AN: Well, as Robert Burns might say, "the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry." This took a bit longer than expected, but not for any good reason, just because I didn't like it until after several extensive revisions. Mea culpa, but at least the finished product is better than the earlier iterations!

Janice was not only speedier than belief, she found a few places where I really needed to add some details or clarification. She's fantabulous!

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Dean sat on a wooden chair and put his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his thighs. At his back was the only window in the room. The heavy curtains were pulled, but enough light leaked in around the edges that he didn't need to use any artificial light to see. But at the moment, he didn't want to see. He couldn't sit like that for very long, because he was likely to fall asleep despite the light and the uncomfortable chair.

Three days.

Linda had said that "Mack" had taken two days to completely transition into a lapsae and it was now nearly three whole days since Sam had been spit on. He'd been in and out of coherence much of the first day. Sometimes he asked questions about Dean finding him, about where they were staying, even apologizing for being taken, and sometimes he muttered in Latin or in another language Dean didn't recognize (though he was fairly certain vittu tätä paskaa was a way of expressing displeasure). Sometimes he said things that didn't make any sense, talked about candles, or warned Dean not to touch him so he didn't get burned.

The second day, Sam lapsed into mostly silence, interspersed with nonsense mutterings and sounds of pain. When he was conscious, he alternated between lying still, staring at nothing, and thrashing around violently.

For the previous few hours, Sam had laid utterly still, his eyes closed and the rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was still alive.

Dean hadn't really slept the entire time. He took care of Sam's physical needs to the best of his ability, making holy water and using it to cool Sam's skin and force it down his throat. He wondered if the incredible heat coming off Sam's body would cook him alive. And he watched the gray, thickened skin spread slowly over Sam's body. At this point, the entire left side of his body, from jaw to heel, was now transformed.

Dean lifted his head and stood up. He needed to check on the room next door, try to get Sam to drink something, and get some calories in himself to make sure he didn't pass out. He couldn't afford to fall asleep. He had considered calling in Bobby to spell him, but he didn't want any Hunters around, even him, in the event that Sam changed totally. Dean hadn't let himself think through exactly what he'd do if the worst happened, but he knew that he was going to be the only one to make that decision. Sam was his charge and his responsibility.

He had left Sam's side exactly once since his vigil had begun, the first day, when Sam was with it enough to (hopefully) understand that Dean needed to run a few errands.

"I gotta get some food so we can keep a low profile while you get better," Dean said, keeping his tone light. "Stay put and don't open the curtains." In daylight, there was no missing the gray, oddly-textured appearance of the skin on Sam's neck and the back of one hand.

"Mph," Sam grunted. He was curled on his side with his broken arm propped on a pillow in front of him. It really needed to be re-x-rayed, but Dean couldn't exactly take him to the hospital in his current state. His eyes were barely open and he hadn't said a word in a good hour.

"Tell me you understand me, Sam," Dean urged. "I, uh, wanna check Linda's storage unit too, in case she has anything that is useful." It wasn't likely, but he didn't have a lot of ideas at this point. Under his breath, he added, "I just have to find it."

"828 River Road, unit 16, code 2783. Enter code twice," Sam muttered without moving or opening his eyes farther.

Dean's mouth fell slightly open, then he smiled proudly. Leave it to Sam's memory. It took more than his body beat to hell and turning slowly into a mothman to make him miss important information. Dean was no dummy, but in the heat of everything, he hadn't been completely certain of the unit number. "Thanks, Sammy. Now stay put, I mean it."

He stopped in to the room next door and confirmed that everything was in place, then drove back to the town where everything had started, not bothering to pay attention to speed limits. He didn't want to be gone any longer than he had to. Luckily, the storage unit was easy enough to find and opened with the code Linda had given. And, yes, Dean remembered to enter it twice. Inside there were a number of booby traps he had to dismantle before getting a good look around, though none designed to be lethal. Hunters were nothing if not paranoid.

The shelves were lined with books and artifacts that ranged in appearance from arcane to simply tacky. He knew better than to touch anything, no matter what it looked like. He'd painfully learned that lesson a long time ago from a gaudy, plasticky ring that looked like something you'd get out of one of those quarter machines in restaurants. Pushing the unpleasant memory away, Dean looked for something that the key Linda had given him would fit into. The only thing he could see that might work was a utilitarian metal box marked "MRE," which he was well aware stood for "meals ready to eat." More than once, especially growing up, they'd had to resort to eating the vacuum-sealed, shelf-stable military issued food.

Dean studied the box without touching it but didn't see any sign of warding or other protections nor any wires to indicate more mundane dangers. Sometimes the best place to hide something was in plain sight. If he hadn't had a key small enough to fit in the box's lock, he wouldn't have looked twice at the thing. Except...it wasn't as dusty as most other items, which implied Linda had accessed it recently.

Mentally crossing his fingers that he hadn't missed any more traps, Dean gently inserted the key. It turned easily and he used it to open the top of the box.

Nothing happened in reaction, and the nature of the contents were clear to Dean immediately. There were several Hunter's journals. Nodding to himself, Dean closed the box and took it with him. They could come back and look through Linda's collection later. For now, he needed information, and he needed to get back to his charges.

Sam didn't seem to have moved in the two hours that Dean had been gone, so after bullying him into drinking some more holy water, Dean had started to read.

The first journal belonged to Keith "Mack" MacGinn. He had apparently specialized in corporeal monsters like werewolves and Chupacabra, which Dean could respect. He skipped to the end of the book and skimmed what had brought Mack and his mentee Linda to the area.

Dean moved on to the next book, which was, unsurprisingly, Linda's. He quickly discovered that one of her journals was a typical Hunter's record, but the other was more like a diary, though she was matter-of-fact even about her feelings.

A picture slowly emerged. Mack had saved Linda and her parents from a zombie and its necromancing master and eventually allowed her to join him on the road, teaching her the ropes. As Linda's skills developed, so did her feelings for the other Hunter, but he didn't return the latter. Still, they must have worked well together, because they investigated and took out an impressive number of cryptids before the ill-fated search for the mothmen.

Linda had seen the entire attack and killed the lapsae that had spit on Mack, but nothing she'd done had stopped Mack's transformation. At the end of it, he attacked his partner and nearly killed her.

Chet and his family had saved Linda's life and he'd almost single-handedly nursed her through months of grueling recovery. At first, Linda pretended to buy into their view that the lapsae were god-like beings that needed protection, but as she grew more attached to her caretaker, she slowly started to help them keep the lapsae off other Hunters' radar.

It was a heart-breaking read.

"I'm not sure I really love him," she wrote candidly when Chet suggested they get married. "But with Mack gone, I don't have anybody left. I don't know how to do anything except Hunt. Maybe I just want a place to fit."

Choosing to believe Chet's promises that the ancient writings in the caves over the river would lead them to a cure, Linda had done experiment after experiment trying to contain and cure the monsters, who consisted of Chet's father, a local girl, and one of the missing hikers in addition to Mack. They tried to keep them confined with chains and cables and feed them animals, but the powerful creatures broke free again and again. When a nephew of Chet's was killed and he wasn't even deterred in his belief that the creatures were essentially deserving of worship, Linda finally admitted to herself that her husband was obsessed.

"I'm no archaeologist or anything, but I've seen the cave drawings, and it's pretty damn obvious that natives used to seek out the mothmen to prove their bravery. Supposedly, they'll transform you instead of eat you if you aren't scared. Archie admitted that their dad was worried about dementia when he started his obsession with their family's history. Chances are, he figured out where to find a mothman and faced it down like some stupid matador...

"I can see Chet trying the same thing someday. He talks about the lapsae like they're some higher form of life, like becoming one would make you a god or something. I don't know what to do. Mack deserves better, but I'm in this up to my neck now. If I didn't know better, I'd swear Chet had some kind of supernatural power that he used to draw me in. But really, I was weak and lonely."

Then, only a few months ago: "I discovered that some of the people who went 'missing' were lured in by Chet and Archie as food. FOOD. And I did nothing. I always thought I'd have the guts to do the right thing even if it was hard. Instead, I'm helping these psychos kill people. I am one of the psychos."

The final entry was less than a month in the past. "I can't do this any longer. I'm more of a monster than Mack is, and I can't use my feelings for him as an excuse anymore. He would've kicked my ass for not killing him outright. In six weeks, it will be the anniversary of the first time Mack saved my life. I'll look for a cure and do what Chet wants until then. Then, I'll free those poor souls trapped as mothmen even if I have to blow up the entire bluff. It's about time I did something right."

Dean found himself wondering if Linda ever would have been able to go through with it, given just how far down the rabbit hole she'd followed Chet. If the Winchesters hadn't caught wind of this damn case and she had come through, they could have avoided a whole lot of shit.

Shaking himself out of the thoughts and half wishing he'd never found the journals (because all they could tell him was what didn't work), Dean stood up and stretched. He cast a critical eye over Sam's still form, looking for changes and very deliberately avoiding thinking about how far would I go to save him?

"Dammit," he muttered, not sure if he was swearing at Chet or Linda or Sam or Dad for the burden he'd placed on him...like that was ever a choice Dean was capable of making.

Dean suddenly started, his tired eyes noting that there was bright red blood soaking through the sheet that was covering Sam. With a shaky inhale, he threw the sheet back.

On Sam's thigh, instead of the black, raised slashes atop gray skin that Dean had seen for the past two days, were regular, bleeding claw marks in normal peach-colored skin. His mouth fell open. His gaze traveled up to Sam's neck and arm and shoulder...all of which seemed to be slowly transitioning back to normal human skin. In fact, the gray covered only maybe a third of what it had before.

In his relief, Dean had to lean against the wall to make sure he didn't fall over. The physical release of tension was so palpable that his fingers actually tingled.

"What the h – Dean!" came an outraged voice, then Sam was rolling himself in the sheet. He made to get up on the far side of the bed but was too tangled up and landed with a thump and a curse.

Oh, yeah. Sam was naked. Given that Dean had had to take care of everything for him for several days, his sudden modesty was amusing...or would have been if Dean hadn't been too busy being shocked and thrilled at the turn of events. He ran around the bed and half-hauled Sam to his feet, grinning like an idiot.

Sam's eyes went wide. "No naked hugging!" he yelled abruptly, keeping the sheet wrapped around himself and making Dean let go of his arms abruptly.

"I wasn't hugging you," he protested, aggrieved by the suggestion. "I was just making sure you don't fall over. Again."

Sam blinked, visibly working to remember the who, what, when, where, and why he'd ended up here and hurt.

"Kidnapping. Lapsae. Linda. Chet," Dean helped, forcing himself not to hover. Too much, anyway.

He studied Sam's posture trying to evaluate how he was doing – if he was in pain, weak, sick, etc., but couldn't help his lips from twitching at the picture Sam made. He was clutching the sheet like a shy Victorian miss. "Get back in bed. You can take your toga with you if you want."

Cue bitch face. "I have to pee first. Get me some shorts and get out of my way."

"Bossy. Like I'll let you go anywhere alone." Dean pointed at the red spot on the sheet. "Besides, you're bleeding. I better stitch that up before you do anything."

"It can wait 2 minutes," Sam argued, because arguing was his natural state of being.

Dean ground his teeth. "Three days, Sam. For three days I didn't know if you…"

Sam sort of wilted, all the irritation leeching out of his expression. "I'll be out of the bathroom in two minutes, I swear, Dean. If I'm not out in five, you can come in. I won't lock the door," he promised more softly. Dean wondered for probably the millionth time how Sam's teenage years would have been different if Dad would've figured out that telling Sam why you wanted something was much more effective than giving him a bald order.

"If you pass out on the floor, I am not hauling your bare-ass naked self back to bed," Dean warned, capitulating. He dug in Sam's duffel and tossed a pair of his underwear into the bathroom. He sort of hovered while Sam made his way slowly and creakily to the bathroom, still draped in the cheap sheet. Dean laughed at the sight so he wouldn't cry and leaned against the wall next to the bathroom counting the seconds. He closed his eyes, though there was a real risk of falling asleep even standing up.

He's okay. He's okay. He's really okay he chanted silently. He hadn't let himself think it, but he'd been losing hope. He had no idea why Sam suddenly got better, no matter how much he told himself (and Sam) that it was the holy water. It almost felt like he'd somehow...fought off whatever it was that mothman-ized people.

It made Dean think of Dad's last words about Sam...and he was not going there.

Dean shook himself and decided that close enough to five minutes had passed for him to get away with going inside the bathroom.

The sheet was discarded on the floor and Sam was standing at the sink, fortunately wearing his shorts. The water was running but Sam was just leaning heavily against the counter as blood dripped down his leg. "Not a word," he gritted out without opening his eyes.

"Now I have to haul your Sasquatch ass back, all because you wouldn't listen to your older, smarter, and much better-looking brother," Dean groused, so damn glad to have a brother to harangue that he was grateful that Sam couldn't see his face.

"Not my fault you're a midget," Sam mumbled back.

They went back and forth like that until Sam was back on the bed trying to pretend that he wasn't out of breath from his little excursion.

"Want some Jack before I stitch this?" Dean asked, looking at the claw slashes. They weren't as deep as he'd expected but could definitely benefit from some stitching. "It's not the greatest place to get sewed up." Sam shrugged and took a couple sips, but Dean knew he could handle it.

"Where does Luke Skywalker like to shop?" he asked when he was ready to push in the needle in for the first time.

Sam threw an arm across his eyes and groaned. "I don't want to know."

"At the second-hand store!"

Sam gave another theatrical groan. "How is it your humor has gotten worse over time?"

"Don't worry, princess, I promise I won't damage the family jewels."

"Is it even possible for you to shut up, Dean?"

"I mean, they're really small, so they're pretty easy to avoid."

The brotherly repartee continued for a while, then Sam kind of petered out. Dean looked up from his work, mildly concerned at the silence.

Sam was studying him right back. "What else, Dean?" he asked seriously.

"What else what?" Dean played dumb. He was too tired to do this at the moment.

"What happened or what's going on that you don't want to talk about?" Sam stared at him with an intensity that was eerily reminiscent of Dad. "Is it something to do with how you cured me?"

"What? No. I just fed you holy water until you finally lost your elephant skin."

Sam looked skeptical.

"It's true," Dean assured him. "It's just...I went to Linda's storage unit and, dude, there's some funky shit there. So, I found her journals." He paused, considering what was worth including in his summary. He knew that Sam would eventually read the journals himself and learn everything and draw his own conclusions, but Dean really wanted to put off as much of the angst as he could get away with.

"And…? What else? She was looking for a cure, wasn't she? But she never found one." The last wasn't a question.

No, or she wouldn't have had to blow up Mack and herself. "And when Mack turned, he attacked her. Almost killed her. Chet took care of her." Dean tied off the last stitch. "Told her all about his dad's obsession with finding their family's history, including almost worshiping the mothmen. Apparently, the bravest warriors would sometimes confront 'em, since they would –" Dean waved his hand toward Sam's neck, the only place to show any sign of the interrupted transformation. "– turn anyone who wasn't afraid of them instead eating 'em."

"So Linda, you know, drank the Kool-aid?" Sam asked cautiously, clearly sensing Dean didn't want to get into it.

"Nope. She pretended to, figuring it was the best way to look for a cure." Dean wrapped the injured thigh more carefully than he needed to. "But she kept getting in deeper and deeper, doing worse and worse stuff. She knew Mack wouldn't've wanted to live like that, but she was committed, you know? And that kind of obsession...it's like it's contagious." The conversation was hitting close to home, and not just because of Dad's single-minded pursuit of the supernatural. No, it all begged the question of both of them. How far would they be willing to go for their hunting partner? Their brother? Dean didn't want to know the answer, and he bet Sam didn't either.

Dean stood, taking advantage of the silence as Sam absorbed what he'd said. "You need to eat and drink, then I'll show you 'what else.'"

For once, Sam didn't argue and Dean plied him with everything he could find in the room that had any nutritional value whatsoever: more Gatorade, some flat root beer, canned soup heated up in the coffee pot, a handful of off-brand Oreos, and some beef jerky. He wished he had something better for his recovering brother, but he'd grabbed whatever he could find from a gas station after stopping at Linda's storage unit, not wanting to be away from Sam any longer than he had to.

Sam stuck with soup, Gatorade, and cookies, then gave Dean a serious look.

"I can't stay awake much longer," he admitted, proving his point by yawning widely. "Whatever it is you still haven't told me, get to it."

Dean saluted. "Sir, yes sir!" he snapped out to cover his reluctance. The urge to shield Sam was extra strong after such a narrow escape and his depleted state made it harder to keep his emotions under control.

Sam rolled his eyes and let Dean help him up, not voicing the questions Dean could see in his eyes. Dean guided him to the door that led to the adjoining room.

Sam stopped just before the door. "Dean?" He cleared his throat. "Thanks. For sticking with me even though it could've been -- I could've been -- dangerous."

Dean snorted as if his eyes weren't stinging. "It would take more than growing claws for you to take me down."

Sam gave him an elbow to the ribs that was frankly pathetic.

Dean opened his mouth to say something about what they were about to witness but closed it again. Sam would just have to see for himself.

He opened the door.

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AN: So, not really a cliffie, for once.

I like to think that Jessica had some Finnish ancestry and an older relative that taught her some phrases, which she passed on to Sam, hence him saying screw that crap, but more profanely than I just did in English. (Taken from indifferentlanguages dot com.)

I will respond to EVERY wonderful comment tomorrow! Pinky promise!