Good morning! Or afternoon, whatever X

Disclaimer: I do not own the show or its characters, I just like to mess about with them. (Hehe, mess about - I wish ;P)

To continue!

End of the Line

Dean wrung out the cloth again and laid it across his brother's forehead. Sam moaned again, his eyes moving beneath their lids as he slid through fevered dreams.

Bobby was on the internet again, looking up everything he could on 'hyperpyrexia', which Dean understood to mean a dangerously high temperature (once Bobby had explained it to him). He'd tried to help Bobby with his research, but words kept jumping out of the screen at him, phrases like 'medical emergency' and 'serious underlying problems'.

Man, where's a freakin' angel when you need one?

"De...Dean..." Sam muttered, frowning.

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm right here," Dean said, knowing Sam couldn't hear him. He reached over and brushed away the damp strands of hair stuck to Sam's face. "You found anything?" he asked Bobby, without looking up.

"Only that Sam should be in a hospital," Bobby replied, tersely. "There's nothin' more we can do here, Dean. All we can do is keep doin' what we're doin' until the fever breaks on its own."

If it breaks on its own, Dean added silently. He leaned over to grab the glass of water off the nightstand. "Come on, Sammy, you gotta drink something," he said, sliding a hand between Sam's head and the pillow so he could help him sit up a little. Sam's eyelids flickered but didn't open; nevertheless he parted his lips as Dean tipped the glass to allow a few drops of water to trickle into his mouth. He coughed, but managed to swallow painfully.

Seeing that Sam wasn't gonna drink any more, Dean laid his head back on the makeshift pillow and set the glass down. At least he drank something, he thought, remembering something his dad had told him about fevers. 'If you keep the patient hydrated, they usually cool down faster.' He didn't even know if it was true, but at this point he was willing to try anything that might help.

"There're some things that could help," Bobby said hesitantly, "but they're only available... Yep, you guessed it: in a hospital."

"Fan-freakin'-tastic..." Dean exhaled sharply, but Bobby wasn't finished.

"I know I'm not exactly in any position to drive, but I've got a friend who can pick me up. We'll get the stuff, you stay and look after Sam."

"But-"

Bobby held up a hand. "It's no good, Dean. Someone's gotta go get some proper meds for Sam, and as you're on pretty much every wanted list in the continental US, it'd better be me that gets 'em."

"Yeah... I can't help anyone if I'm behind bars," Dean agreed (albeit unwillingly), glancing down at his brother as he spoke. Sweat glistened on Sam's skin as he tossed and turned in the throes of a feverish nightmare.

"I'll be as quick as I can, 'kay?" Bobby said as he wheeled himself towards the door.

Dean nodded once. "Be quicker," he replied, shortly.

The unfamiliar engine snarl faded into the distance and Dean reached over to grab the cloth from the nightstand, dipping it in the cold water again and wiping the sweat from Sam's face and neck. Then he got up, being careful not to jostle the bed, and walked across the room to the table. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a chair with the other, pulling the chair up to the side of the bed. "Well, Sammy," he said, opening the bottle, "it's gonna be a long night."

Pain; endless, disorientating and impossible to ignore, it burned through him like a raging inferno. Demons danced between the flames, along with more familiar faces. Is this it? he wanted to scream. Is this where I stop being human and become the monster I was born to be?

He was aware of Dean's presence, and every now and then he felt a cooling touch on his face and neck, but it was as effective as a drop of water on the scorching flames that were surely burning him to a crisp. It could have been hours, days or even weeks; he had no idea how long he'd been ill, but he felt that, while the pain didn't lessen, it was becoming more bearable. He frowned a little, trying to find the right muscles to open his eyes.

After a few seconds, he managed to open them a crack. the ceiling was blurred, but it didn't spin or start swimming around, which he took to be a good sign. He turned his head slowly, wincing as his headache flared, then managed to focus. Dean was slumped in the chair beside the bed, a mostly-empty bottle of what looked like whiskey cradled in one arm. Sam opened his mouth to speak to him, but his throat was so dry, all that came out was a whispered croak. Dean didn't even stir. Sam reached out his hand to–

What are you doing?

The furious question took him by surprise. What does it look like?

Get out of here, get away from them!

But...they're helping me...

No! As soon as they know what you are, they'll kill you!

Dean wouldn't do that. Sam knew that was true, as simple as breathing. Dean wouldn't let anything happen to him.

But he did, didn't he? He let you become this.

Sam tried to think of a reply, but the voice, or whatever it was, was right. He was painting a target on his forehead if he stayed here. Bobby...

He's not here.

Sam wasn't sure how he knew, but he just knew that it was just himself and Dean in the cabin. It was like a...a sixth sense or something. Or would it be seventh? he wondered randomly. Cos of my weird ESP thing...

Stay focused. If you can get to the back door, you're free.

Sam nodded to himself and slowly sat up, tentatively shifting his weight; the bed didn't make much noise and he was able to pull himself into a sitting position without so much as a creak. He was surprised to find he wasn't too weak, despite his condition. The room felt freezing, but as he glanced down at his arm he saw no goose-bumps on his skin. Must be the fever, he observed, trying (not entirely successfully) to stop himself shivering. His head still hurt like hell, but the burning ache in his arm had gone and his innards felt almost back to normal.

Actually, he felt hungry.

He still felt he ought to wake Dean, tell him what was going on, but he knew the inner voice was right. If he stayed, he'd end up killing someone, and that would mean they'd have to kill him. He wouldn't put Dean through that, not killing his own brother. Casting his mind back, he remembered what Dean had said the last time they'd talked about it. Granted, he'd been possessed by a demon at the time, but his point still stood, and Dean's reply had been the same:

"I won't kill my own brother. I'd rather die."

That made up his mind: he had to leave. Now, before Bobby got back and Dean woke up. Judging from the amount of whiskey left in the bottle, Dean would be out of it for at least another hour – plenty of time. Sam glanced around and his eye was caught by a scrap of paper lying on the table.

How he got from the bed to the table without falling over or making a sound was beyond him, but somehow he managed it; grabbing a pencil, he thought for less than a minute, then scribbled something on the paper, signed it and laid it on the bed. He went to Dean's duffel-bag, grabbing a change of clothes and his favourite 9-millimetre. Then, he pulled out his shotgun and looked at it for a few seconds, before putting it back. He'll need it more than I will.

Once he'd put his things together in a bag, he went out to the back room where Dean had run earlier – Or was it yesterday? He couldn't tell – and found the ice-box of water. He grabbed two bottles and stuffed them into his bag, testing its weight on his shoulder. He was still shaky, still shivering, but he seemed to have regained at least some of his strength.

Good, you'll need that.

What am I supposed to do now? Just...leave?

Even as he asked the question, he found he already knew the answer. Yes; he had to leave, before he did something that couldn't be fixed.

Couldn't be fixed... Like him. He was damaged, broken, a burden to his family; what family he had left, anyway. It was doing them a favour, taking himself out of the picture.

Before he could change his mind or lose his nerve, he picked up his bag and, with one last look at his brother, who was still sleeping soundly in the chair beside the now empty bed, exited the room, the cabin, and his old life.

That wasn't him anymore. He'd changed too much.

As he started to jog towards the road, filled with grim determination, he resisted the urge to look back at the cabin. Bobby and Dean were all he had left of his family; how could he subject them to the torture of seeing him become this...this monster? Sure, Dean had been teasing him about being a freak all his life, but this was a whole new level of freak, even for them.

Goodbye, Dean.

Hope you liked! Please review and thank you to all the lovely people who have already shared their views :-) Very much appreciated ^_^

Not long left to go now :-)

I'm going to Scotland this weekend so no updates until I get back, I'm afraid, but I should at least be able to finish writing the thing while I'm up there :-P

See ya! ^_^

xoxox