awkward angle he was half-snoring , half-chewing, half-choking.

"Hey, Jabba The Hutt," Dean barked, reaching over to slap a hand against the center of Sam's chest.

Sam snored and choked and chomped.

"Garbage gut!" Dean yelled louder, this time punching Sam in the arm.

Sam's head snapped upright and he stiffened in his seat, eyes wide-awake. "What? What?" he spat wet chip particles to the glass as he leaned forward scowling out the front windshield? "We hit something?"

"You and this crazy new diet of yours are…are…are…are…just plain crazy," Dean hissed, grabbing the bag of chips and shoving them under the seat. "You can't be that hungry that you have to eat in your sleep."

Sam frowned, eyes going to the spot where Dean had stashed the chip bag. "I can't help it, Dean."

"What'd you mean you can't help it?"

Sam licked salt off his lips. "I…a…uh…uh…I…I'm hungry, Dean." He shrugged.

"What are you practicing for? Some sort of chip eating contest? You can't be hungry and tired at the same damn time, Sam."

"Just give me back my chips."

"What'll you give me for them?" Dean teased.

Sam dug in his coat pocket and flashed Dean two tens.

Dean stared at the money blankly. "Really?" He looked at Sam. "Twenty bucks for a $1.99 bag of generic chips?" Dean beamed as he swiped the bills and shoved them into his pocket. "What would you do for a Klondike bar, dude? Find some really, really hot nuns online and –"

"Dean!" Sam bit out. "No nun jokes…just fork over the chips."

Dean snatched the bag back out from under the seat and handed them over. "Here," he huffed. "I'm going to chalk this up to the both of us being burnt out on the job. Or if this is one of your lame college pranks, Sam…" Dean let the threat hang. "Any which way, if you don't curb this binge you're on…" Dean paused a moment for effect. "I am so taking you to the nearest hospital."

Sam nodded, too busy ramming chips into his mouth to bother answering.

"And here we are. Finally," Dean said, spying a small, wayward gas station and bait shop to his right. He pulled in and parked in front of the only gas pump the place had. "Lake's not far from here. We fill her up, grab some bait, and then we get to enjoying this friggin' hiatus."

Sam kept munching.

"Sam, you hearing me?"

Sam nodded again.

Dean shook his head. Once they hit the lake the only thing allowed in Sam's hands was going to be a beer and a rod. Little, big man was going to rest and relax and enjoy the fresh air and fishing if it killed him. So said big brother!

Not bothering to say a word, Dean exited the car and stood in front of a single, red gas pump with flip numbers and the word Regular printed in bold-black letters across the front.

"Regular what?" he muttered, sarcastically.

Thing was obviously a throw-back from the nineteen forty's. Glancing over at the rickety bait shop he noted the place looked even older than the pump – downright historical –not a lick of paint tinted the warped and graying flat boards.

Dean turned back to the pump and cringed, wondering if he should risk Baby's health by feeding her whatever mystery liquid the old-time pump dispensed. Normally, he spared no expense when filling her up- Super all the way. Screw the price of gas. Baby was worth it. Besides, owning a fake gas card didn't hurt either. But there was no Super here.

Dean shook his head. "Shit," he grumbled, unhappily. "Better not be laced with sugar. My engine starts knocking…so help me…" Dean let the heated threat linger in the air. He was doing that a lot lately. He lifted the lever, and moved to the trunk of the car to unscrew the cap. "Cheers, Baby," he said, stuffing the nozzle into her ass-end.

The passenger door creaked open, then shut, and Sam stepped up beside Dean. "Live bait." He pointed to a small yellow sign in the shop's window. "What kind you want?"

"Now you're starting to sound like a man on hiatus," Dean said excitedly. "Get us a dozen night crawlers, and two dozen minnows." He reached around to his back pocket and pulled his wallet. Rifling through, he yanked out a plastic card and a fifty dollar bill, handing both to Sam. "Use the card for the gas only."

Sam took the card and money, and headed toward the shop.

"And, Sammy," Dean called out.

"Yeah?" Sam glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't eat the worms," Dean chuckled.

Sam canted his head and made a disgusting face. "Why would I do that?"

"Just don't," Dean said with a frown.

Sam snuffed and then disappeared inside the small shop.

Dean leaned back against the trunk keeping his hand on the trigger.

Click, click, click.

Damn ghetto pump was slow.

Click

Click.

Click.

Slightly relieved by the smell of gasoline rising into the air, he crossed his legs at the ankles and relaxed, staring off down the dirt road. The lake wasn't far now. He could see the water on the distant horizon.

Dean let his gaze wander out across the dirt road to the pasture of grass swaying in the wind, then to the big, cottony-white clouds rolling across the blue sky.

"Man, it's going to be an awesome da…"

The peaceful atmosphere exploded into a ruckus of scuffling, grunts, and a loud crash coming from inside the bait shop. "I'm calling the authorities," a man shouted.

Not a second later, two bodies slammed out the screen door of the bait shop to crash-land on the ground.

"What the…" Dean fumbled to hang up the gas pump, right off knowing one of the bodies was his Sasquatch of a brother. "Sam!"

The two tumbled and rolled over and over one another, disappearing alongside the shop.

"Son of a bitch." In less than thirty seconds Dean was inside the car grabbing his gun out from under his seat and beating a path around the side of the building after them.

There was a jungle of predators out there, who knew what this thing was his brother was girl-wrestling with.

Dean raced past a rusty dumpster overflowing with garbage, the stench not that unlike a decomposing three-day-old corpse. He maneuvered around a filthy white cat, nearly stepping on its tail as he rounded the shop corner. There, tumbling and thrashing about over wooden crates of rotting vegetables, half-chewed bread, fish bones, and empty beer bottles was Sam and a very pissed off looking truck-of-a- man.

Sam stood, grabbed Trucker-Guy by his shirt collar and nailed him across the jaw.

Dean smiled; Sam knew how to handle himself. After all he was trained by the best. Only a second later, Dean's smile dropped, and he cringed when the hefty trucker came back with a hard punch to Sam's temple. Sam hurtled backward hitting the graying boards of the shop with a thunk.

Trucker-Guy, or whatever he was, went after Sam again.

Sam pushed off the wall swinging a fist, but his arms seemed to have turned to rubber and he lost momentum, falling back against the wall and sliding down to his butt.

"Not done with you," Trucker-Guy snarled, bent over and grasped Sam by the roots of his hair, yanking him up and landing several solid punches to Sam's gut.

Okay that was it. Dean had seen enough, time to stop this and find out what the hell was going on.

"You," Dean interrupted, pointing his gun right at the man. "Get the hell off him," he said in a tougher than tough voice.

The burly man froze mid-punch seeing the gun. "Holy-shit-crap," he yelped, hands shooting up in the air, and backing a couple of inches away from Sam. "What's your problem, buddy."

"Oh, I don't know," Dean muttered, slightly lowering his gun. "Probably the whole kicking my brother's ass bit."

The trucker dropped his hands, taking a menacing step toward Sam. "But he-"

"Don't," Dean growled heatedly raising the gun back up. "Take one more step toward him and I'll shoot out your liver and pickle it."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," the man said, shuddering as if he'd just been shoved into a sub-zero freezer.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean peered down at his bloody-nosed brother.

Sam nodded, not meeting Dean's gaze and panting heavily.

Dean kept his gun on the trucker, his eyes on Sam. His brother's face was streaked with sweat and dirt. Right eye already swollen and ringed black, a raw scrap on his left cheek was also oozing blood.

What happened? Who is this guy?" he asked Sam.

Sam didn't move, didn't say a word. Apparently couldn't, trying to gather his breath and his wits.

"Your buddy here's a dick," Trucker-Guy answered instead. "He sucker punched me."

"What?" Dean questioned indignantly as he stepped in closer, getting right up into the man's face, practically nose-to nose. "Sam," He called over, his eyes never leaving the man's. "Did you?"

"Yeah," Sam groaned.

"Told you so." The Dill Weed of a guy cracked wise.

Dean rolled his eyes feeling much like a principal trying to give the schoolyard bully a fair trial.

"Why'd you do that, Sam?" Dean drawled the words out, barely containing his cool as he continued to hold the guy at gunpoint ready to put a bullet in him if he turned out to be something he wasn't. Had to be a damn good reason Sam did what he did. His brother wouldn't so much as swat a fly or step on an ant without being one-hundred percent sure the friggin things deserved to die.

Before Sam could answer the irate man spat in Dean's face. "Why? Why?" he shouted, no longer scared but royally pissed off. "I'll tell you why. Over a lousy Ho Ho, man. Was the last one on the shelf and it was mine and the jug head here sucker punched me and took it. So I sucker punched him back," the man rattled off in one long 'so there' breath.

Dean's eyes bugged out, eyebrows shooting upward in alarm. "This guy? This guy right down there?" Dean looked at Sam with growing concern.

"No," The man drawled out sarcastically, "The guy ten houses down."

"You pinch this Dill Weeds Ho-Ho, little brother?"

"Hey!" Dill Weed protested.

"Yeah, so," Sam retorted without hesitation, spitting blood from his mouth.

Dean lowered his head, examining Sam more closely and fighting to control his ever hyped-up worry. There was no more chalking this up. "Because why?" he asked, in an overly calm tone of voice.

"'Cause I was hungry," Sam stated the obvious.

"You guys are assholes," The man shuddered fearfully shifting from foot to foot, but remained locked in place, a prisoner of Dean's gun.

"Shut it." Dean ordered, eyes trailing up and down the trucker. Guy looked as bad as Sam sporting a swollen lip, black eye, bloody nose. A satisfied smile crept over Dean's face. "You should thank my jug head brother, he improved your face for free," he said with a light-hearted chuckle trying to defuse the situation some.

"You think it's funny. Kid attacked me for the stupidest reason." Trucker-Guy shrieked. "I'm suing, man."

"Settle down. Just settle down." Dean's smile disappeared and he released the man, tucking his gun away. "He's sorry, right Sam?"

"R-right," Sam stuttered.

"Screw you," Trucker-Guy yelled, now bravely stomping away toward the gas pumps.

"Just wait a second." Dean had his wallet out in a flash. The hundred dollar bill he whipped out stopping the guy surer than his gun had. "Here," he said, handing him the money. "Take off."

"You think Franklin covers it?" The man boomed, licking his lips, eyes not leaving the money.

Dean grumbled under his breath, whipping out a fifty and forking it over. "Now, take off."

"Franklin plus Grant equals bullshit." Trucker-Guy pushed for more doe.

"You want to tell that to the barrel of my gun?" Dean cocked his head off to one side threateningly. A silent, 'take it or else' written on his face.

"Fine." The man snatched the money and retreated out the alley hollering back, "Police will be here any minute, anyhow."

Sam groaned sinking further toward the ground, arms draped at his sides, and legs sprawled on the dirty, wet cement.

Dean dropped down by Sam's side grabbing the front of Sam's jacket, and yanking him up straighter against the wall. "Sammy, what was that?" he asked, snatching a bandana from his pocket and dabbing at the bloody scrap along Sam's cheek.

"Sssss," Sam hissed turning his head away.

"Easy." Dean winced in sympathy, pressing the bandana under Sam's bloody nose. "Hold that there."

"Told you, Dean, was hungry. And that guy," Sam winced, holding the wadded up bandana under his nose capturing the blood. "He took the last Ho Ho."

Dean bit his lip, but said nothing more.

The growing certainty that something was desperately wrong with his little brother was increasing by leaps and bounds. But what could it be? Nothing Supernatural he ever heard of.

But this was long past just a simple case of the munchies.

Dean studied Sam intently, saddled by a million thoughts. Witch? Hex bag? Curse? Demonic virus? All their most recent hunts had gone down without a hitch. Maybe a brain tumor or maybe his baby brother was building up to a career as a sumo wrestler?

"Fuck, Sam," he growled in utter frustration. "We're supposed to be on hiatus for cryin' out loud." He took the bandana away from Sam, noting the bleeding had stopped, uncaringly stuffing the soiled material back into his pocket.

"Sorry, Dean." Sam kept his eyes to the ground.

Dean opened his mouth to question Sam further about how he was feeling, when he was cut off by the blaring of a siren.

"Peachy," Dean mumbled, "Time to split." He pulled Sam up to his feet. Gripping the jug head by the elbow, he quickly guided Sam back to the car as the sirens grew louder. "Our hiatus is on hiatus now," Dean angrily whipped open the passenger door and shoved Sam inside.

"Dean, I said I was sorry," Sam began, staring with wet eyes up at his brother.

"Skip it, Garfield," Dean bellowed, shutting the door and getting into the driver's seat, staring the engine and peeling them on down the road.

"What's wrong with me?" Sam lowered his eyes to the floorboards in shame.

"Hey," Dean softened.

Sam looked up.

Dean smiled. "We're going to call Bobby and figure this out, okay?"

Sam nodded.

Dean turned back to the road, pulling out his cell phone. "And once we do get this all figured out…we are so going to fish till the fish come home," he muttered, speed-dialing Bobby.

TBC…

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