I have no claim to Dean or Sam or Supernatural itself, but the story within is all mine.

Hi guys! I'm so glad you're enjoying this one, too! Thanks so much for the reviews. It makes the writing all worthwhile. I crave them, eagerly reading every one that comes in. Please keep it up! Enjoy...

As Dean had hoped, the black Impala rolled into their destination mid-afternoon with plenty of time to prepare for the evening's hunt. He parked the car in the gravel parking lot outside of a diner and nudged Sam awake with a not so gentle punch to the arm.

Startled out of his slumber, Sam shot daggers at Dean. "Dude, what the hell was that for?" he demanded.

"We're here," was all Dean was willing to provide as he stalked from the car and into the diner. "You wanna eat, you better get your scrawny ass in here."

They hadn't said much to each other during the rest of the drive to the town. With the exception of Sam's periodic insistence for pit stop's Dean didn't think they would have spoken at all. Sam had spent most of the ride fast asleep, and the rest of it with an irritable scowl on his face, his arms crossed as he withdrew into himself. And their layover at the motel last night had been nothing if not awkward. For some reason Dean couldn't establish, Sam had clammed up completely. This has got to be more than a little intestinal problem, Dean had determined as he lay awake late into the night, watching Sam's chest rise and fall in an irregular pattern. Something else is wrong with him; I just don't know what.

Even the little bit of sleep he got that night was light. He'd barely allowed himself that small amount, and the deep, REM sleep never came. He'd heard Sam rise early the next morning, sneaking about the room like a thief. Dean had kept his eyes closed, not wanting Sam to know he was awake, but he kept his ears wide open. The shower had started in a matter of seconds after Sam had retreated into the bathroom, and Dean could no longer hear what was happening. But he couldn't contain his surprise when Sam emerged less than ten minutes earlier, still dressed and completely dry. So why the water, Sammy? Dean had wondered. What didn't you want me to hear?

Sam looked over at Dean as he crawled back into bed, and Dean had quickly shut what little of his eyes were open, but apparently he wasn't quick enough. Sam had noticed him watching, and he wasn't happy. "I'm just not feeling well," Sam snapped, defending himself

before Dean could say a word.

The right eyebrow was raised on Dean's face, but he still had said nothing. What was there to say? By now he knew it was beyond a factor of whether or not Sam was feeling well, but until he had more information or Sam decided to share, Dean wasn't prepared to confront him. God Sammy, what the hell is going on with you? Talk to me. Please!

"Are you alright now?" Dean finally chose to ask, propping himself on one elbow so he could get a better look at his little brother.

"I'm fine, Dean. Get off my back!" Sam was already curled up under the covers, but he made the effort to roll over and glare at his brother before pulling the covers back over his head.

Unable to sleep any longer, Dean had stormed into the bathroom for a shower and dragged Sam out the door soon after, much to Sam's annoyance. If Sam was going to be such a pain in the ass he wasn't going to make anything easy for him.

Now Sam dragged himself lethargically into the diner, immediately making tracks to the bathroom as Dean slid into a booth. And he's off again, Dean thought, shaking his head sadly. He studied Sam closely as he returned, noticing that his skin had become just a little bit less pale in the course of his time in the bathroom. He noticed that the sweat dripping off his forehead was now gone. The shakiness in his hands, that Sam tried so hard to keep hidden, was just a little bit better now. But Sam still didn't look OK. He still had dark circles lining his eyes, an indication that the exorbitant amount of sleep he was getting still wasn't doing its job. Sam still dug nails into his skin with an unconscious desperation to suppress whatever was causing him to itch. And he still rubbed his fingers in frantic circles on his temples, trying to rid himself of the headache that seemed a permanent torment pounding against his skull. Sam had taken great pains to hide these symptoms from Dean, but lately he'd gotten clumsy. He'd allowed Dean to catch a glimpse of the torture that plagued him. And he had yet to realize it.

"Did you order yet?" Sam asked, sliding into the booth. Dean found himself feeling relief at the little bit of normality in Sam's question and he immediately repressed an urge to ask, once again, if he was OK. It wasn't worth the argument that would undoubtedly ensue.

Dean shook his head. "I was waiting for you to get back.

"I'm not really all that hungry," Sam admitted, pushing the menu out of his way. "I just want something to drink."

"Sam, you haven't eaten all day. We've got a big job tonight. You need to eat." He'd tried to say it in the nicest way possible, emoting concern if anything, but Sam still took it as an order.

"I said I'm not hungry!" Sam snapped, testiness not only in his voice but his actions as well.

Dean backed off again, as he'd done so often lately. "Alright alright. Just get something to drink. Fine." He shrugged, suddenly finding the napkin wrapped silverware very interesting. I've never been scared of you, Sammy. But you're not you anymore. And I don't know what to do with the new you. I don't know how to talk to you. I don't know how to help you.

The waitress arrived at their table, her cheeriness invading the tension in the air, and Dean looked up. As cute as she was, he wasn't even in the mood to flirt. He ordered, a burger and fries with an extra side of onion rings - in case Sam decided he was hungry, and the waitress skipped off to put in the order.

Dean tried again, unwilling to allow Sam to frighten him. "So we gotta talk about what we'll be fighting tonight," he announced with more confidence than he felt.

"Then talk," Sam replied flatly.

That was another thing. Lately, Dean had found himself doing all the research on their cases, which would have been alright except for the fact that Sam was so much better at sussing out typically missed details. Dean didn't have the eye for that; didn't have the mind for it.

He sighed. "Alright. So we're fighting a warlock tonight. He get's the majority of his power on the full moon - like tonight - and apparently he needs to drink the blood of a virgin on the full moon in order to keep his strength." Dean paused, humor playing on his lips as he regarded Sam. He'd barely spoken two sentences and Sam's attention was already off in space. He needed something to reel him back in. "On second thought, Sam, maybe you shouldn't come with me. I mean...if he's going after virgins..."

Sam didn't laugh. And much to Dean's surprise and disappointment, Sam didn't even react to the joke. "SAM!"

He finally refocused his attention on Dean, blinking from disorientation. "Yeah."

"Dude, what's going on with you, man. You've been a space cadet for weeks now."

Sam rolled his eyes and picked up his fork, absently stabbing at some imaginary something on the clean table. "You're overreacting, Dean. I'm fine. I've just been a little distracted lately."

"Well un-distract yourself," Dean ordered, his own irritation beginning to match that of his little brother's. "Did you even hear a word I was saying?"

Sam sighed, finally noticing Dean's intensity. He focused on the older hunter. "I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

Dean reiterated what he'd said before and then continued as their food arrived. During the conversation, Dean had gradually pushed the onion rings towards Sam, grinning inwardly when his brother took the bait and began stuffing his mouth with the greasy sustenance. "So do you think you're gonna be ready for this thing?" he'd asked, once he'd given the rest of the information.

"Of course," Sam assured Dean. "When are we going?"

"Just as soon as you finish those onion rings," Dean announced, smirking as Sam looked in surprise at the red plastic basket he'd just about emptied. He slapped a few bills on the table to cover the food and rose from the table, heading for the door with Sam following behind him, the remaining rings stuffed unceremoniously into his mouth.

The ride to the Warlock's lair just outside of town was filled with significantly less tension filled silence than they'd endured in the previous forty eight hours, and Dean almost forgot how worried he'd been about his little brother. If only he hadn't forgotten.

xxxxxxxx

The girl was already tied to the rotating table when the brother's arrived, peeking through the window to see what they were up against. In the far corner of the room they could see the Warlock, weapons gleaming against the moonlight, preparing for his sacrifice that could only take place when the moon was in its highest position in the sky. They still had another hour before the ritual would take place, but the poor girl looked like she might die from fright long before the sacrifice ever took place.

"We've gotta get in there," Dean whispered, backing away from the window and then making fast tracks to the car. "He's only gonna get stronger the longer we wait."

Sam nodded, following Dean to the car, suddenly more alert and coherent than he'd been in weeks. They collected their weapons, discarding what they would need back into the trunk, and headed back to the decrepit old mansion.

Dean didn't mess around. Ordinarily he would have insisted they sneak into the house and take the beast by surprise, but for now his thoughts went to the girl. He wanted to get out of harms way as quickly as possible; and that meant blasting the door in with a shot of rocksalt. Dean fired once, twice, and then shoved through what remained of the door with his sturdy shoulder, coming face to face with the snarling Warlock.

"Sam, get the girl!" Dean ordered, facing off with his prey. He aimed the gun steadily, daring the Warlock to take a step, to make a move. From the corner of his eye he watched as Sam ran into the next room, and then he disappeared from sight, but the frightened sobs of the teenage girl intensified and he could only imagine that Sam now had her safely in his arms.

Returning to the more pressing matter, Dean eyed the furious creature, firing the gun just before a fireball shot from its hand, and he ducked, just barely missing being hit. "Sam! Hurry up! Get in here!"

The rocksalt only managed to subdue the Warlock, not kill it, and he was soon staggering forward again, laughing bitterly at Dean's meager attempts to stop him. Dean discarded the useless weapon and reached beneath his coat for something different. He emerged triumphantly with a second gun, this one loaded with real bullets, but before he could raise the gun he felt himself lifted bodily into the air by some unseen force and thrown across the room into a shelf loaded with glass urns filled with fermenting body parts. They shattered upon impact and rained down on Dean as he slumped to the floor, the contents of the urns piling on top of him.

The Warlock's powers were increasing, and he'd managed to throw Dean by means of telekinesis. Now, the beast stalked toward Dean as he struggled to unearth himself from the hearts and livers that covered him. Slashes of red were tattooed on bare skin, and shards of glass still stuck out from the deeper wounds. A wild roar of anguish burst from deep within its lungs as he stood over Dean, its mind willing him to rise to his feet and then higher. Looking down, he saw he was floating several feet above the ground and he flailed his legs wildly, trying to grasp a foothold that was nowhere close to him. "Sammmeeeee!" He reached back into his coat as he screamed for his brother, frantically searching for something, anything, that he could use against his attacker, but there was nothing. Knives would never work, and he could see the precious gun lying more than fifteen feet from his floating body.

Sam finally appeared in the doorway, gun raised and pointed directly at the Warlock's heart, and Dean found the time to sneer at the unsuspecting creature amidst his frenzied attempt to free himself from the grasps of the invisible hands. My brother is sooo gonna kill you.

But the shot didn't happen, and Dean watched first in anger and then horror as Sam slumped against the doorframe, dropping the gun as his hands went limp. His eyes rolled back into his head before he dropped to the floor, body shaking spastically. Foamy drool rolled from his mouth and it was soon tinged red as blood mixed with it. As he lay convulsing on the floor, Dean glared at the Warlock. "What the hell did you do to my brother?" he demanded, still determined to free himself so he could get to Sam.

The Warlock leered derisively at the older hunter. "I did nothing to your brother!" he boomed, his voice echoing throughout the house. "But you..." At that, he flung Dean across the room again, this time slamming him through the railing of the stairs. Dean hit the sidewall with a deafening thunk before he tumbled down the entire flight of stairs, landing in a battered lump at the bottom. He lay still, willing the Warlock to believe him dead. And it worked.

With a deep, throaty chuckle, the Warlock left Dean and began to focus his efforts on the younger Winchester. Sam had stopped convulsing by now, but Dean could see his chest rising and falling, struggling to breathe. He was still alive, and even unconscious that meant he was a danger.

Dean was numb to the pain, his thoughts only on rescuing Sam, and he pulled himself with one good arm across the floor. He only had two feet, two precious and yet all too far away feet to reach the gun he'd dropped earlier. It seemed to take forever to drag his battered body that small distance and then he grabbed the gun, aiming through blurred vision at the hunched form of the Warlock. He fired. The bullet tore through the creature's shoulder and it screamed, the volume shaking the walls of the house and piercing Dean's eardrums. He fired again, this time making contact with the intended target, and as the bullet tore through its heart the Warlock faltered and then collapsed. Dead.

He tried to rise. Tried to pull himself to where Sam lay unconscious on the ground, just inches from the fallen beast. But Dean was hurt more than he would ever admit to himself, and he didn't get more than six inches before his arm, the one thing causing any movement to his beaten self, gave way and he fell against the marble floor. He tasted the coppery bitterness of blood on his tongue as darkness closed in on him.