Sorry for the long wait guys! I've been busy with multiple jobs that get me up at 4 a.m. and restrain me until after 5 p.m., at which time I want nothing more than sleep. Unfortunately, that means that if I'd tried to work on this story then it would have turned out like this:

Dean: *wakes up, looks around the room, pokes Sam* Dude, wake up! I just had the weirdest dream that I was becoming a zombie.

Sam: *waking up* Really? I had the weirdest dream that I was stuck on an island with smoke monsters and polar bears and explosives, and then at the end we found out that we were really—

Dean: *interrupts* Shirtless!

Sam: What? No. No, it was really lame, we found out that we were really—

Dean: We were shirtless, Sam! Shirtless on the island. Damn it, you can't give away spoilers like that!

Sam: What?

Dean: Go back to bed. My zombie dream sounds better anyway.

Needless to say, I didn't think that was a good idea. So here's the lucid next part of the story. Enjoy!

Nick's fingerless hands left trails of blood in the leaves as Chris dragged him back toward the cabin. The mistreatment probably—most definitely—went against every rule he had learned in his medical career thus far, but he wasn't a bit upset. After all, if he 'accidently' smacked the unconscious man off a few trunks and dragged him through a stretch of gravel, was it really his fault? It was early, still dark, and he was likely in shock from the night's events. It was perfectly natural that he wanted to BASH the man's SKULL with a PICKAXE and then boil him in ACID…

"There's some more roots sticking up…over there," Sam grunted to him, pointing.

Chris dragged Nick over the roots without breaking his stride, satisfied when the voodooist's body jerked with each bump. "That's a good one."

"I try," Sam said, managing to keep up. His footsteps were shaky, falling in step with the dull pounding in his head and the all too familiar throbbing of multiple stab wounds. He looked at the knife blades, still stuck in his skin. "Do you think these are worth anything?"

"Handles look pretty snazzy," Chris said, scraping the body across a shallow creek bed, "You might want to hang onto them. Think of it as getting customized piercings."

"I wasn't going to pull them out—there, smash his face against the fallen log…nice—not yet. I've lost too much blood. How far to the cabin?"

"You still okay?"

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"You still walking fine was what I meant. Of course you're okay…hell, you don't look like a zombie or anything."

Sam held his knifed hand far away from his body, palm up. "So I do look like a zombie."

Chris gripped Nick's feet tighter as they went up a slight incline, "Put simply, the only day children wouldn't see you and run for the freakin' hills would be on Halloween."

Sam smirked. He felt sick. It wasn't a good time to be sick. "Why do people run for the hills anyway?"

"Probably something to do with geology…geometry…uh…"

"Geography?"

"Damn it man, geo-something," Chris sniped, giving Nick's legs an extra hard jerk to get him up the hill.

"Maybe it's historical…there, the house. Hurry."

"I'm already hurrying. So are you. You need to hurry less, I can't carry you and the freak-show here."

"Me? I'm fine. I've had worse."

"Describe worse."

"Dead."

Chris paused to take a breath. They were almost to the front door. "You're right. That's worse."

Sam stumbled up onto the ruined porch. The wood creaked under his boots. "Chris…be careful with the bastard on the stairs. I want to talk to him first."

"First? And then what?"

Sam threw open the door and limped inside. He didn't answer the question. The answer didn't need said. He staggered across the dining room floor, past the ribcage that was buzzing with flies, down the staircase…

Brandon looked up wearily from his spot on the dusty floor. "Good," he said, "You're fine." He let his head drop back against his knees.

"Of course," Sam said. He crossed the dark room to his brother, who didn't appear to be breathing. It was probably just the bad lighting, he couldn't see shit anyway. And his vision was blurry to start. "You alright, Brandon?"

"Dunno," Brandon said, muffled, "I feel weird."

There was a series of slow thumps as Chris slowly dragged his burden down the stairs. "Everyone still okay?"

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck. Nothing. He pushed harder, nearly digging his finger into his brother's neck, and felt—wait—there. Yeah, it was there, a soft flutter. Thank god. "Everyone's alive," he said.

Chris dumped Nick on the floor, treading on his ruined hand as he hurried to Brandon's side. "Hey," he said, touching his shoulder. "Damn, your fever's worse—"

"Out of my way," Sam said, materializing beside him. He swatted Chris's hand away and pushed Brandon upright so that he could see his face—pale skin, unfocused eyes—and pulled down his shirt a little so he could analyze his wound.

Chris inhaled sharply behind him.

"I knew it," Sam snarled, "I knew it." He stood, wobbling a fraction, and went to Nick.

Trying to forget what he had just seen on his brother's chest, Chris crouched helplessly beside him. "Just sit back."

"I don't feel too good," Brandon mumbled.

Sam pulled a jar of mystery fluid off the nearest shelf and took a whiff. Perfect. Nick was still dead to the world, mouth half open. Sam dumped the contents of the jar onto his face.

Nick's eyes flew open, startled to wakefulness. He shrieked, both of his mutilated hands flying up to his head. He turned and spat out a mouthful of the liquid, gagging.

Sam kicked him back onto his back. "Don't."

"The hell was that! You can't just dump those things, coulda killed me—"

Wordlessly, Sam hurled the glass jar down beside his head. The vessel shattered loudly, throwing shards in every direction.

Nick flinched back, paused mid-word. Everything clicked. For the second time in an hour, he looked scared. "Now, wait. Wait a minute. Don't get the wrong idea—"

"You think you can fool me? Me?" Sam thundered, looming above him.

"What? No, no I didn't—"

"What the hell was in those vials Nick? What? And don't give me any more bullshit."

"It was the antidote—"

Sam kicked him again, catching him sharply in the ribs. "You're infected. Remember? Is that a good enough reason for you?"

Nick paled. "I'm…I'm really…"

"The vials."

Nick swallowed hard and continued. "It was…the vials, well…they're just flu shots. Just normal ones, from the drug store down town. I get sick sometimes."

"You had me give them flu shots?" Sam said through his teeth.

"Shit, man. Shit. What do you want me to do? I'll do it, okay, I'll do it, just don't let me change. I don't want to be one of them—I don't, I…I have the real antidote, alright? I have it. It's up there, top shelf, left corner, the think I described to you before. It'll work. For the love of god, just give me some, there's loads—"

Chris was already up and moving to the place directed. He dragged the stool over the far corner and peered at the shelf's contents. A box was stuffed to the brim with vials. He looked at Sam. "I've got something."

"That's it, that's it, I swear."

Sam motioned to Chris. "Let me see," he said, watching as the man heaved the box down. "Do you have any more syringes?"

Chris sat the box beside Sam's feet. He palmed two of the vials and walked back to his bag. "Yeah, I'll get them ready."

Sam watched him go, forming his next words carefully. "Good. Make one for Nick."

Chris almost dropped the vials. "What?"

"Oh thank you, thank you—"

"Shut up," Chris sniped at him, "Sam, really, you can't cure him! Not after everything he's done."

"Just make him one," Sam repeated, emotionless. "After all, he told us the truth."

"But he—"

"Now."

Chris snarled. He knelt beside his bag, pulled out the first syringe. "He doesn't deserve it," he said, drawing the dosage into the tube, "He's killed so many people, caged them."

"I know. But we're not monsters like him," Sam said, and held out his hand, "I'll give it to him."

Chris paused, disgusted. He dropped the syringe in his outstretched hand. "This is wrong."

"No!" Nick said, looking between them, "It's not wrong. I'll change. You'll see, I'll change! Just give me the antidote."

Sam crouched beside him, syringe extended to that it nearly pierced his skin. "You're sure this is it, then? This is the antidote?"

"Yes! Damn it, yes! Give it to me!"

Sam retracted his arm, held the syringe in the air. "Here, Chris. Take it," he said.

"What?" Chris said, confused.

Nick's eyes widened, and he raised his ruined hands to swipe at the syringe. "No! No, give it to me!"

"Take it," Sam said flatly, holding it out of Nick's reach. He waited until he had taken the instrument from him before adding, "Go back with Brandon. Don't watch."

Chris hesitated. "Oh," he said. He walked back to his brother.

"Wha's going on?" Brandon murmured.

Chris emptied the syringe into his arm with one motion, then pulled Brandon to him. "Just relax," he said, "It's nothing." He stared intently at the wall.

Sam picked up his shotgun. It was still loaded with all four bullets. Wordlessly, he stepped back and aimed the barrel at Nick's forehead.

"Don't, no," Nick said, trying to crawl back, "You said…you said you weren't a monster."

"I'm not," Sam said. He pulled the trigger.

Nick's head shattered, spattering blood and bone up the wall behind him. The body slumped to the floor like a doll. Sam paused, then lowered the gun as the man's blood dripped, already beginning to pool around him.

As he saw the stain spread, it dawned on him that it would be the perfect time for a one liner comment, something like 'Screw you, bastard' or 'That's for my brother,' or 'Only needed one shot.'

He didn't say any of those things; he had already killed the man. There was nothing more to say.

He was tired.

Someone nudged him from behind. Sam turned and found Chris standing there with a full syringe—when had he gotten that ready?—in his hand. "Here," Chris said quietly, "For Dean."

Sam dropped the gun and took the syringe in his left hand. "Thanks," he said. He limped to his brother and plunged the antidote into his bloodstream. Relieved, he sat down heavily and leaned his head against the wall. He would only sit for a moment, just a moment.

Chris's voice interrupted his silence after a few seconds. "Why…why didn't you?"

And damn it, Sam just wanted a few minutes of sleep. That was it. He choked back the frustration that threatened to erupt, deciding that sleeping was probably one of the worst things he could do right then, up on top with dying. He opened his eyes. "Why didn't I what?"

"Cage him," Chris said, "Let him become a zombie. He…he deserved it."

Sam sighed. "I know he did. I wanted to."

"Then why? Why just shoot him?"

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean's neck again, just to reassure himself that his brother was still with him. He relaxed slightly when he found the heartbeat. "Because if I had done what I wanted, it would have made me just as bad as him. And I'm not Nick."

Chris watched him, still doubtful. "I guess," he said.

"You can think about it later," Sam said, resisting the urge to close his eyes again, "We need to get to the hospital."

"Understatement of the year."

"Maybe. You okay with carrying the others to the car?"

Chris eyed him skeptically. "Can you walk to the car?"

"I can always walk to the car," Sam mumbled, using the wall to stand. His vision tunneled and spotted. He felt nauseous. Too much blood loss; why was it always too much blood loss?

Chris crouched and got one arm under Dean's back and the other under his knees. He stood, careful not to jostle his injuries. "I'll go first, you follow."

"Right," Sam said. Now that Nick was dead, his body was deciding it was too tired to function; he needed to get to the car fast. "Don't forget Brandon."

Chris laughed, already heading up the stairs. "Right. Because I would have forgotten my brother."

Sam started after him, gripping the banister. "Just want to cover everything before…you know…"

"You pass out?"

"Maybe."

"Don't pass out on the stairs."

"I'm trying," Sam admitted, taking another step up, "And remember to pack the box of vials…in case we need to give them more or something." He paused, startled. He was already at the car, Dean was already propped up in the backseat. He couldn't remember getting there.

"Sit," Chris said, seeing his confusion. He guided him into the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Remember Brandon," Sam said again.

Chris actually laughed. "Yeah, okay. Go to sleep now, I'll get us to a hospital."

"Not too close, somewhere far," Sam muttered, eyes already closing, "Fake names."

"Sleep," Chris said forcefully, shutting the door.

Sam listened to his feet crunch across the gravel driveway toward the house. At that point, he couldn't have opened his eyes if he wanted to, they seemed glued shut. He didn't mind; he was in the Impala, and they had the antidote. Taking a deep breath, he breathed in the scent of the car and, comforted, finally drifted off to sleep.

Review please! Thanks.