A/N: Sooo... inspiration struck and I sat down and started to write. I hope this chapter is as interesting as the first seemed to be, but I think I gotta make a few notes before I post it:

1) I'm not sure if it was obvious in the prior chapter, but this story takes place 4 years after Sam has been cursed, if I had to put it into the official timeline I'd say it is around the time of when the pilot took place. (Which gets me the shaggy!Sam I love so much! :P )
2) This story focuses on the relationship between John and Sam. Dean is a big part of it and I won't ignore him, he just isn't the focus of it and I hope people can still enjoy the story.
3) This is slowly turning into a story (with a story-line and everything!) and I appreciate each and every hint at how to improve it, tell me what you like or what you didn't like so I can do it again or never speak of it again. ;)
4) Once again BIG thanks to my ghostfour for her continuous support and letting me steal lines when my brain just freezes and won't form words anymore. Thank you, hun, without you... you know... ;) Oh, and I DON'T CARE ABOUT - *coughs*

Well, on with the story! Enjoy!

Dedicated to ghostfour .

Something's wrong, he can feel it.

The voicemail doesn't say anything unusual, his father's words are calm, relaxed, and matter-of-fact.

Change of plans, Sun Down, Jefferson City, room 44. Be there at eleven hundred.

He tried to reach his brother after that, but Sam's cell goes to voicemail after a few rings. It has happened like that a billion times before and he's never felt queasy about it. Well, not much anyway.

It feels different this time, though, and he doesn't even have the slightest idea why. He sits in his own motel room for about fifteen minutes, debating, before he decides to call Bobby. After that he feels like he's hit the worst jackpot ever. Because Bobby knows and Bobby tells him— something had been happening to Sam, something that had his brother changing back and forth like crazy for hours before they finally decided to leave the town. Sam's fine now, at least that's what Bobby tells him; Sam's fine and sleeping and he should be doing that, too.

They have a nest to clean the next day, a nest of vampires of all things. Vampires. When his father had called him to tell him about the nest he could have sworn he was pulling his leg, cause, really, he'd always thought there was no such thing. He'd half expected to hear Sam burst out laughing in the background, calling him a dumbass for buying the crap, but there had only been John and his instructions to "get here as soon as you can, we need to clean this nest." In all the years they've been hunting their Dad has never mentioned vampires. In fact, he'd smiled at the movies he and Sam used to watch as kids. When Dean had pushed, John had admitted he'd believed them to be extinct, that some guy named Elkins or something had killed the last remaining bloodsuckers years ago and that was it.

He'd been wrong about that; and now Dean had to face the fact that they are real, another supernatural myth coming to life literally in front of his own eyes. Still, Dean was looking forward to seeing that nest, and judging by the few things his father had told him about those bloodsuckers this was going to be just as much fun as tracking and killing his first Wendigo.

But, now? With the sudden change in plans? Suddenly this sucks.

He's still half a state away from them and he really should take a break, get some sleep and get up early in the morning to drive the rest of the way. He really, really should do that.

Problem is, he can't. He can't relax, he can't turn his thoughts off, he can't concentrate on the hilariously bad late-night movie, the exaggerated screaming, the gallons of fake blood dripping all over the place.

Bobby said they're okay, all three of them. There is no reason why he should be feeling like this, none at all.

He dials again.

"This is Sam, leave me a—"

"'lo?"

"Sam?"

"Dean, that you?" The sleep-heavy voice sends a cool relief through him, loosening something in his chest.

"Sorry, Sammy, didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."

"It's Sam." His brother yawns and sounds even sleepier after it. "You 'kay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. See you tomorrow."

"'ay."

Great, now he's feeling like a wuss on top of everything and that's just… wrong. It isn't the first time his father and his brother are working without him. The three of them have separated before, he's been on hunts by himself for two years now and he's really good at it. That last hunt had been a blast, brought to a quick end in record time; one rawhead fried extra crispy within three seconds (check), two frightened children got to safety and not eaten for lunch (check), the knight in shining armor—and with the shiniest steed ever—on his way out of town twenty minutes after the fire had died down (check).

Dean Winchester vs. the things that go bump in the night: 19 to 0. Yeee—freaking—haw.

He should be in a bar right now, maybe hustling some pool. Celebrating. Talking some chick out of her clothes on the backseat of his car. Or in the motel. Or, you know, wherever. He should not be thinking about packing his stuff and driving over there. It would be so late by the time he made it, that he wouldn't dare knock on their door. So it doesn't make sense at all to get up and leave the room and give the key back, and it makes even less sense to get inside his car and drive out of the parking lot.

Nope, sir, no sense at all.

Whatever.

Something filters through the fog surrounding his brain, it sounds like someone is knocking on glass. It doesn't stop. And it's right next to his ear. His neck is hurting and man, it's cold in here. Why is it so cold?

"-n? Come on, wake up, dude…"

Sam's voice sounds a little weird, kind of muffled. Dean blinks his eyes open and frowns when the first thing that comes into focus is the Impala's dashboard. That's odd… and uncomfortable.

"Dean."

His neck grumbles in protest when he rolls his head toward the voice. Something Sam-shaped is standing next to the car—the car?—bent over to peer down at him. His brother is wearing his black hoodie, the hood of it drawn far over his face to cover his forehead and most of his eyes. Dean blinks and there's a grin on Sam's lips, a teasing smile that instantly tickles his brother-senses awake. Sam is laughing at him? What the—

"What are you doing out here?"

It takes his brain another moment to get back online and he finally faces the confusing realization that he has apparently been sleeping in his car. Well, he has done stranger things, really, but still…

"Dean, are you okay?"

Right, Sam, the voicemail, his father, the night-drive. He remembers arriving at the parking lot and watching the closed door of room no. 44 for some time and… pretty much nothing after that. Huh.

Sam's knocking on the glass again and by now his teasing smile has turned into a worried frown. Not that he can actually see Sam's eyebrows since they are hidden beneath the hood but the way his brother's mouth thins and his head cocks to the side tells him all he needs to know. And maybe he should let him know that everything is fine. He uncurls from where he has been slouching against the door and rubs his stiff neck for a moment, then reaches down to crank the window down a crack. "Hey."

"Hey…" Sam sounds just as bewildered as he felt moments ago.

"What time is it?" It's still dark outside, the only light coming from the streetlights next to the lot and the neon-sign of the motel; his inner clock says it has to be somewhat about 7 am.

"Six thirty." That early? Then why the hell is his stupid brother—Oh, right.

"You having nightmares again?"

Sam's exaggerated sigh tells him he's hit the bull's eye with his question and on top of that his brother really doesn't want to talk about it, thank you very much.

"I'm fine Dean." There, point proven. "What are you doing out here?"

Good question actually. "Fell asleep in the car, what do you think?"

"Why didn't you get a room? It's freezing out here…"

Now that Sam mentioned it the cold starts creeping up his body, finally encompassing his senses one by one. Before he had thought it was cold, by now he's positive it's actually freezing. He turns in his seat to give Sam a well-practiced you-don't-say-glare and rubs his hands together, not planning on answering that question.

"Where are you going?" he asks instead and stretches his tired limbs as best as he can in the cramped space behind the steering wheel. His right foot is slowly tingling its way back to life and he makes a face when various pins and needles start to attack his extremities. Sam is still watching him through the half-open window.

"I was going for a run, maybe get some coffee later. You want some?"

'Later' usually means at least one hour later, even more if Sam is really pissed at someth—someone or needs to think something over. Dean's all for a good run to clear his head, he really is, but not at this hour and definitely not with these weather conditions. He hasn't really noticed it before but when his gaze sweeps across the parking lot he can see that it has started to rain at some point, not more than a light drizzle, but enough to affirm his decision to get himself a room and enjoy the warm comfort of a bed for the rest of the night. Or morning. Whatever. And coffee? Coffee sounds good, like heaven actually, but he wants to be asleep by the time Sam gets back and cold – or freezing coffee is not what he prefers first thing in the morning.

"Nah, I'm good." He blinks to clear his vision and examines what he can see of Sam for a moment. He still can't see all of his face but the tight lines around Sam's mouth tell him his brother is not as relaxed as he pretends to be. He thinks he'll find the same pinched look on his father's face without having to search too hard for it. The question slips out before he can stop himself. "You okay?"

It's amazing how well he can read his brother's face without seeing the upper half of it. Right now, he knows, Sam has raised a puzzled eyebrow at him and if he keeps asking things like this it will turn into an annoyed frown.

"I'm fine, Dean," he repeats, stressing the word 'fine' in a way that tells him his brother is anything but, and might resort to scowling at him if pressed further. Oh well, it's too early for this anyway, he really wants that bed now. He closes the window without giving an answer and slides the door open, pushing Sam out of the way none too gently. He grins at the to be expected grumble from his brother, catches the door when Sam tries to push it closed before he can get out and peels himself out of the car. Sam backs off a step and looks him over for a second.

"You look like crap…"

He reaches out to cuff Sam upside his head before his brother can dodge him. "Right back at ya, bitch."

Sam snorts, playfully punches his shoulder with a little more force than necessary and turns, leaving the parking lot and disappearing in a side street. Dean watches him go, then shakes his head and casts a quick glance at room no. 44. The lights are still out, so having a talk with his father is out of the question. Which is pretty much okay with him, right now he just wants a warm bed and sleep for like a month.

Something wet hits him square in the face. His body snaps upright before he can find out if it's a warm or a cold something and it plops down onto his lap where it starts to soak through the flimsy excuse of a blanket. He blinks, searching the room for his attacker but his sight is too blurry to make out more than a dark shape at the foot of his bed. He tightens his grip on the hunting knife he keeps under his pillow for cases like this—or tries to—but it isn't there and he comes up empty-handed. And then there is a familiar sound from the dark shape and reality goes from slow-motion back to normal speed, his brain finally catching up. He blinks again and is rewarded with the view of his brother standing at the foot of his bed, toweling his wet hair with a Kermit-the-frog-green towel while studying him with a raised eyebrow.

"Man, you really are out of it. You okay?"

His gaze drops down to the cold something in his lap—black hoodie—and back up at Sam, torn between hurling the thing into that grinning, ugly mug or just lunging himself at him to wipe the stupid smirk off said face. He settles for flipping him the bird and turns to glance at the alarm clock since everything else requires more energy than he can find in himself at the moment. Ten fifteen. Aw, crap, he could have slept for another thirty minutes…

Sam goes over to the small table next to the window and a moment later something warm is pressed into his hand. It smells like coffee and he raises the plastic cup to his lips, sipping at it cautiously. It is coffee as far as he can tell and even though it's definitely not the best he's ever had, it will do. He leans back against the headboard and watches his brother as Sam sits down onto the chair next to the table. Whatever had happened the day before doesn't seem to be affecting Sam now, he doesn't appear to be sleepy or in pain or in any discomfort at all.

"Well, you sure don't look like anything happened last night."

Sam frowns. "What do you mean?"

Taking another sip he sits up straighter, stretching his legs. "Dad called me, and it sounded like something was up with you. You want to fill me in?"

Sam stops toweling his hair—not that it did him any good, he is still dripping water everywhere like a wet dog— and looks at his hands for a moment, before grabbing his own coffee and taking a sip. The next second he pulls a face and puts the cup back down like the Starbuck's coffee snob he is. Seriously, they could have bought a third car by now if they'd saved the money they'd spent on the expansive crap just to keep him happy.

"I don't really remember much of it," Sam says, "it forced me to turn and then it called me." There's more to it, he can hear it in Sam's voice.

"How could it force you to turn?"

"I don't know, it was like it was building up this… pressure inside me and then I couldn't control it anymore and I just changed. I couldn't… it hurt to resist, like my insides were on fire or something…" He still sounds pained, as if he is reliving the memory while he's telling it, and Dean's anxiety is ramped up a notch. He really doesn't like the sound of all of this.

"What did it say?"

"What?"

"When it called you, what did it say?"

Sam shrugs slightly, dropping the towel on the other flimsy chair. "It didn't really say anything, it was more a—a feeling… it wanted me to leave… to get… there."

"Get where?"

"I don't know."

He wonders if Sam told their father about this. His bet would be on no, he sure as hell didn't. "Could you still get there? Now?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't think so. I mean, I haven't changed since we got here, but… It's different…"

He breaks off and looks away, but not before Dean catches a flash of his eyes: Sam is afraid to change. Not that he is a big fan of running around four-legged at any time but he usually just goes with it and doesn't complain. Much. Dean would even go as far as to claim that his brother actually enjoys his second nature as long as he doesn't think about it; he seems to be kind of a seize-the-moment-wolf once he has turned. Not that he would ever say that to Sam's face, either furry or normal.

This is different, though; his brother is scared, something must have happened, more than he remembers or, which is more likely since it's Sam, something he doesn't want to talk about.

"It hurt so much…" Sam's voice is so soft and distant Dean could swear he isn't even aware of speaking. "It wanted me so badly to… get away… to get there… and when I couldn't leave—when Dad wouldn't let me go it really started to hurt…"

Or maybe he does.

As much as Sam is obviously suffering because of it Dean feels ridiculously relieved. "So, whatever this is it isn't stronger than the curse?"

Sam shakes his head. "If Dad hadn't called me back… I think I would have just gone…"

It is said with such a longing in his voice that Dean feels his stomach clench in sympathy and something akin to fear. He knows Sam wants out, out of this trap, out of this life for more reasons than just the curse.

Dean isn't going to touch that subject with a ten-foot pole, though.

"Think it's the vampires?"

Sam snaps out of his reverie, looks at him. For a moment Dean thinks Sam is expecting him to say something else, something not having to do with vampires and he actually seems kind of hurt when he doesn't. But then Sam's shoulders slump dejectedly and he shrugs slightly, his face closing off.

"I don't know if they can do something like that. Bobby thinks it's something else but the only evidence about supernatural activity we could find all point toward the vamps."

He can't help it, he snorts, cause, seriously, vampires. Somehow it gets funnier every time he hears it.

Sam gets it and grins at him, fighting a little to sound amused. "Yeah, I know. They are real, Dad knows someone who's been hunting them for his whole life, he's like a vampire expert. Dad wants to check out the area before we go in."

"You're coming with us?"

Sam frowns, eyes narrowing a little. "Of course I am, why would I stay behind?" His voice takes on a warning tone; he's daring Dean to say the wrong thing, which, in this case, would be a valid reason to stay home.

And Sam knows it, Dean can see it in the way his brother won't meet his eyes, they both know with what has happened the day before it'd be safer for Sam to wait in the room and not risk being influenced (again) by whatever creature had almost overpowered him. But Sam won't make it easy on them; he can already see it in the stubborn set of his brother's shoulders and the tightly pressed lips, Sam won't back down from this, and before lunch there will be a heated discussion between Sam and their father about it. Dean can see it coming like a thunderhead on the horizon.

And he is so going to not be a part of that fight. He drops the subject before Sam can start another I-won't-stay-home-just-because-he-says-so-argument, takes another sip of his coffee and asks the more important question right now:

"So, how do you kill a vampire?"