Title: Samuel Knows Best.
Author: Me, Lisa Dee.
Pairing: None.
Rating: NC-17. Plenty of F-bombs though.
Spoilers: Mentions of the Pilot and a wee bit of Nightmare. That's it... probably?
Disclaimer: My words, my plot and my effort. Not my show, obviously.
Category: Drama, Angst, Action-ish.
Summary: A simple gig turns bad in a not so supernatural way.
Author's Note: Very, very slightly AU. Review 'cause it's nice.

Chapter One:

The Winchester brothers received word of a haunting in Riverside, California. The Carlova family were experiencing the effects of a menacing spirit. Lights flickered, doors slammed and just last week seven-year-old Katie was thrown down a flight of stairs, snapping her small wrist and colliding her head into the railing. She would recover just fine but Frank Carlova, the father, had enough and called around for help. He got a hold of John Winchester's number through a friend of a friend and as the voice message advised, he got in contact with John's son.

Dean Winchester, the older of the two, had thought it to be pointless and a waste of gas. Sam, the younger yet taller one, had figured, (a) they were actually being paid for this one as basic as it was, (b) he hadn't been back to Cali in some time now and, (c) he promised Dean he'd finally go to Vegas with him after they were done with the gig.

Which brings us to the siblings now...

"Ahh," Dean took in a nice big whiff of the Mira Loma air as they entered the area, "Nothing like the smell of cow shit in the morning, Sammy boy." He laughed which turned into a shuddering cough.

The twenty-six old year had a cold. A sneeze here, a cough there. Nothing near powerful enough to knock the oldest Winchester son out on his ass, enabling him to finish the job but it still annoyed him. And other then the slight Rudolph-look of his nose, you'd hardly tell he was sick at all. He got it from his little brother Sam who got it from being predictably and annoying prone to illness around this time of year. The bug came and went just as quick as it hit him the week before and now it was big brother's turn.

The younger of the two just rolled his eyes, then refocused on the laptop situated on his knees again. "It's not morning for another hour and a half," He pointed out as matter-a-fact, scrolled down the webpage with a flick of his index finger, then added. "Turn left."

With one arm hanging out, rubbing affectionately at the vehicle's metal door, Dean nodded and eased his '67 Chevy Impala to where Sam had directed. A smirk appearing on his face when the Motel came into view, he shifted gears and exclaimed, "Man, I love MapQuest," as he pulled into the Motel's accessible parking lot. They stopped; he killed the engine, then opened the door to swing his sore legs out.

"Dean, why the hell did you park all the way over here?" Griped Sam, who slid out of the car as well, looking up at the giant Elm tree above. They were clear across the lot for no reason at all.

His brother was thumbing through his array of fake credit cards as he leaned against the hood. "My baby needs protection."

"You're an idiot, ya know that?" It wasn't a question.

Plucking out the Master Card he decided on using, Dean turned to Sam, hand over his heart with false sincerity. "That hurts, Sammy."

It was midnight when the boys had finally checked in the lovely Super 8 Motel and went off to locate the cemetery they needed to 'visit'. Dean made a point to hide the Chevy when they got there, just in case. They scurried out in the incredibly cold weather, the kind that had their breath freezing in the air, lugging their supplies along as they loomed the eerie grounds.

"So if these people knew who was haunting their home why didn't they just do this themselves?"

Apparently, this particular apparition had made it's presence known. Whispered his name into the sleeping children's ears, wrote it out with phantom blood across the walls; it really did make this job pathetically easy for the pair.

"Oh, I don't know, Dean," He started simply, a hitch in his tone. "They dug up a corpse last weekend and wanted to do something new for a change."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

"You shut up."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

They stood at the foot of the final resting home of one Robert Landon Hoel (pronounced hole), said specter of The Carlova household. Together shovels penetrated grass then broke into dirt, they began digging up his grave settling on shifts after a while which was faster and easier considering they both couldn't fit in the area at once. They finally reached his coffin, and pried it open with a crowbar. Both breathless and exhausted, however, they didn't miss a beat with the burning of the bones, using the combination of sea salt, lighter fluid and of course fire. Ya know, doing the whole sending the evil spirit back to hell thing. Saving the world from an unknown evil and such.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

And even though Sam couldn't see his face in the darkness, he could tell Dean was smiling as he made his next observation.

"Do you realize that we just dug up a Hoel?"

Sam had to suck in his cheeks to keep his laughter at bay as the gray pollution fogged them. But the twenty-two year old was suddenly blindsided by the fact that the smoke had really gotten to his older brother. Sure, it invaded it's way into both of their young healthy lungs but for Dean, it was much worse; he was almost crippled by it and had still been coughing as they traveled down the pitch-black road, voyaging back to their cheap, don't ask, don't tell motel they checked in before.

"Gross," Sam grimaced from the graphic hacking noises coming from the drivers seat, "You alright?"

A smack to the back of his head, was Dean's only response.

Yep, Dean would be just fine.

Dean woke himself up later that night-- four in the am to be exact, half-gasping, half-coughing, gripping at the sheets that were tangled around him. He turned onto his side, stretching his neck out just far enough to spit up mucus onto the already fifthly floor. He rocked back, staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly rubbing at his bare heated chest, trying to ease the pain.

He was wide-awake now and peering over his left shoulder to the sleeping form beneath the covers merely three feet away from where he was lying. He stared at Sam, heard the even breathing of slumber and was thankful that he hadn't woken him up with all the noise he'd been making.

He propped himself onto his forearms, forcing his legs to shift and dangle off the mattress, pulling his upper body into a sitting position. He brought a hand up to his sandy blonde hair, raking extended fingers through it, ending in a sniffle.

As he stood up from the twin, his destination was the bathroom but the wavering of his jello-like legs had only taken him to the puke green retro chair lingering about five feet away next to the round table both of them had refused to eat on before.

He hardly seated him down, more like stumbled and landed hard on his hip with a small grunt. He rotated so he was sitting on his bottom and hooked his ankle around the leg of the uncomfortable chair's sibling, pulling it closer and resting a calf up on it's cushion.

He was pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, mouth twisted with pain and sheer annoyance with himself when a voice pierced through the silence of the dingy room like a knife.

"Dean?"

He jerked slightly at the sudden noise, placing a hand over his heart for effect. "Shit, Sam! You wanna give me a goddamn heart attack?" He roared hoarsely and maybe a little too forcefully for his current condition because the effort it took threw him into a coughing fit and the poor guy has to squeeze his eyes shut from the pain it brought instead of crying out like a woman would if she were being attacked in the parking lot of a Macy's.

When the tightness in his chest subsided, he reopened his eyes only to find the room lit by the lamp across the room closest to the door where his brother was standing lopsidedly, his hand just recoiling from the switch.

"Go back to bed, Sam," said with authority even though he couldn't resist the urge to shield his watery eyes from the sudden brightness.

"I've been awake for a while." The floor creaked beneath Sam's weight, "Are you sick or something?"

"No."

He answered the question a little too quick and had to conceal the wince when he heard feet thump their way toward him. He truly didn't trust his legs or lungs enough to bolt into the bathroom so as a replacement, he simply eased down casually, his sweat-drenched back pressed against the chair with a ghost of a smile playing on his face.

"You look like shit." Sam mentioned upon arrival, towering over his seated brother with his arms crossed.

"Gee, thanks." The elder countered, voice thick with sarcasm and congestion and before he even had any time to register it, a cool hand was flat against his forehead. His first reaction was jerking and slapping it away. "Quit it--"

"You're kind of hot," Sam said.

"And now you're kind of a hypocrite."

Sam took in a deep breath. Jesus, Dean could be so fucking stubborn sometimes. He clicked his tongue, the way he did whenever he was on the verge of a mental breakdown of frustration as he became increasingly annoyed but more then anything worried. Dean doesn't really get sick. Dean was something of a nonstop being in the younger Winchester's eyes. He exhaled the breath and let his deep brown eyes settle on the other once again. "I heard you coughing," He put flatly with just the tiniest hint of concern.

"Sorry, I woke you, Sammy."

That's it.

"You know what? Fuck off. I'm tired."

Little Sammy could be quite the cranky Winchester at such an early hour especially when he hadn't slept at all-- what with Dean coughing up a lung and the dreams that plagued him every night. Dean hadn't meant to piss him off, really; just annoy him enough to leave him alone; he'd say anything to get Sam off his back at his embarrassingly weakened moment.

Stomping toward his bed like a child, Sam nearly knocked over the lamp on the nightstand when he reached for it. There was a click and the room was yet again dark. He crawled under the golden comforter, turning so his back was facing Dean. He lay stiffly in bed, remaining unreasonably pissed. Eyes closed with his jaw still clenched, as he attempted sleep, fully aware it wouldn't come -- not when he knew his brother was lying about his health and not to mention being a total asshole about his worry for him.

Meanwhile, Dean dropped his chin onto his chest momentarily because Sam was mad at him and he's quite cognizant of the fact that he is, indeed an asshole but the sensation of guilt is gone quickly when he felt that familair tingling in the back of his throat. Gripping the armrests of the chair and with much effort, Dean heaved himself upright, staggered just a bit before silently and blindly padding toward the right where the bathroom was located. He waited until the door was completely shut before switching on the light, not wanting to disturb Sammy anymore then he already had that night; the kid needed rest.

From the chair, to the bathroom and over toward the sink, Dean was more then winded when he collapsed onto the closed toilet, crookedly. At that point, the world was spinning before him; colors blending and Dean started to inwardly debate with himself. Get Sammy. You're in trouble. Because deep down Dean knew exactly what was wrong. Deciding dying wouldn't work out well for anyone, his mouth opened to call for help.

He didn't stay vertical or conscious long enough to do so.