Great. Just freakin' great. Dean balled up a scrap of paper which had been lying on the table between his finger and thumb, lining it up to flick into the waste paper basket, which probably wasn't a brilliant idea as it was still placed strategically at the side of Sam's (well, Dean's) bed. Sam had crawled miserably from the car and curled himself up fully clothed on top of the bedclothes in a foetal position, his headache creasing his brow and flashing through the back of his eyes so painfully that Dean almost thought he could see it.

So now I'm bored, he thought. Bored, bored, bored boredboredbored. He puffed out a large breath, clicking his tongue in his cheeks as he watched his brother. Sam's chest was rising and falling slowly. At least he looks calm, thought Dean, an image of his brother's shoulder from the evening before playing through his mind like a slideshow. He let out a yawn, smacking his lips together slightly. He wondered if he could get away with putting on the television without waking up his brother. He wasn't even sure that he was asleep. Best check…

"Sammy?" He called quietly to the great, hulking lump of sibling curled on the bed. "You still awake dude?" He pushed the creaky chair onto its back legs, a bit unsure why he was whispering. Why do people whisper when they want to wake people up?

Sam's arm twitched slightly. Leave me alone, Dean… he tried to speak out loud but he was half asleep and he heard the sentence come out of his lips as a bit of a pathetic groan. He hadn't had a killer migraine in years, not since he was in college. Not since before the whole freaky vision thing started anyway.

Dean sighed, knowing that he had to do something for his brother, anything. He got up and gently knelt down next to the bed. Sam wasn't asleep, just had his eyes closed to block the light. The darkened circles under his eyes had deepened and his skin was clammy. Dean instinctively raised the back of his hand to his forehead, only to have it swatted away instantly, his younger brother's defences not entirely down. He pulled his hands away from Sam sharply, just to prove to him that he really didn't have any desire to touch him any more than was absolutely necessary. There'd been far too much of that last night.

"Okay, Sam, I'm not touching you. Promise." He breathed out slowly. Crap. I hate making these judgements. What the hell do I do? Dean glanced at his cellphone, laying open on the table. Bang on the head last night, vomiting this morning - but about a third of a bottle of whiskey last night, maybe a little more? Coupled with some pain pills and a really really rough night's sleep; should I just let him sleep it off? Or do I bite the bullet and get some help? His gaze unconsciously fell on the cellphone again. Just sometimes, he wanted to call Dad. Even though he'd never have answered anyway…. But it'd be nice to have been able to try. God I miss him... Maybe I should ask Bobby - yeah right, like he'd know what to do. Although he might. But, he reasoned, I haven't asked the biggest brainbox I know yet. He nudged his brother gently by his shoulder.

"Come on Sam, open your eyes. Dude, I need your help."

Sam shuffled a little, not yet asleep, the pain in his head making sure that he couldn't quite drop off. Shit, what kind of headache kept you awake? He squinted at his brother. "What, Dean?" His voice held more than a mere suggestion of irritation.

"Help me out here bro. Hypothetical situation. Imagine your brother's sick. Imagine you don't know quite how sick. And you got no-one to help you work it out."

Sam groaned. Yeah yeah… I know. "Okay. I'm imagining that." A shiver ran down his spine. Crap, not a fever now. I don't want a fever.

"Okay. So imagine he's been puking his guts up, had a real nasty knock to the head and now won't move cos he's got a headache the size of Canada. Would you let him sleep it off, or would you take him to a doctor?"

Ooooh… crap. God, I really really am a pain in the freakin' ass - the room was spinning. "I know what I'd probably do." Sam croaked.

"Yeah?" Dean was kneeling down, his brother's eyes closed again.

"I'd probably…." Sam paused and licked his lips, shivering a little. "…I'd probably want him to see a doctor."

Dean's heart sank, pounding a few times as it plummeted what felt like a few feet. If Sammy said he needed to see a doctor, he must feel pretty bad… Sam interrupted his panic.

"…. But then I'd probably be overreacting, and my brother would probably give me hell for days for not letting him sleep when he feels like shit."

Still a sarcastic bastard, he's fine, Dean thought. Sam lifted his head off the pillow a little.

"I'm okay, Dean. Really. Just grab me some more asprin and I'll get a couple more hours. Promise I'll be fine."

Promise was a Winchesters magic word. Silently Dean fetched Sam a glass of water and handed him a couple of painkillers. He placed them gently in Sam's hand and helped him sit up, Sam keeping his eyes closed as much as he could.

"I'm sorry, dude."

Sam gasped a little as he swallowed the water and slid back down onto the bed. "Wha' for?" He mumbled.



"You weren't ready for this." Dean sighed and dragged the comforter over his fully-clothed brother. "I just... just wanted to get back to normal again, after, you know..." He didn't want to say it. The possession. The gunshot. The murder.

"Me too, Dean..." Sam didn't look up. "Said it already though... Promise I'll be fine. Just..." Sam weakly waved his hand to show that he was done talking.

Dean patted his brother on the shoulder and deciding not to turn on the tv, he rummaged in his jacket pocket and withdrew his MP3 player. Leaning back again on the chair, he fired up the laptop, intending to do some work. Work out what was really going on with Jimmy Nixon and Emma Carragher… maybe I'll just do a little... surfing first. He launched a search engine page and typed in 'Phantom of the Opera'.

The slow clicking of Dean's blunt fingernails on the keyboard rattled through Sam's brain like a jackhammer, click, click, bang. The chair creaked a little. Shut up, he yelled silently. Just, stop it! He felt the chill from down his back growing through the rest of his body and he pulled the comforter further over himself, feeling his teeth beginning to chatter a little. God, I hate being sick, he thought. I was fine before… before... when did it get so cold!! His teeth banged together painfully as he curled further in on himself, shaking from the feeling of icy fingers down his back, down his thighs, over his chest… not icy fingers… Actual fingers.

The touch was cold, so cold that Sam whimpered a little, cursing himself for feeling so weak. I'm not weak, I'm a Winchester... the argument sounded stupid to him. He wasn't a Winchester. He was Little Sammy Winchester. Always had been, always will be. Doesn't matter how big I get. Always the littlest. The fingers caressed his neck, travelling around to the back of his head and tugging slightly at his tangled hair. The touch continued, chills around his neck, frozen fingers slicing down his muscular torso. But their touch was light; short, neat fingernails slightly scratching his pained skin. A shiver, no, was that more like a shudder, pulsed through Sam's body, his eyes still closed. Stop it, he murmured, maybe, he wasn't sure if he was actually speaking. Stop it, I'm sick, I've got a headache… no, wait, actually… I haven't?

Taking stock, Sam realised he no longer wanted to take out his own brain and jump on it until it turned into a messy, pain free mush. He felt…. light. There was no headache, just a kind of floaty-ness and the sensation, the gentle touch, growing warmer, another shudder running down his back that was definitely no longer due to the cold. A weight was bearing down on him, not an unpleasant weight but more of a presence. He was suddenly no longer curled up but felt the weight the whole length of his chest, pressing into his breastbone and running warm fingers around his nipples, down his stomach and towards his naval. He gasped as a tingle ran deep through his body, his eyes opening with the drawing in of breath and found himself staring into deep, blue eyes.

Blonde hair gently brushed his eyelids, falling in soft curls around his ears. He saw her smile, wide and white and he couldn't help but grasp the back of her head and pull her hot, wet lips down onto his, sucking in desperate, needy air through his nose and pulling her body closer to him. Her fingers traced his thighs, upwards, slowly as he plunged his tongue aggressively into her mouth, into her as her hands stroked higher and higher, oh shit, gently cupping his testicles as she pulled roughly away from him. Sam let out a slight moan as she moved her head to his right ear, tracing the lobe with the tip of her tongue and whispering 'I know you want this, Sam. I know you need to be loved. Know you need someone to take care of you…" She continued on down his long, muscular neck, peppering his suntanned skin with light kisses. Sam swung a strong arm around her back, gently pushing her hands away from his genitals, thinking no, knowing that this wasn't right…. But why wasn't it? What was happening?

"No. I can't." Sam's voice was a whisper. Why do I sound so weak?

"Of course you can… you want to, don't you?" Her voice was inquisitive, authoritative…. Yes, God yes, of course I do, he thought. But I shouldn't.

"I don't…" Sam sucked in another deep breath, again brushing her hands away from his bare thighs – I'm sure I was dressed? "…I don't even know your name!"

Something flashed through the deep blue eyes… was it a shade of black? Sam flinched slightly, withdrawing his hands from the blonde. Or maybe, just maybe, it was anger. Fleetingly, it was gone and the deep blue was back, one of her pale, soft hands caressing Sam's five o'clock shadow. "Of course you do, honey…" She planted a soft kiss on his cheek. She'd sensed Sam's reticence, fear almost and had pulled back a little, treating him a little more gently. His heart rate began to slow a little. Did he? Should he know? She did seem kinda familiar…

"Do I?" Sam was confused.

"Yeah, you do. I've been watching you. And you've been looking for me."

"No I haven't…have I?"

"Of course you have Sam. You know who I am."


Sam's eyes grew wider and the warm, longing feeling inside him spread though his body as the girl leaned down into his ear and began to sing, clearly and as beautifully as he'd ever heard. A somehow familiar piece of music but not one he could place. But the words, the words were beautiful...

"Flattering child you shall know me,
See why in shadow I hide
Look at your face in the mirror,
I am there inside."

"What? No. Inside what?" Sam's voice was weak; his eyes were closed but he felt peaceful.

"I'm your angel Sam. Your angel of music. You're special, Sam. You need someone to take care of you. You need me to take care of you."

"But…. but, no I don't. My brother…. Dean's always taken care of me…"

"Not like I will. You know what I'm promising. Think about it Sam. You know. I'm here, nothing can harm you. He can't give you everything you want. Say you need me with you, here beside you..." Sam gasped as her tongue ran gently around his left earlobe. "Dean hasn't got a clue. You know he hasn't. I promise, you'll be safe with me. I can be everything you've ever wanted, just -"

"Stop!" Sam sat bolt upright, feeling like he was lying in a pool of sweat and breathing heavily as a huge crash echoed through the motel room.