This story is set during the first season so may contain spoilers for canon events in that time. It seems to fit in the gap between episodes 1:11 and 1:12. Warnings for depressed!anxious Dean and angry!anxious Sam. Only hints at events beyond 1.11 although Bobby is introduced earlier that in canon. (See chapter one for disclaimer.)

Thank you all so much for reading and for your follows/favorites. To all those who have been kind enough to leave reviews, an extra thank you, I really appreciate it.

So… I was on a roll getting the chapters out fairly quickly, and then suddenly there was a little gosling to hand-rear… it's so hard to type with one finger because it just wants to sit in my hand – hope it doesn't crap in the keyboard!

-o-

What did I do?

Chapter Eight

-o-

When Dean came back to full awareness, he found himself sprawled across the back seat of the Impala. He was cold and wet and guessed his rain-soaked clothing had cooled his core temperature enough to lower his fever a little. He vaguely remembered Sam bundling him in through the door and driving through the storm. The Impala was moving, so Sam and whatever was in him, must still be driving. Cautiously Dean pulled himself up until he could see his brother in the rear view mirror.

Sam's posture was tense; he was hunched forwards over the wheel and seemed to be concentrating on keeping the Impala on the rain swept road. Dean shivered as cold water seeped down his spine; his teeth rattled involuntarily and Sam's big, worried, hazel eyes fixed on his in the mirror. Thankfully the face seemed to be all Sam. For a moment he wondered if the thing inside his brother had been a fever dream, but then he remembered lying on the grass. "What was I doin' on the verge?" he wondered, having no recollection of getting out of the Impala.

The image of two faces in one and Sam clawing at his own head flitted through Dean's mind; he shuddered, trying to sort through the scenes, sift out fever hallucinations from memories.

He eased himself carefully across the seat and leant up the side window, seeing that at least they seemed to be getting away from the storm. The dark wall of cloud was moving off to their right, still lit from within by fierce flashes of lightning. Sam kept his foot down, getting them well clear, but as some of the pressure of the escape eased, he began to mutter to himself.

Dean watched him carefully in the mirror, saw the moment when his brother's features began to distort. The muttering was increasing in intensity so Dean allowed his hand to drop off the edge of the seat, feeling around until he found a box tucked down in the foot-well under a pile of old towels. Inside was a little surprise he'd purchased a few weeks earlier, put aside, then forgotten about when the crap with Sam kicked off. Normally Sam would have found the box, but lately he'd been too preoccupied with being crazy, or possessed, or whatever.

"I love ya, Sammy," he thought. "But there's no way you're gonna keep that monster under control much longer. We gotta get to Lawrence and if you're driving my Baby you're probably gonna end up pranging us into a tree or somethin'."

The rumble of the Impala covered his movements and he worked the item clear of the box, relieved he'd assembled and tested it the day he bought it. Now, he just needed Sam to stop the car. Remembering the way his brother's anger had been washed away by anxiety in the parking lot that morning, Dean decided to play the sympathy card.

Deliberately pitching his voice to a shaky growl, he raised his eyes to meet Sam's in the mirror, blinked piteously.

"Dude… Hey, Sam, I'm feelin' sick, I'm gonna hurl. Can we stop a minute?" He put a hand over his mouth, making sure his brother could see it and made a loud retching noise.

Sam hit the brakes immediately, pulling the Impala over to the side of the road.

"Good ole Sammy, that's my boy…" he thought sadly. "I'm sorry, Sam, I really am, but this has gotta stop, man."

Dean took a deep breath, steeled himself and tasered his brother. Sam let out a high pitched yell and slumped forwards onto the wheel, his body jerking with aftershocks.

-o-

"Winchester here." John's voice was gruff. "What've ya got?"

"Questions is what I've got." Bobby's voice was equally harsh. He got right into it, not wanting to make small talk with John; he doubted that John even knew what small talk was, anyway it was an unnecessary waste of time in the hunters' world.

"Ya say your boys are gonna be tearin' each other apart, d'ya know how, and why?"

"I don't know as much as I'd like. Bitch said this demon she'd summoned was old, powerful…"

Bobby interrupted, "Medieval, mebbe?"

"Yeah, I guess. I dunno how it happened, but it infected the boys. She said it would start small, arguments and such like, then things'd get worse, deadly even." John's voice tailed off, he could hear the worry in his voice, knew Singer could hear it too.

"Ya didn't get to see the altar?"

"No."

"Balls! Didn't ya get diddly squat to help ya put a name to this thing?" Bobby's voice rose, incredulous.

John bristled, immediately defensive. "I was busy, Singer, not sitting on my ass drinkin' rotgut! And there was somethin'. Bitch was wearing a talisman, this lion-headed man sittin' on a bear."

Bobby sighed, his worst fears confirmed as he glanced down at his 1863 version of the 'Dictionnaire Infernal'.

"Pruflas," he grunted.

"What'd ya say?"

"Pruflas. Medieval demon. Causes discord between folks, can even lead to 'em killing each other. Lotta medieval marriages bit the dust 'cos of old Pruflas. Don't need to be no marriage though, just any two people livin' or workin' in close quarters an' I'm guessin' your boys fit into that category right enough. Folk are more likely to get affected if they've suffered some kinda mental trauma before… yeah, it's gotta be Pruflas."

John sighed, kneading his aching temples. "There's just one thing doesn't fit… seems Sam is affected more'n Dean."

"Well… your Sam has always been more temperamental, but Dean, he ain't the type to take things lyin' down." Bobby's puzzlement was clear in his tone.

"I know it. Thing is, after Lewiston I was tryin' to keep tabs on the boys…"

The first news John had received was from a hunter who'd seen the younger Winchesters in a diner over by the Smokey Mountains. Something had kicked off in the diner and they'd left in a hurry. The hunter had taken great pleasure in telling John that Dean Winchester seemed to have lost his balls. Bobby guessed he'd lived to regret that comment.

So John had put out the word to his contacts and quite by chance the Impala had pulled into a motel owned by one of his few remaining friends. The Winchesters had stayed at Julie Spencer's motel several times when the boys were young. John had helped her out with a poltergeist problem and for a while he'd made a point of stopping in if he was in the area. She'd had a soft spot for the boys and they'd had a soft spot for her milk and cookies.

What had gone down on the morning outside her motel had shocked her and the telling of it had shocked John even more. Try as he might, he couldn't believe his eldest had let Sam put him on his butt without retaliation.

Dean hadn't recognised Julie outside the motel, although she'd talked to him, asked if he was okay, but by all accounts he'd been too upset to recognise anything much. She'd guessed he was ill or hurt or both. Since that morning the worry had been eating a hole in John's gut.

-o-

By the time Sam stopped twitching, Dean had secured him with cable ties as comfortably as possible, thankful they always kept a good supply in the trunk. He pulled Sam across into the passenger seat and lay him on his side. The effort nearly finished him and by the time he dropped into the driver's seat his consciousness was fluttering at the edges. There'd been no possibility of moving Sam to the back seat, besides he wanted his brother where he could see him. He wasn't sure how the tasering would affect Sam, didn't want him vomiting and choking. And he really didn't want the monster in Sam taking control behind him, where he wouldn't know what was happening until it was too late.

In the end he put Sam's head on his thigh, hoped he wouldn't bite, and set off for Lawrence.

They'd only been travelling for about 20 miles when the Impala pinged for fuel. Dean pulled a blanket over his brother and made a brief pit-stop. His clothes had mostly dried by now and he could feel the fever starting to climb again; he took the opportunity to stock up on energy drinks and Tylenol.

As he was heading back to the Impala, he had to give way for a group of college students. It occurred to him that he was only a couple of years older than most of them, but in comparison, in his dirty and ripped clothes, barely able to stand upright and hurting all over, he felt like a rusty old truck giving way to a fleet of brand new, shiny eco cars. Briefly he wondered what his life would have been like if fate had given him a different deal, but he pushed the thought away and dragged himself back to the waiting Impala.

Despite a generous intake of Tylenol and Gatorade, the fever continued to grow, burning hotter and hotter, making the road waver in front of him as he drove.

"S'okay, Baby," Dean muttered, patting the wheel fondly, "I won't let us crash, we'll get Sam sorted and then I'm gonna fix you up."

It occurred to him that this whole pile of crap was turning out to be the hardest fight he'd ever fought.

-o-

Missouri opened the door.

"The boys are on their way," she said, motioning with her head for John to go past her into the house. He slipped inside, a familiar twist of anxiety on his features as he hovered almost deferentially in the hallway. If the man had a hat, she thought, he'd be twisting it in his hands right now.

"It's worse than I thought." The words burst out of him, his eyes fixed on her face, almost as though he could make her have an answer by sheer force of will.

Missouri laid a calming hand on his elbow, steered him towards the kitchen. "We'll sit a while," she said firmly. "Have a nice cup of herb tea, and you can tell me all about it." She was thinking that what John really ought to do was talk to his children.

John stared at her; his expression said he didn't want a nice cup of tea, herb or otherwise, but he allowed her to push him towards the table.

-o-

If anyone had been foolish enough to stop the mud-streaked black Impala and ask the crazed driver where he was, he wouldn't have been able to answer. Dean was on auto-pilot, somehow staying just alert enough to keep the Impala heading along the back roads towards Lawrence. He had no idea how long he'd been driving.

Sam, or rather the thing inside him, was awake and if the words pouring out of Sam's mouth were anything to go by, it was pretty pissed. After a while Dean got sick of hearing it ranting and he dropped an old ripped t-shirt over his brother's head.

He leant forwards, resting his upper arms on the wheel, struggling to keep his head up as his ears filled with the rhythmic sound of his own rushing blood. The road was a straight line in front, flanked on either side by endless acres of corn. Something on the right caught his eye and he turned his head slowly, frowning at the unexpected gloom of a stand of tall, dark fir trees and a patch of night sky amidst the golden corn. The Impala drifted past a small clearing in the trees; two young boys stood with their backs to him; he could hear their shouts of laughter as a glorious trail of fireworks flew up against the dark backdrop of the firs. Dean blinked, feeling a pang of recognition at the scene and the trees were gone as suddenly as they'd appeared.

"Dammit," he whispered, "Stay awake, gotta get Sammy some help."

Betraying him, his eyelids slid down, but shot open again at the sound of a noise in the back seat. He realised the Impala had drifted across the road and swerved back on track before risking a glance over his shoulder.

A 6 year old Sam was giggling in the back seat, a green plastic army man grasped in his chubby fist. He twisted, screeching and trying to tuck his hand behind his back as Dean's youthful fingers prised it from his grasp. "Deean, give it back," he howled.

"No way, Sammy, ya snooze, ya lose." Dean recognised his own, light child's voice, already knew what happened next as he heard the sharp snap of the ashtray lid.

"Deean…"

"M'sorry, Sammy. It's stuck… hey, don't cry, I'll get you another one!"

Dean rubbed at his face, feeling the drag of the splinted finger against his skin. He really needed to lie down.

"It's your fault, you know." Teenaged Sam leant amicably over the back of the bench seat, resting his elbows on the top and peering at Dean from under shaggy bangs.

"Eh?" said Dean, trying to adjust to the multiple versions of his brother.

"College. It's your fault. You could've stopped me, y'know. You need to stop now though."

"What?" Dean squinted at the youthful image of his brother.

Teenaged Sam nodded, a happy expression on his face as he gestured towards the windshield. Dean swung back to face the road, eyes widening in horror as he stood on the brakes and fought the fishtailing Impala. She slid to a halt, the hood just inches away from the woman standing on the centre line.

"Mom?" Dean croaked, throwing open his door and staggering into the road. She smiled at him serenely, the wind tugging gently at the hem of her nightgown, tangling her waves of blonde hair. He stepped forwards, reaching out to her, but his arms passed through thin air and he toppled forwards onto his hands and knees; he stretched to touch her bare feet, but felt only the roughness of asphalt. Dean's eyes filled with tears. "Please," he whispered, "Make it stop, Mom. I just want to go to sleep."

He felt the ghost of a touch on his shoulder, her voice was a breath in his ear. "You're nearly there, Dean. Just take Sam to Lawrence."

He nodded, gritting his teeth as he climbed back to his feet. She was gone. He turned back to the Impala, ignoring the yells of abuse from a passing pick-up truck. Dizzy and panting, he hung onto consciousness, deciding the best way to keep his baby on the road was to aim straight down the middle line. He drove slowly on towards Lawrence.

-o-

Missouri opened the screen door; she could feel the boys were close, but the pictures in her head were confusing. There was a frenzy of anxiety that was clearly Sam, but the image was all mixed and twisted with something old and evil. Dean was more difficult to pin down; any attempt she made to channel him bringing an overwhelming rush of the entire spectrum of emotions, tangled with vivid and bewildering images. After a couple of minutes, she pulled her mind back, feeling her head starting to pound Seconds later she heard the heavy rumble of the Impala approaching.

"They're nearly here," she called back over her shoulder to the dark, brooding presence hovering anxiously behind her curtains. The man was wound so tight, she thought, it was wonder he didn't snap.

-o-

John nodded, the lines around his eyes deepening when the Impala swerved into the drive and rocked to a halt, wheels askew. Even from his position behind the curtain he could make out the popped headlight and the dent in the hood. She'd been driven hard he thought, seeing splashes of mud up her sides and in dirty arcs on the windshield; things must be bad for Dean to drive her in that condition. He fought against his instincts to rush out to his boys. They couldn't know he was here; it wasn't safe for them.

The driver's door swung open and Dean hoisted himself out; there was no sign of his usual lithe grace and alarm bells were already sounding in John's head before he saw the little stagger as his eldest took a couple of shuffling steps towards the porch. He stopped there, looking towards Missouri with a dazed but hopeful expression on his bruised face. John knew his boy; he'd seen him drunk, concussed, ill and injured. When Dean swayed, John was already moving, all his best intentions forgotten as he realised his son was about to go down and go down hard.

He burst through the door, registering the amused quirk to Missouri's lip and pulled up short just before he reached Dean. His boy looked in bad shape, battered and bruised and far too pale, traces of mud on his jacket and torn jeans. Dean was squinting at him, his expression annoyed; he bit his lip slowly and then slurred, "Hey, Dad… was wonderin' when you was gonna show up."

John frowned, puzzled, "You were?" His gaze passed swiftly over the Impala; there was no sign of Sam. "Dean," he said, "Where's your brother?"

A woefully sad expression settled on the features of his eldest. "Aww Dad… m'sorry, I lost Sammy…"

"What?" John stared at him in disbelief. "What d'ya mean..." he broke off, distracted by the sound of a banging sound coming from the Impala, he stepped around Dean and peered in through the driver's window. Sam was lying on the passenger side, trussed like a turkey and with a t-shirt half over his head.

"What the hell!" John spun on his heel, fully prepared to let Dean have a piece of his mind if he couldn't come up with a damn good explanation. To his surprise, Dean was still facing away from him, swaying slightly; John could hear him muttering.

"Wha' was I thinkin', course it wasn't Dad… just seein' things… Dad's not comin'. Why, Dad? What've I done… please Dad… just wanted it to be Dad…"

John stepped back round to face his son, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. "Hey, kiddo, I'm right here."

He spoke gently, staring intently at Dean and noting the way his son's eyes gradually focussed. A little frown appeared and Dean's hand came up slowly towards John's face, freezing him into stillness as the fingers fumbled clumsily at his cheek, twisting into his beard for a moment and then slipping away. A completely goofy and quite beautiful grin spread across Dean's face. "Dad…"he said, his voice cracking.

John thought he hadn't seen that grin since forever and combined with the ripped jeans and the tiny bits of twig and mud tangled into his son's mussed hair, it made him look all of 15.

"I'm here, son," he said softly, his hands waiting ready when something invisible seemed to scythe through Dean's legs; John caught him under the arms as he dropped.

"I've got ya, son," he whispered, pulling him tight against his chest with one arm and grasping onto the back of his jacket; bending swiftly he slipped his other arm under Dean's knees and scooped him up like a child. His son may have looked 15, he thought, but he sure didn't weigh the same as when he was 15. John could feel the pull in his back muscles, but the pain in his back was nothing compared to the anguish in his heart. He leant back slightly, letting Dean's head roll towards him and settle under his chin. "I've got ya, son," he whispered again, heading into the house.

-o-

As he passed Missouri, she could see the grooves of pain on his face. The man was cracking open, she thought, as though rivers of lava were forcing their way upwards, cutting through to the surface of an ice-coated mountain.

-o-

So this turned out to be a long chapter! Any mistakes I'm blaming on the gosling! :-D

Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing.

If you do have a spare moment to leave a review, it will be really appreciated!