A/N: Thanks for all the views! This was supposed to be a oneshot, but now I guess there's a second chapter. Also, I did some research, and remembered that at this point in the show, Garth is a werewolf, so this story is now AU where Garth is human. Yay Garth!

Many thanks to my beta, ronstory! If you read Harry Potter fanfiction, they have a great Ron-centric story that is AU book seven which is definitely worth a read!

Dean grimaced at his reflection in the gas station bathroom mirror. He looked terrible. A bruise was beginning to form under his right eye where he'd gotten a face full of Cole's boot, and while his nose wasn't bleeding anymore, dried blood covered his face, giving him the appearance of an ax murderer.

He winced.

Ax murderer wasn't far off at this point. If Sam hadn't been there, hadn't pulled Dean from the temptations of the Mark, Cole would be dead. Dean didn't want to think of how the Mark would have affected his mind had he been successful. He sighed and began cleaning his face.

Dean hadn't planned on stopping at all, wanting to get as far away from the motel, and Cole, as he could. Hell, he would have driven straight to the Bunker if he'd had it his way. But Sam had insisted. He'd told Dean to clean himself up, get something to eat, and think about stopping.

Dean had agreed only because Sam needed rest. He needed to be horizontal with a couple Tylenol knocking him out for the night. More than that though, the pressure bandage he'd hastily covered over Sam's ruined stitches wouldn't hold forever. Sam couldn't afford to lose much more blood with his increasing fever.

Dean wet a paper towel and cleared away the blood on his nose, then splashed cold water on his face. He wasn't ready for his close up, but it was an improvement.

Leaving the bathroom, he headed toward the cash register, picking up what he needed on the way. The cashier gave him a quizzical look –most likely from Dean's bruised face– but checked out Dean's purchase of water, coffee, and peanut M&Ms without question.

Five minutes after he'd unfolded himself from the car, he was folding himself back in. Sam was clinging tightly to the blanket wrapped around him as he leaned back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping though; his breathing was too labored.

"How's the fever?" he asked. Sam cleared his throat and took a long breath, but didn't move or open his eyes. He ignored Dean's question and asked one of his own.

"Where are we?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Avis, Pennsylvania," Dean responded, remembering the road sign. They'd only been going just about five hours, but already they were both exhausted. Dean opened the water bottle he'd just bought and handed it to Sam.

"Here, humor me," he said.

Sam opened his eyes a crack and considered the water before reaching for it. He took a small sip and leaned his head back against the window.

"What's the plan?" he asked, capping the bottle. Dean took a sip of his coffee before starting the car and pulling out of the gas station.

"We clear Pennsylvania, find a place and rest up, call Garth, make a plan…" Dean rambled, knowing his brother only cared about stopping for the night. Sam nodded against the window.

"Just hang in there," Dean said, if not to Sam, then to himself.

It was the one time Dean didn't want to be driving. He was exhausted, his head was killing him, he was worried about Sam, and every motel or restaurant they passed–no matter how sleazy or crappy they seemed–looked warm and inviting to Dean. He ended up giving in to the temptation almost fifty miles from the Pennsylvania Maryland border when they came upon a relatively nice looking motel.

Sam was fast asleep next to him, his breathing regular but strained. Dean put a hand to his forehead and concluded that Sam's fever had not gone down as he'd hoped. At Dean's touch, Sam stirred and blinked groggily at his brother.

"Found us a place," Dean said.

"Okay," Sam responded weakly. Dean stared at his brother for another second, then got out of the car to pay for the room. He asked the desk clerk for two nights upfront, not wanting any excuse to leave before Sam was ready.

By the time Dean returned to the car, Sam had not made a move to exit, but insisted that he was fine to walk, and even protested a little when Dean took his bag from him and swung it over his own shoulder.

The room was more run down than the fancy place they'd been at before, but it wasn't in total shambles. Sam went straight to his unofficially denoted bed and only paused to remove his shoes before collapsing down on it.

"Let me clean and fix your stitches," Dean said tiredly. He put their stuff down and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands. Sam made a noise of annoyance, but otherwise didn't complain.

Dean ignored Sam's feverish skin as he cleaned out the wound–which elicited quite a hiss from Sam–and did his best to stitch it properly, though he couldn't hide the fact that his hands were shaking. When he was finished, he retrieved the bottle of Tylenol from his bag and handed it over. Sam obediently took two and they both fell asleep.

By the morning, Sam's fever had broken and Dean could not have been more relieved. At noon, Sam ate four saltine crackers without feeling nauseous, and on the third day, they both felt well and rested enough to escape the motel for a decent meal.

Sam was asleep that night when Dean got the phone call from Cole. Only Dean's worry and exhaustion had been able to distract him from the feeling that was itching for his attention. Ever since he'd gotten a taste back in Old Forge, he hadn't been able to shake the bloodlust.

"How bad do you want it, Dean?"

Dean almost hung up right then and there, but for some reason, he waited.

"You'll never find us, Cole."

"I won't need to find you, Dean, you're coming to me." Dean could almost hear the smirk on Cole's face.

Dean didn't say anything. His gut told him to just hang up the phone, but his hand seemed to be disconnected from his brain.

"Spruce Creek, just outside the pharmacy. See you soon, Dean."

Dean didn't get another word in before Cole had hung up the phone. He stood frozen for a second, the phone still pressed against his ear.

At first, there was nothing going through his head. Then he glanced at Sam, and like a switch, his mind was working faster than he could keep up. He looked at the clock: 2am. He glanced his keys on the motel table. He reached under his pillow and gripped the ivory handle of his gun.

It wasn't enough.

Dean could practically feel the First Blade resonating. He needed to have it. The Mark on his arm burned as he thought of it, pictured himself grasping it, facing Cole. But the pain only fueled him more, igniting the urge, the furor.

Without another thought, Dean was out the door and on the road towards Cole, an overwhelming sense of right enveloping his conscience. When he passed the sign indicating he'd entered the Town of Spruce Creek, a thrill went through his body, and the Mark pulsed on his arm, as if it knew it was close to its target. He parked the car near the pharmacy, slipped the gun into his waistband, and headed for the nearby alley.

"Wow Dean, you must want it bad," a voice spoke from the shadows. Without thinking, Dean lunged for the dark figure that suddenly materialized behind the dumpster. An animal-like instinct propelled him through Cole's resistance, and his mind was suddenly in a wild frenzy as he thrust his fist at Cole's face.

Cole hissed and grunted, but managed to push Dean off, his playing nature gone in an instant.

"Too bad I want it more," he seethed.

What followed then was a vicious and feral and bloody fight. Both Dean and Cole seeming to only have one goal in mind. Dean could hardly even keep track of his own movements as some invisible force drove him towards his aim.

Dean dodged a punch and threw one of his own. Cole blocked him just in time, and Dean felt the responding punch in his shoulder. He didn't let it slow him though, and spun out of it delivering a kick in what he thought was Cole's direction. Cole staggered back a few steps and coughed harshly.

"Tell me, were you always a demon? Or did you just start jonesing for the murder life when you killed my old man?" Cole spat. Dean ignored him and stepped forward throwing a punch at Cole's face. Cole ducked and thrust his fist at Dean's throat, sending him staggering into the wall. "What makes you think you and your brother are entitled to anything, after everything you've done?"

"You finished with this heart to heart chat yet?" Dean grunted. He reached his hand toward his back, ready to pull the trigger on Cole once and for all.

"YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO GET AWAY WITH THIS!" Cole bellowed, and he lunged for Dean. Dean sidestepped him, curled his fingers around the hilt of his gun, pulled it from his waistband, and–

"He's got a gun!"

Dean froze, stunned, his heart beating fast and heavy. He turned toward the mouth of the alley and saw a man wearing a pharmacy vest and staring wide eyed at Dean. Cole was nowhere in sight.

"Please, please!" the man said, his hands shooting up.

Dean recoiled at his innocence, and an immense feeling of dread and guilt washed over him. His hands shook and he lowered the gun slowly. The man stood frozen as well, but as soon as Dean showed his empty hands, he backed out of the alley and Dean heard him running down the street.

Dean stared down at his shaking hands spattered in blood. Each breath he took sped his heartbeat, and the Mark pulsed dramatically with each thump of his chest. His mind continued to reset itself sluggishly, his thoughts coming back to him while his body remained on high alert.

He'd had no control. It had been almost too easy to take a backseat in his own mind and let the Mark decide for him. He'd wanted to kill Cole. He'd wanted to kill Cole. He felt sick, and stiff, and lost.

Dean pulled the safety on the gun and slid it back in his waistband. Then, moving almost mechanically, he left the alley for the Impala. He started the car and drove, not paying attention to where he was going, but just needing to get away– to leave.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he was pulling over to the side of the road and stumbling out of the car. He searched for support, anything to stabilize him, but ended up just slowly falling to his knees in the wet grass beside the road. With shaking hands, he took his phone from his pocket and dialed. It wasn't two rings before he got an answer.

"Dean! Where the hell are you?" Sam sounded pissed. Dean swiped a hand down his face.

"Sam-" he began to say, but stopped himself. His heart was beating too fast for him to take a breath. He tried to calm down, tried to ignore the adrenaline still flowing through his veins and the burning on his forearm.

"Sammy I- I can't do this anymore," he finally said. He squeezed his eyes shut and grasped his head in his free hand. For a second there was silence on both ends of the line; Dean could imagine Sam's reaction.

"Dean…." Sam's voice had become quiet. "Dean, where are you, what's going on?"

Dean swallowed "The Mark… it… it got to me," he said. "It was like I couldn't even control it, Sam."

There was a pause, and Dean heard Sam let out his breath. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

Dean didn't answer right away.

"Dean! Where are you?"

"I don't know– I uh…" Dean lifted his head and looked around. He saw a sign in the distance and squinted to read it, "Route 22, Williamsburg."

"Okay, don't move, I'm on my way," Sam said.

The relief was overwhelming. Hell, he didn't want to think what the Mark would make him do next, especially considering how easy he'd just lost control. Sam's stability seemed to set him at ease for a second, but then he realized what this was asking of his little brother– his little brother who had been shot five days before.

"No, I'll be fine, the driving will help me take my mind off it— "

"No– Dean– talk to me, what happened?"

Dean hadn't moved from his crouched position in the grass, and he was dreading the trip back to the motel. The guilt was suffocating. It sickened him that he was still thinking about it– about how it didn't even seem worth it because he didn't get Cole.

"Got a call from Cole… couldn't control myself… just drove without a second thought. I freaking…I just… I don't know what to do."

Sam was quiet for a minute. His mind was telling him to just hang up and get headed back, but he didn't hang up. He didn't move.

"Okay," Sam said, "okay, here's what you're going to do. You're going to go to the Impala, turn on the radio, and wait for me to get there. Then we'll figure it out. Whether that means finding Cole, sitting tight for a while at the Bunker, calling Cas… I don't know, but we'll figure it out."

An invisible weight on Dean's shoulders seemed to let up a bit simply for the fact that now he had a plan. Now he wasn't alone. Sam told him what he needed to do, and he would do it, at least until that didn't work. But he had time, time to try to get control.

"Go to the car, Dean," Sam said, as if sensing Dean's uncontrollable need to stall.

"Right, right, yeah," Dean said. He pushed himself off the ground and started walking to the Impala. "Alright, okay," he said getting into the car, "I'll see you in a few."

"On my way already," Sam said before he hung up.

Dean started the car and flinched as music suddenly broke the silence, but he reveled in the familiarity and comfort it provided. He turned up the volume, closed his eyes, and waited for Sam.