AN: I realize now that I lied when I said that was all for tonight. I'm gonna be honest, I don't know when I'll stop...might just keep going for ever and ever.

Chapter 5

It was funny; before this hunt Dean had always wondered how ghouls looked. He knew they took on the appearance of their victims, but never knew how they looked at birth – sorta' speaking. And now, at the age of thirty one, he found himself with a front row seat to a spectacular view. Stacy was hanging from the ceiling by her fingertips. She was upside down in the weirdest angle Dean had ever seen. She was hanging with her head in the corner, pointing down, and her legs stretched out across the ceiling.

Her long, blonde hair hung in sticky bands. Like fingers reaching for the floor. Her mouth was open in a wide hiss, and her eyes were darting from face to face. Her tongue looked black and like it might be dying whilst still in her.

Suddenly she focused on Dean, and seemed to calm quite radically. Her eyes widened and took on an innocent expression. She hissed softly in appreciation and shifted closer. Dean found the sight mesmerizing, and was having trouble taking his eyes from her. She didn't look anything like he'd expected a ghoul to look.

Her eyes were a deep grey, almost black. Her skin was white and paper-thin. Her nails had sunken into the fingers and yellowed, some fallen off. And on top of that it was like all her body fat had just vaporized. She looked wafer thin, with bones that now looked more like rounded pool cues, draped in leather. Like Sam was starting to look; and knowing that despite all that fragility she could kill him in seconds if she- it wanted to.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Rufus, you got any silver bullets?" Bobby asked without taking his eyes from her grotesque form.

"Got 'em right here," he answered, slowly pulling the gun from the back of his pants.

"Wait, you're gonna shoot her? I thought you had a cure," Dean's heart was pounding in the beginning stages of anger. He'd felt it enough to know.

"Not yet, and there's nothing we can do for her now anyway. She's already changed," Rufus fired simultaneously with a deafening screech from her. It happened quickly. Screech. Boom! And she hit the floor.

Dead.

Dean stared at the scene without really realizing what had just happened. He looked up at Bobby who had a regretful frown plastered over his face. Some concern mixed in there. "How did she change so fast?" Dean suddenly felt his heart hammering again.

"What?"

"If she was infected before Sam, with a bigger or similar dose, why didn't she show any signs before? With Sam it happened instantly," He looked from Rufus to Bobby and inched a step forward when no answer was forthcoming.

Suddenly realizing it was just the three of them in the room.

Rufus had noticed that too. "She's here," He kept his voice low and his eyes on the door, connecting to the hall and beyond that the living room full of strangers. And Freddy.

"You got a plan for this scenario?" Bobby turned from Dean to Rufus. Almost accusing, but not quite.

"Damn bitch. I suspected she'd done somethin' like this."

"Sam…" Dean swirled and ran for his brother's room. His boots were pounding down the hall, past the open living room where everyone turned and stared. He bounced through the door and found his brother blissfully unaware. Sam was on his back with his eyes closed. Bruises were still growing all over his body, and his bones still shifted occasionally. Not as fast as without the drugs, but still ominously quick. Looked like the ketamine was working.

"Hey, Sammy. How you felling?" He sat at the edge of the bed and put a hand on his arm. It felt cold. He heard Bobby rolling up behind him, but didn't bother to turn.

"I think I know how to fix this," Bobby said quietly. "But it requires outside help."

"Whatever it takes," Dean turned and sent Bobby a look that meant business. It meant that they were very quickly approaching the wolf-hour where one's loyalties might get tested, and it meant that Dean fully expected loyalty from Bobby if it came down to choosing between Sam and anybody else. It felt surprisingly stimulating giving someone that look.

"You tried Cass?"

Dean looked away and turned back to his dormant brother. "Yeah. Bastard's not picking up."

"He might still. Keep callin'."

"Yeah," Dean glanced back out the corner of his eye. "Thanks, Bobby."

The old friend nodded, and left the room without answering.

Dean leaned forward and sighed. "Shit, Sam. What the hell is gonna become of us, huh? Seems like this is becomin' a weekly occurrence. One of us gets bit or cut or thrown, and the other one worries," He sat back on the folding chair and crossed his arms. "Just usually me that get's hurt and you that worries."

He waited for a sign that his brother had heard him, but got none. "I get why you're so cranky all the time, ya know?" He was stubbornly trying to elicit some kind of response from his sleeping brother. "I'd be too if I had to worry about your freaky butt everywhere," He sighed when there was still no reaction. "Not that I don't already," He chewed on the inside of his cheek, but do you really? The voice asking the question sounded like Alastair, and Dean couldn't quite shake it off.

"To tell ya the truth, I think she's just playin' us, Sam," He was trying to spin his mind back on the hunt, only somewhat successful. Do you think…Sam still thinks you worry about him? That you still care? That you like spending time with your own brother? Alastair mingled with voices from Uriel, Zachariah, and Azazel speaking through his dad, and they all sounded equally rational.

Sam had become quiet, almost jittery, over the past months.

At first Dean hadn't really bothered. It felt good being the one in the driver's seat again, and he hadn't bothered watching his words around Sam anymore. But lately his brother's behavior was becoming a little worrisome. It started bothering him after a dream about one of his and John's fights. It had been one of the more brutal between the two and John and won, casting Sam into some weird form of apathy.

The kid had been depressed and miserable for a week afterwards. He'd followed orders like nothing mattered anymore, and that was over a stupid school project.

"I think this is some sick game to her," he whispered as he stared into the wall. Trying to divert his mind from where it felt most comfortable. Masochistic prick.

He flinched when someone outside the room yelled, but stayed in his seat when he realized it was just the victims from the church, arguing. His hand snuck out to Sam's arm automatically. This place was sending all his senses into overdrive. It was an old house, left over from the civil war probably. Run down and not much to look at. Four windows on the main floor, blown out. Floorboards on the top floors, caved in. He didn't even wanna think about the cellar.

More arguing. He sighed and sat back in the chair. It was just their luck that they had a house full of civilians, no beds besides Sam and the one Stacy had used, for the injured. Maybe more upstairs, but no one had the inclination to look. No food but takeout. And now Bobby was sending for some woo-doo, wiccan, wreath-weaving, mystery person to fix his little brother and whoever else might be infected. He shifted his back and cringed when pain lanced across his arm and over his shoulder. That bitch got him worse than he thought.

Night fell quickly. With nothing but candlelight, they limited the light to the living room and Sam's bedroom. The wind was blowing outside, but it wasn't nearly as creepy as it seemed. Almost cozy. If not for the witch roaming around outside, and his brother down for the count, Dean would've been almost content. If not for the creaks and strange noises that always filled old houses. Unfelt by him, a person had snuck up in the darkness from the hall.

Their body was covered by the shadows and their footsteps by the wind, blowing outside. Dean Winchester slowly closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him. He sat back and felt it all melt away. What he didn't feel, were a pair of ancient eyes, peering at him through a new host. Hephzibah smiled. She was done playing with the rest of the little mice. If they sent for someone to help them it'd be pointless to persist. No, she thought. Better to move onto someone new. Someone a little older. She smiled evilly as she thought of the fun still to be had.

TBC