Title: Moonstar

Ch. 1: Running on empty

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Only get pleasure no money.

Summary: First Chapter is up! The guys need a break after one job too many goes bad. Dean's on a downhill slide and the Moonstar Hotel is the last place they need to be. Can Sam keep Dean from becoming a permanent resident?

A/N: I hate that summary. This is nothing like what I started out with. I wanted to write something a little lighter at least in the beginning, that lasted about 5 minutes. I have rewritten this scene 3 times so I finally decided to hell with it and am posting it for some feedback. I have a rough plot worked out on this, I know what I want to happen but getting to that point will be as much of a surprise for me as for you. Assuming you give a flip one way or the other.

They should have never taken the job in Loren. They were exhausted, frustrated by a string of bad luck jobs that had left them both drained and Dean increasingly angry. Money was in short supply and it had become a choice between food or a bed, so they had been sleeping in the cold car and splitting their few remaining resources between eating and ammunition and ammunition had begun to take a lead over food.

Sam's attitude about the bad jobs fell more into a "shit happens"' category. He was aware that despite their best efforts they couldn't logically help or save everyone. He didn't like it but he could accept it. Dean, on the other hand, saw every fouled job as a personal failure. Knowing if he had only been faster or smarter, everything would have worked out. Sam knew this was not the case but Dean would have none of it, piling blame upon blame on himself until Sam didn't see how he could carry the load any longer.

Instead of doing the intelligent thing and allowing themselves some time to recover and regroup, Dean had insisted they take the Loren job first. After all, it was a werewolf. No big deal. That had been the first mistake.

Right from the start they had been lied to, misdirected, received bad information and in general given the run around by 'concerned' townspeople who didn't want the rumor of trouble in their tiny town to cut off what little tourist trade they received that just barely kept them going. Sam had been all for telling them to shove it, but Dean had insisted that if they didn't take care of the problem it would only spread. As much as he wanted to blow the little town Sam had to admit Dean had a point. So, the second night of the full moon had them racing down a rutted country road, short on sleep and patience, trying to catch up to their prey before it made it to the small house in the woods.

The new moon was a glowing grey ball of light hanging over them in the night sky. Cumulus clouds were forming on the horizon and faint lightning was flashing along their edges from time to time. The brothers had been forced to leave the car in a clearing at the end of the road when a tire had blown. They had raced the last mile to the Bailey's home. A deep gash in Sam's thigh from the previous day had slowed him down to the point he was almost dragging his leg before they had covered a half mile. Dean had run ahead to warn the family in the little white house that they needed to leave. Now.

Even before he had reached the house, Dean could hear the screaming, sending adrenaline through his body. By the time he made it to the porch, gasping for breath, the screams had stopped and the gagging smell of blood, lots of it, told him he was way past too late.

Practically vibrating, Dean had cautiously climbed the steps, gun at ready and approached the kicked in front door.

Blood splattered the walls, floor and furniture. Snuffling, smacking sounds came from inside. Eric Bailey, pillar of the community, softball coach and unknowing werewolf had already transformed and torn apart his two children after attacking his pregnant wife and then leaving her for the easier prey of his kids.

Dean recoiled, watching from the doorway, horrorstruck, as the father/werewolf had casually picked up a small arm and torn meat from it as though it were a chicken leg.

He shot Eric Bailey twice without batting an eye and left him lying in the appalling ruin of his own children. He then gave in to his stomach's demands and doubled over, vomiting helplessly, dropping to his knees in the middle of the small lake of scarlet covering the floor.

A soft sob to his right snapped his head around and he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, pushing himself upright. Muscles tensed, gun extended, he moved sideways into the next room, every sense on alert.

Cynthia Bailey, 8 months pregnant, PTA treasurer and cookie baker extraordinaire, lay quivering on the ground, a short distance away, in a pool of her own blood. Her shoulder mangled and her left arm ripped open to the elbow, but still alive. Her uninjured arm curled over her swollen belly, trying to protect her unborn child. She wept hysterically at what she had seen her husband become and do, at the pain of her own injuries, the sudden sound of gunshots and at the sight of the blood stained man who moved slowly through the doorway, gun raised and aimed straight at her. His green eyes swept over her body, registering shock. His throat worked as he swallowed, coming closer. She whimpered and tried to pull herself away.

Dean lowered the gun and held out his free hand. "It's ok, it's ok…..sshh" He paused, standing over her, his face white and frozen. Finally, he went down on one knee beside her, oblivious to the additional blood soaking into his already saturated jeans. He continued to stare at her, lips parting but no sound coming from them.

"What's happening?" she wept. "My children…my husband, that thing, attacked me…"

He twisted his head away, hand wiping the sweat out of his eyes, then pressing over his mouth. Oh, Christ…

"Please…help me…" she begged, grasping his arm with her good hand. He turned his stricken face back toward her. She watched Dean with a rabbit's frightened eyes, breath coming in smothered sobs. The werewolf, her own husband, had bitten her, its curse roared though her blood even now. She did not know this yet, but Dean did. The night was barely begun, the moon was still full. It wouldn't take long. The realization of what was going to happen and what he had to do to stop it burned through his core with a pain unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He reached out and gently touched her face with his calloused fingers, brushing the hair from her tear swollen eyes, his own face a mask of torment, breath shaking in and out.

"Sssshhhhhhh" he soothed, tilting his head slightly. "Ssssshhhhh…" He leaned close to her ear, murmuring brokenly. "It'll be okay…just close your eyes…"

Panic suddenly flared in her face. She tried to pull herself upright, stretched out a hand. "No…no, please! My baby…" Even as he watched, her eyes shifted to a rabid yellow and her body started to shake.

Dean choked. Everything in his body felt like it had turned to ice water. Trembling, he stood again, raising his gun and pointing it at her heart. He had no choice. She tried to pull herself away from him again, sliding in her own blood, shrieking, her child-ripe body already beginning to reform itself with frightening speed. Her screams escalating, fear, pain and--something else, trying to gain control.

He pulled the hammer back and tightened his finger on the trigger, steadying his aim with the other hand. The gun was steady but his eyes blinked rapidly and his voice shook with anguish.

"I'm sorry," he said, and pulled the trigger.

Sam heard the fist and second gunshot as he finally limped to the house. The rising screams as the third blast tore through the night stopped him cold for an instant. He burst into the house, gagging at the overwhelming smell of blood, staring at carnage such as he had never witnessed. The body of a man lay sprawled on the floor, a small arm still clutched in his hand, bits of flesh dangling from his mouth. Sam refused to look any closer at what was scattered around him, fighting his own horror and nausea.

"Dean!" he cried out, stumbling into the next room. Dean, gray faced, knelt in blood and vomit, next to the dead body of pregnant woman. His gun hung from limp fingers, the muzzle dipped into the congealing blood around him.

Sam hung back, taking in the scene and instantly understanding the implications of that third gunshot. "Dean….oh, Christ, Dean…" he couldn't help the horror in his voice at what he knew his brother had just been forced to do.

Dean had slowly raised his eyes to gaze at Sam, features twisted and unreadable. Sam wasn't sure Dean actually saw him. "Dean, are you all right?" he said softly. Dean's jeans were blood soaked.

Dean's eyes shifted and focused on Sam. He frowned. "You're bleeding, Sam," he said in a flat voice.

Sam glanced down at his own jeans, a palm sized blotch of red on his thigh. "I think I popped a couple of stitches, it's nothing." He stepped closer, just short of touching Dean. "Are you all right?" he said again.

Dean jerked his head in rough nod and dragged himself to his feet with what seemed to be an incredible effort. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead for a moment and cleared his throat, sniffing. "Yeah…I'm okay." He swallowed and nodded his head at the woman on the floor. "He bit her…I had to…" His gun hand lifted in a half gesture. He looked down, mouth tightening. He drew his hand roughly across it.

Sam cut him off, this time daring a hand on Dean's arm. "I know, Dean. I know." Dean's green eyes were washed out and bloodshot as they stared at Sam. Sam could feel Dean quivering under his hand. "We need to finish up and get out of here. I'll check the garage for gasoline. I can do this if you want to wait outside…" Thunder rumbled around them and amomentary flash of lightning painted the room with blue light.

Dean frowned at him. "I said I'm okay, Sam. I'll get the gas, your legs hurt." He pulled his arm from Sam's grasp and walked back through the front room, eyes averted from the mangled remains on the floor and outside to the garage. Light rain stung his face as he stalked to the small frame building and kicked in the door, searching the dark interior for flammables.

He tried to keep his mind a blank, forcing away the images it wanted to replay for him like some twisted movie. But the thoughts swirled through his mind and he could not exorcise them. It had just been another job, like any other. Yeah, they had stopped the werewolf, but not before he had been forced to…

He had killed many werewolves, seen them return to their original forms, women, men, the rare child, but he had never had to kill one as it changed into it's wolfen form, while it still retained a tie to it's humanity. And never such as the one he had killed tonight. His stomach lurched up his throat as her pleading eyes leaped into his mind.

"Shit!" He slammed his fist onto a worktable, then swept it clean of its contents, scattering them about the room in a fury. He stood in the middle of the room, hands fisted to his eyes. He suddenly felt as though he were being smashed under a weight so great that to allow it to crush him could only bring relief.

He jerked as thunder crashed around him and lightning filled the room with a glow, suddenly realizing Sam was calling him from outside. He dropped his hands, trying to calm his breathing. Casting a quick look about during the next light flash he spotted a can of kerosene and another of lamp oil. He grabbed both of them and carried them back toward Sam, waiting impatiently on the porch.

"What took you so long?" Sam asked, accepting one can, looking closely at Dean's face.

"Couldn't see," Dean growled, brushing past Sam. "Let's get this over with."

Sam had covered the bodies with blankets he had found in the bedrooms. It was something they did not normally do but in this instance Dean was grateful for the thought. It hadn't taken long to set the house on fire even though Dean was moving in a daze. Sam had tossed the match and pushed Dean out the door and into the fine rain that had started to fall. His leg was killing him and it was all he could do to keep moving through the rough terrain of the road and woods even with Dean's assistance.

By the time they reached the car they were both soaked. Sam opened the trunk and tossed their guns into the hide while Dean wrestled with the spare tire and the jack. It took longer to change the tire in the rain. Dean's hand had slipped at one point and he had slashed the palm on the rough edge of the old wheel. Swearing at the pain, he spared a quick glance behind him and could see the yellow glow of the fire from the burning house over the top of the trees.

Shoving the ruined tire and wheel to one side, he dropped the jack and tossed it in the trunk. Sam was sitting on the passenger side staring out of the window. Dean slammed the trunk shut and slid into the driver's seat. He glanced over at Sam.

"Your leg okay? As soon as we get stopped somewhere I'll check it for you" He held his bleeding hand against his jeans leg, what was a little more blood?

"I'm fine," Sam ground out. "Let's just go."

Hitting the ignition, the car fishtailed as Dean gunned it out of the clearing and tore down the highway, intent on getting as far away from the town of Loren as they possibly could.

Throw the monkey a nickel if you want to hear more music. I love all reviewers, let me know what you like and don't like. Sorry, my stuff is always so dark. Rituals was just a fluke. I'm gonna go upholster something.