Hey! Sorry it's been so long but I had some writers block for a bit and then was busy for another bit so this got put on hold. But I've figured out what's going to happen, so things are back on track and you get a long chapter. Yay! As always, thanks for reviewing. Your input is always very helpful and appreciated.

Sam pulled his feet underneath him and heaved, feeling his joints and muscles curse together in protest. Swaying on his feet, he put his arm on the hood of a silver minivan until he was almost certain he wasn't going to puke or fall flat. "Dean," he said, looking down at his brother's pale form, "Are you sure—"

"Just do it," Dean said. "Hurry."

Sam gripped the rearview mirror as an anchor and reached his other arm underneath his brother and heaved. The lifting part wasn't as bad as he had expected; he didn't collapse, mainly because his body had been trained to suck it up and deal with whatever shit he got into. Sam half carried, half dragged Dean to the Impala as his brother made a noise usually only reserved for cats. He managed to wrench the door open. The hinges groaned. Dean's body flopped. Fatty was shouting out the window at them like a lover who had found his fiancée in bed with some Brad Pitt look-alike.

"Hang on," Sam said.

Dean dimly recognized that he was being about as useful as a sack of potatoes, but he couldn't manage to send a message to his legs to stand the hell up and take some of the weight off Sam. The stabbing pain was surging through him like a thousand headaches caused by a thousand trips on the Small World ride at Disney World with that damn kid song playing over a thousand loudspeakers. He kept his face buried in Sam's shirt as he was stuffed into the backseat, aware that the muffled screech he could hear was coming from his own mouth. Hell if he knew he could make a sound like that.

Sam slammed the car door and slid onto the leather of the front seat. The keys shook in his hands as he shoved them into the ignition and started the car. The motor wasn't loud enough to cover up the sound his brother was making. He wished to god he was deaf so he wouldn't have to hear it. Ever. Again.

By the time he realized he was doing over 70 he was on a twisty road in the middle of nowhere. He didn't remember leaving the parking lot. He didn't remember leaving the town.

He only stopped when he nearly hit a thick tree branch that was lying in his lane. Something in his mind clicked and he remembered where the break was and what it was for. The car screeched and came to rest a foot from the branch, leaving black streaks of rubber on the road.

"Dean," Sam said, twisting himself around in the seat. The slants of light from a nearby streetlight illuminated his brother where he was curled up on the leather, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Sam reached out and lightly rested a hand on his head.

Dean whimpered.

"Dean," he repeated, pulling his shoulders through the tight space so that he was closer. "I'm sorry. I…we had to move. I'm sorry. I'm…just breathe, okay? Breathe. I'm right here."

Dean let out another shuddering breath and felt something warm trickle out of his mouth and drip onto the seat. He coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. Damn.

Sam saw it and then pretended he hadn't. It wasn't as though he could magically fix internal injuries right now, and Dean would just tell him he was fine if he asked. Liar. They needed a hospital, and he knew Dean's response to that as well. No hospitals. Forget the psychic visions crap; he was practically a mind reader. And this was going to hurt like a bitch to clean up, even with the forthcoming distraction.

"Dean?"

Dean coughed again, trying to hold still so it wouldn't jostle his bite. "Y'h?"

"I've been thinking," he said, pulling some first aid materials out from under the passenger seat and trying to come up with something random, "Do you think I have what it takes to be the next Professor Trelawney?"

Dean breathed for a moment, then, "Huh?"

Got you. "Think about it," he continued, pulling out a bottle of pills and unscrewing the lid, "I can already see the future, and that's helpful. I mean, I always spot the conveniently placed calendars, road signs, and other GPS related stuff so we can do our cross country traveling act and save people," he said, and tipped out a few pills into his hand. Paused. Poured a few more. "I bet Chris Angel couldn't even manage that."

"Wh't?" Dean muttered.

"Right, anyway, my point is that this whole saving the world gig has a tendency to kick our asses all the way to China. I think we need to consider a new angle of business. Open up, I've got some pills."

Dean, for once, didn't argue.

"And, possibly because I've just gotten my head bashed open with a brick by some guy that needs to go on the Atkins diet, I was just imagining the possibilities of what I could do with some tea leaves and a fortune telling booth."

Dean grunted as Sam rolled him over on his back so that he could check on the bite.

"Eh, this isn't too bad," Sam said, trying not to throw up at the stench of rotten flesh coming from his brother's body. Strips of skin had decayed and fallen away from his shoulder, revealing globs of what looked like tenderized beef and a piece of bone. "Yeah, you're fine. Just hold still. Where was I?"

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he felt his brother pour some kind of liquid on his shoulder. It hissed and burned as it came in contact with his skin. "Booth," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"Right," Sam said, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he pulled long strips of dead skin out of the infection, "Booth. We could set up a shop somewhere. Clients could seek us out for help. I bet I could look into a cup of tea leaves and see the victim, murderer, location, and time all in one go. Easy. Plus, tea doesn't cause massive headaches or blackouts, so no more clutching my head and falling over at inconvenient times."

"Yeah," Dean managed to get out, relieved to see that Sam had moved on to bandaging his shoulder.

"So that's my plan. Comments? Questions? I'm a genius, I know, there's no need for you to say it."

"Freak."

"Freaking genius," Sam said, wrapping the wound. "I'm almost done, just hang tight," he said softly.

"To what?" Dean asked, almost sounding like himself.

Sam grinned. That's it, bro. "Whatever you like," he said, "You've already bloodied up the car."

"Your fault."

"You made the mess, not me."

"Should've...outside," Dean managed.

Sam got it. "And then I would've had to move you again. You know, apart from what you might think, I don't particularly enjoy carrying your heavy ass everywhere, Dean. You're like a damsel in distress."

"You're a distress."

"Lame."

"Suck it."

"No," Sam said, finally finished. He put the unused bandages back in the case, "Absolutely not." He leaned back against the window, hands held in front of him like they were cursed. They reeked of roadkill and looked like he was in the process of gutting Bambi's mother.

"What?" Dean said.

Sam glanced up and once again found himself pinned down by the worried older brother stare. "Uh…" he said.

"Wash 'em off," Dean said, seeming to read his mind, "Glove box."

Sam scrambled with one of the cursed hands to open the compartment. "Hand sanitizer," he said, surprised. "I didn't know that was in there."

"Bought it…months ago."

Sam shrugged. He looked at the little pump for a moment. "Screw it," he said, and unscrewed the top. He poured half the bottle on his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. "You're gonna need to buy more."

"Got it," Dean said, and shivered. He felt like they were in the Arctic or something it was so cold.

Sam noticed and frowned. "Your fever's getting worse."

"I'm getting worse," Dean said.

"Yeah, well," Sam said tightly, "You can't become a zombie. You know my genius plan will fail if you become a zombie."

"The tea leaves plan?"

"Yep," he said, taking out his phone. He hit the call button and selected Bobby's name. Please please please pick up. "You can't help me look in the tea leaves and see that it was Colonel Mustard in the Drawing Room with the Knife if you're decaying all over the place and trying to eat the customers. It's bad for business."

"What do I look like, the stock boy?"

"Maybe if this was a Halloween costume shop," Sam said, trying not to cry like a kid who'd just dropped his chocolate ice cream cone when Bobby's phone went to voicemail for the hundredth time. He didn't say anything, just slipped it back in his pocket. A car drove past them slowly, curious about their situation but not concerned enough to stop.

"Well, I guess we should cure me," Dean said softly, "You know…before I eat you. That would be awkward."

"We're gonna have a shitty time hiding from the police now," Sam said, "I hate small towns. The cops are so bored that they get excited when some kid steals a pack of tic-tacs. We just killed a handful of people. That's unbelievably worse than tic-tacs."

"They'll all be zombies in a few days anyway."

"Oh. Well," Sam said, "If that's what we have to look forward—"

The driver's side window shattered. Glass projectile inward, swirling shards into and around him.

Sam exhaled, hands raised in shock by his face. A few additional pieces of glass dropped down onto the seat.

"Sam!" Dean hissed, trying to sit up. The ground spun, his head pounded. He felt cold. Limply, he fell back against the leather. "Augh, shit. Sam?"

"I'm fine," Sam said. He felt warmth spread from his chest and reached a hand up to pull at his button down shirt. His fingers came away wet. His eyes shot up, searching. A second shot resounded and the only streetlight shattered them into darkness.

"Where is it?"

"Stay down," Sam said, reaching under the seat. There was a click. He froze.

"Hands up," a man said, "No sudden moves or I blow your head off."

Cringing, Sam looked straight into the barrel of a pistol. Damn. Mind racing, he tried to think of some defense at point blank range. How had they been surprised like this? A spike of pain shuddered though his chest, and he took a shallow breath.

"You a Winchester?" the gruff voice said. There was a crunch of gravel as the man leaned even closer into the car so that the barrel was against Sam's forehead.

"Get that the hell away from him or I'll kill you," Dean hissed, powerless to more or get up. He kept his gaze locked on the glint of the barrel.

"Right. That's cute," the man said, "But I wasn't talking to you. Are. You. A Winchester?"

Sam often prided himself at reading people and figuring out what they wanted. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be an apparent right answer for this situation. He couldn't make out the guy's face in the dark, so he couldn't try to read his expression. "Yes," he said finally, deciding on the truth. Right or wrong answer, the guy could have him dead in a second if he wanted.

"Younger or older?" he spat, pressing the barrel into Sam's forehead.

"Don't," Dean said desperately.

"Shut-up!" the man yelled, throwing flecks of spit in Sam's direction, "You open your mouth again and I'll decorate your brother's face with so many rounds that even you won't be able to recognize him."

"It's okay," Sam said levelly, hands still raised, "Everything's fine."

"Well, if everything's so damn happy-go-lucky, answer the question kid. Younger or older?"

Again, Sam tried to weigh the options. Came up blank. "How do you know who we are? How did you find us?"

The man shifted and fired. Sam flinched as he felt the bullet shoot past his face and heard it shatter the opposite window.

"Sam!" Dean roared.

Sam let his breath out in a hiss. "Here," he said.

"Not for damn long," he said, pressing the warm gun to his face once more, "So you're Sam. The younger kid with the freakish powers. I've heard of you. Figures you wouldn't be the one to get bitten."

Sam blinked. "You know about…" he paused, revelation dawning. "You're responsible for all this."

"You screwed up my operation here, Sam," he said, "I don't appreciate a freak show like you killing my creations. You've set me back at least a month. I'm gonna need more subjects, and that means more dead citizens and orphaned children, and that mess is gonna make it even harder to stay under the grid until I get what I want."

"Your creations?" Sam ground out, "They're people."

"Cut the crap," he said coldly, "I know you. You're no better than me with all that demon blood you got inside you."

Sam glared. He could barely make out the whites of his eyes by the light of the crescent moon. "You don't know me."

"And I don't plan to," he said, leaning in closer. "I'm here to kill you, Winchester. Tracked you down like the animal you are. Can't have you mucking things up any more than you already have."

Dean's breathing had sped up. His heart was racing. He needed a weapon. He needed a weapon and he needed to be able to move without screaming and he needed that guy dead and his gun miles away from his little brother. "Let's talk about this," he said.

The man laughed. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you. I've got a nice dirty cage set up for you back at the house. You can live in there until the virus kills you and you change—"

"You're not taking Dean anywhere," Sam said darkly, "I'll rip you apart."

"You'll be dead."

"You said you've heard of us? Then you'll know that Winchesters are hard to kill, and even harder to keep dead. You hurt my brother and I swear I'll tear my way out of the ground and find you."

He smiled, catlike, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.

Sensing what was coming, Sam wrenched his arm up and against the man's chest, pushing him back. He twisted his body to the side, trying to avoid the oncoming attack.

The man fired. Since he was off-balance from Sam's assault his skewed aim lodged the bullet into his shoulder instead of his brain. Sam let out a grunt of pain and slammed the door open and into his torso, catching him by surprise. It wasn't enough.

Sprawled on the dirt, the attacker fired off the rest of his clip in Sam's direction. Four shots. The aim was shitty, the light nonexistent.

He got lucky. Sam didn't.

Sam's body went numb. He took a deep breath, noticing how it suddenly sounded very loud in his ears. His hand felt like a concrete weight was hanging from his wrist. He dropped his arm away from the open door and he was falling, falling—

Dean was screaming something. Sam could feel his brother's rough hands snaking around him, pressing on the wounds. His head flopped to the side, and through heavy eyelids and long strands of hair he could make out his brother's face hovering above his own. Dean's mouth was moving frantically but all Sam could hear was his own loud breathing. He coughed and felt blood bubble over his lips and down his chin.

"Sam!"

Sam jerked at the shout, pupils straining to focus on the black blob that was his brother. The breathing wasn't so loud anymore, possibly because he couldn't manage to force himself to draw air into his lungs.

"Don't, Sam, please, c'mon you gotta breathe—"

"Time to go," the man quipped. "Your cage awaits."

Sam's eyes darted to the side in time to see him grab Dean around the torso and tug, intending to pull him from the vehicle.

Dean let out a gasp of pain and kicked back at him, refusing to relinquish his hold on Sam. "Get the fuck off of me!" he shouted, "No! I'm right here, Sammy, I'm not leaving, keep your eyes open—"

"Aw…did I shoot your baby brother? Is little Sammy dying?" he tugged again, and Dean's hold slipped back a few inches. "And here I'd heard that Winchesters are hard to kill. Seems easy enough."

Frantic now, Dean scrabbled to keep his hold. He was too weak to hang on, he'd lost too much blood, been sick for too long. He was slipping.

Sam weakly gasped for air, his hand fumbling for his brother. "D'n."

Dean let out a yell of rage as he lost contact with Sam and was tugged free from the Impala. He kicked against the man that restrained him, tried to push him away so that he could get back to his brother. He couldn't escape; the guy had him held tight as he dragged him toward a vehicle that was hidden further down the road. "No, please, he'll die!"

"That's the idea," he said, amused. "I give him a couple minutes. The cops won't be paying attention way out here, not after your stunt at the hotel. Might not find him for a while."

"Let me go," Dean sputtered, his air cut off by the arm wrapped around his neck, "Sam!"

"It's supposed to be hot and sticky tomorrow. About 95 degrees. The wildlife out here'll probably have his corpse all hollowed out and devoured before the cops find him. Maybe I'll pop back over here, take some pictures for you to hang up."

"I'll kill you!" Dean shrieked, tears running down his face in the dark, "I'll kill you!"

The man laughed. He opened the back of his van and tossed Dean inside, slamming the doors behind him.

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