Wow, you all give such wonderful feedback! Here's another chapter with zombie fun for everyone (except Dean...he's not having much fun). Poor Dean. Enjoy!

A shaft of moonlight slanted through the dark across a row of tiles. It dusted over a shattered mirror and illuminated a door, under which voices drifted.

An eye opened, raging. The bone tipped nubs of four fingers gripped the side of a porcelain tub.

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Sam was a patient guy. He listened to people and empathized with them. He gave relatively decent advice. Overall, it took a lot to make him lose his temper.

Usually.

Today, Sam was ready to throw something through a wall. Or, moreover, someone.

His patience had worn beyond thin. Currently, it was a single strand of thread that was disintegrating into microscopic particles of dust, and those particles of dust were becoming angry atomic dust bunnies, and those angry atomic dust bunnies were going to beat the living shit out of Chris if he didn't stop asking the same question over and over and over and over again.

"Zombies?" Chris said again.

Sam clenched his teeth. For what seemed like the twentieth time, Sam gestured at Dean, who had several bags of ice tucked around his body to keep the fever from frying his brain completely. "Yes," he ground out.

"We're fighting zombies?"

"Yes."

"I think you've lost your damn mind," Chris said. "Brandon—"

"We're fighting zombies, bro," Brandon cut in tiredly, hands folded in his lap. "We already explained this. Nick is a voodoo practitioner. He's killing people and controlling their bodies after death. That makes them zombies."

Chris coughed. "You make it sound so easy to believe," he said, "But…zombies?"

Annoyed, Sam waved his arms around Dean again. "Take a look, already," he growled, "Dean's not going to jump up yelling April Fools. It's not even April!"

"He's just sick," Chris said stubbornly.

Sam raised an eyebrow. Laughed. "Sick? You call this sick? Sick is getting strep throat. Sick is having the chicken pox in third grade. Sick is getting the flu."

"Well…" Chris floundered, "Jesus man, he's…very, very sick. But that's all. He's not a zombie. I'm a doctor, okay? I believe in factual diseases and factual cures. Zombies aren't factual, they're fiction."

"No," Sam said, tired and in pain and scared about Dean, "They're not. You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"To be honest—"

"Well you're wrong," Sam said darkly, "You've spent your whole weaving a little safety net around you and your brother, thinking that you had everything all figured out. Well wake up. The reality you love so much is nothing but a layer of glass covering an ocean of churning black liquid, and it doesn't take much for things to bubble up through the cracks."

"I thought we were talking about zombies…" Chris said, uncomfortable.

"Those 'fictional' horrors you go to the movies to see," Sam said over him, eyes glinting, "They're all real. Demons, ghosts. Monsters under your bed. Why do you think fairytales were so gruesome and detailed when they were written down centuries ago? They happened to people.

"The media has tried to squeeze monsters down, make them something tangible they can hold and manipulate. A legion of girls believe that vampires are lovesick and misunderstood vegetarians that sparkle in the sunlight. Ghost hunting spoofs teach idiots to walk into the most haunted places they can find and taunt the ghosts until they come out of the shadows and scratch them."

"That's just fiction."

"Yes. That's just it. That is the real fiction. Now, we are sitting in between an attic and a basement lined with cages of the walking dead, and they are anything but fictional. It doesn't matter if you believe in them or not, they'll kill you."

"Okay," Chris said slowly, "So let's leave; let's go into town."

Sam shrugged and grinned the grin of the nearly unhinged, "Can't. Dean and I are wanted for murder."

"Right," Chris said, running a hand over his face, "Of course you are."

"I've killed people in the last few days," Sam said, "But they were all zombies, so it doesn't really count."

"But there's no such thing as zombies," Chris protested, raising his voice.

Sam clamped his mouth shut. Oh for the love of god…

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Dean cringed as Chris denied—yet again—the existence of zombies. His broken record of an argument—zombies aren't real!— had inched past understandably confused and rounded on blind sighted and annoying a long time ago. How could he not understand? Wasn't he a doctor? Didn't doctors diagnose medical conditions? Why hadn't he made like Dr. House and checked him for Lupus already?

Dean knew what he must look like at this point. He could hear the Darth Vader gasps of breath stumbling through his lips. If anyone was qualified to stand as an example of a zombie, it was him. Chris just wasn't getting it.

Dean silently wished that Sam would just drag the guy upstairs and show him the cages, let a bit of shock factor play a part in the argument, but…

Sam was too damn nice.

All in all, he was proud of his brother. Sam had kept his cool for a pretty long time considering he was still recovering (if you could call killing zombies recovering) from getting shot and hadn't slept in who knows how long. He was also being oddly levelheaded with the fact that his older brother was slowly morphing into a zombie. Hell, Sam was always worrying about him. He worried about him when he needed…

His head spun violently. He paused, swallowed hard.

…when he needed stitches…

A hand reached into his mind and squeezed.

…NO…

….

….

"Dean? Hey. Lay back down, it's okay, we're just talking. Okay just…just sit back—what are you doing?"

…

…

"Is it happening again?"

"Shut up! Dean, come on, listen to my voice, man. Listen to me."

"Is what happening?—"

"I said shut up! Dean, you have to fight it."

…..

…..

"What's he doing? Why's he doing that?"

"Damn it, Chris, stay back! Get your ass in the—ugh, damn it—get in the bathroom and get a hold of Nick. Punch him if you have to, just make him let go."

"Let go of what?"

"Of Dean, damn it! Go!"

…..

…..

"C'mon, Dean, don't—"

….

….

"I can't keep this up much longer, Chris! You have to stop Nick, make him stop!

"I don't…I don't…what the fuck do you mean, stop him? What the fuck is going on? Zombies aren't real!"

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Brandon kneeled on the floor, his wound tugging painfully at every movement, as he watched Sam struggle against Dean's attack. Dean was growling like a rabid animal, with spit flying from his gums, and Sam…Sam was losing.

It was going to happen, Brandon thought. Dean was going to tear Sam's throat out. In the back of his mind he could already picture the scene, could hear the ripping sound as Dean pulled back with a chunk of flesh clamped between his stained teeth. He could imagine Sam's shriek morphing into a death rattle as he fought for air, blood splattered up the wall behind them as Dean started eating—

Frantic, he looked at Chris. Chris was frozen, panic stricken, against the wall. Apparently none of his emergency medical training was geared toward the zombie apocalypse. Figures.

"Damn it, help!" Sam yelled, his voice contorted as he pushed back against Dean's bulk, trying to keep his older brother's teeth from snapping down on his skin. "I can't…I can't…"

Chris took a step backward, shaking. "Oh my god," he whimpered, "Oh my god. Oh my god."

They were all going to die, Brandon realized. He and Sam and Dean (and Chris, who he had brought here, who had nothing to do with any of this)—

Slowly, he gathered his legs underneath him and heaved up, using the wall to help him stand. His vision spotted angrily and his hearing ebbed, but he pushed on, lurching across the hall to the bathroom door. There was a gun on the floor, Sam's .45. He knelt down—his breath coming out in short gasps—and picked it up.

"Brandon," Sam gasped, Dean's teeth snapping inches from his throat. "Hurry."

Brandon threw open the door. Nick was crouched in the tub. An endless gush of words spewed from his lips as his ruined hand feverishly stroked up and down the shower curtain, painting it with circles of blood. He didn't acknowledge Brandon's presence.

"Brandon!" Sam shouted.

Brandon imagined Dean waking up to find chunks of Sam's flesh stuck between his teeth and blood all over his hands…

He fired the gun.

The bullet caught Nick in the shoulder and whipped him around, tearing his arm from the shower curtain and sending him tumbling back into the tub.

"Don't move," Brandon said.

"Well shit," Nick spat, laughing as he spotted Brandon, "Didn't think you had the stuff, kid—"

"Get out of there," Sam called out.

Brandon stepped backward from the room, only stopping when his back hit the wall in the hallway. The gun hung loosely from his fingers. His caught Chris staring at him, mouth open. Told you, he thought, I told you you'd hate me.

Sam disappeared into the bathroom and returned, moments later, dragging Nick behind him. Nick was still laughing madly.

Sam delivered a sharp kick to his ribcage. "Shut your damn mouth!" he raged, and looked back at his brother.

Dean wasn't moving. He didn't look like he was ever going to move again.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…" Nick choked out, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the carpet, "You're deranged if you think I'm just going to hand over an antidote. Why would I do that? We're all having such fun."

"You control Dean again and I'll put one through your brain," Brandon said, clasping the gun in front of him. His hand shook.

Nick met his gaze levelly. "You know what? I think you just might," he said after a moment. He paused. "But it doesn't matter. You're already infected."

"You don't know that," Sam said, angry. "Now where's the antidote?"

Nick's laughter had subsided, and he laid flat on his back on the floor, grinning. "It'll cost you," he said, scratching his chest with his good hand, "Nothing good comes without a price."

"I'm not giving you anything."

"Well how 'bout the kid, then?" Nick continued, un-phased, "I can always use some new blood around the house…and he's a psychic. Psychics come in handy."

"Brandon isn't going anywhere near you after tonight."

"No…not tonight. But soon. That wound is right next to his heart. The infection will kill him within a day or two, and then I own him anyway."

"Guess I should just shoot you then," Brandon said flatly, "Since it doesn't matter."

He shrugged. "Maybe, but you'll still die. You'll probably end up biting your brother—"

"Leave Chris out of this," Brandon snapped, finger tightening on the trigger, "You hear me? You damn well leave him out!"

"Alright, everyone cool it!" Sam broke in. Dean's running out of time. "Where's the damn antidote Nick? Where?"

"What're you going to give me in exchange?"

Brandon opened his mouth.

"Shut-up Brandon," Sam snapped at him, "Don't you start making deals." He turned to Nick. "You're not getting Brandon."

Nick shrugged. "Fine," he said, "Then you. You're a psychic too, and a better one at that. I want you."

"Too easy," Sam said, stunned to realize he was about to make a compromise with the bastard, "You have to fight for it."

"You're fighting me for the antidote?"

"No," Sam said boldly, "No, you're going to give me the antidote."

"Huh...yes, that does sound desirable," Nick drawled sarcastically, "You are a master negotiator."

"I wasn't done," Sam spat, and continued, "You give me the antidote, and then I run off into the woods. You follow me, with a shotgun, and try to hunt me down. No zombies, no supernatural bullshit, just you and me with guns duking it out in the middle of nowhere."

"This is starting to sound better."

"If you catch me, knock me out, or whatever it is you do for kicks, I'm yours. You can come back and continue your zombie franchise."

"And you'd belong to me?"

"Yeah," Sam said darkly, "But if I kill you out there…I win. And you're a dead man."

"Obviously," Nick said, stroking his chin with his good hand, "Hmmm…and I get a full shotgun to kill you with?"

"Three shells."

"Five."

"Four."

"Deal," Nick said.

"Um," Brandon said, looking between them uncertainly, "Maybe we should discuss this first."

"No," Sam said, "It's done."

"Well god damn," Nick said, "I'm actually looking forward to this. Well, let's head to the basement. Unoriginal, I know, but the temperature's cool down there and I can't have my substances heating up. Everything's in unlabeled jars though, so don't get any fool ideas. Half the things are poisons that could melt an elephant; others will make you hallucinate so badly you'll be begging me to kill you."

"I'm not done negotiating," Sam said, "I want one more thing, or no deal. I want to talk to Dean first."

Nick glanced at Dean's body and raised an eyebrow. "While I'm not one to shy from singing my own praises, I'm not that much of a miracle maker. Your brother's pretty much run his course."

"He's not dead."

"No," Nick said, "But his brain function is shit, he can't talk. I can't just wave a magic wand or something, say Avada Kadavra—"

"That's a killing curse," Brandon broke in dangerously, gun aimed. "I've read the books."

"Abra Kadabra, then," Nick amended, waving a hand dismissively, "What do you want, kid? A rabbit pulled out of a hat? Perhaps a balloon twisted into the shape of a giraffe? Voilà, blood sausages for everyone. Anyway Sammy, it can't be done."

"Yeah it can, and don't call me that," Sam said, and tore his gaze from Dean. "You have a bunch of weird voodoo concoctions down there, huh?"

"Of course."

"Any from Africa?"

Nick rolled his eyes. "Of course."

"I want some dream root."

Leave some reviews. :) (This chapter gave me a bunch of trouble, I hope it turned out alright.)