A/N: I am sorry for any grammar/spelling/plot mistakes! And thank you for so many follows ...

CHAPTER 1:

Now

Sam slowly opened the thin, plastic – felt like plastic, could be wood, who the hell could tell these days - door to the latest motel room they were staying in. It was a normal looking room, nothing special about it; had two beds with dark red blankets, two nightstands with two lamps and a Bible in each drawer. Had a table with three chairs, had a small couch and a black 'n' white TV standing on a small, dust covered table. It was … normal looking until one opened the bathroom. Dean's jaw fell to the floor when he saw it, and while that gave Sam a really good one and a half minute laugh, it all disappeared real quickly when he had to actually use it. He left the door opened a crack, because he really didn't want to be closed up in that psychedelic room; there was just no telling when clowns would jump out from somewhere behind a tree – the bathroom had blue, green, red, brown, yellow trees painted on the freakin' walls - and eat him alive. He tried really hard to imagine he was doin' business in a forest – nothing strange about that. Except that it didn't really help.

He kicked the thin door closed with this heel, his right hand holding a huge paper bag filled with doughnuts - breakfast of the champions - and his left full of coffee cups. They were gonna need lots and lots of caffeine in their veins to get through the day, because they pulled an all-nighter and that always scrambled with their eggs a little. He still felt like he could sleep for a few more hours, but no … they needed to get moving, needed to leave this town before anyone would connect the dots and realize it was them who burned down the old pharmacy. They really didn't need to get on anyone's radar right now.

He yawned and walked slowly – careful not to let anything slip from his hands – and quietly to the small, plastic table that was hiding in the far corner, right in front of a small kitchen sink. He didn't want to wake up Dean yet, because his brother fell asleep just three hours ago, after turning and twisting on the bed for ages, until he found a spot comfortable enough to actually fall asleep.

He knew it hadn't just been the case that was giving his brother so much trouble finding peace and comfort at night. It was dad.

He sighed and shook his head. It was too early to think about this. Too early to think of death and destruction and how very much not alright Dean was. After getting some coffee and food, then he'd think about it. But right now, they needed to hit the road. A new case was probably waiting for them somewhere, something probably needed to be killed and an early morning meant an early night. And, as unhealthy as it sounded, a new case and something to kill, would make Dean better. If only for just a little while.

He yawned again and placed their breakfast on the disarray of crumpled newspaper articles – dead, bodies, hair, ten year old, monster - police reports – hair completely cut off sometimes with the whole scalp, massive blood loss, found in the woods - and vomit inducing autopsy pictures – little girls, bloody and covered with white sheets - that were all over the table and saw from the corner of his left eye his brother … sitting up on his bed.

Awake.

Fully awake as in eyes open and not … asleep. Not snoring. Like he should've been, because he needed the rest.

"Uh, Dean?"

Silence. And silence wasn't something his brother did well. Dean was always noise and obnoxiousness, stupid jokes and snores and grumbles. Sure right now, so soon after … dad … his brother wasn't all there, wasn't all that he'd been before, but silence? Like this? Especially when there was the smell of doughnuts and coffee rolling around in the air?

Not good.

"Dean?"

His brother was a sprawled mess of limbs and glassy eyes; the thin blanket and the sheet were lying sideways on the bed like they'd been in a fight that they lost really, really badly. His back was to the headboard, his legs stretched out before him, his arms lifelessly lying beside him, like someone cut the strings and everything just … fell where gravity pulled it. The dark redness of the blanket made everything look like Dean was bleeding, or more specifically, had already bled to death all over the bed.

He looked dead; his face was pale, freckles standing out, sweat glistering on his forehead and upper lip, his eyes glassy and staring at the TV. That wasn't on.

Sure, after … their dad … Dean was a bit weird, but this wasn't that kinda weird. This was something new, something uncharted.

"Dean?"

He stepped a little closer to the end of the bed, scared out of his mind now that maybe Dean … maybe he really had bled to death.

"Dean?!"

Dean blinked when he bumped the end of the bed with his shins, hard enough to move the bed a little. And that got his brother's attention.

"I …," he cleared his throat, "… I touched it Sam."

Dean's voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far, far away. Like his brother was drowning and trying to scream through murky water that was invading his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. It was fear – pure freakin' terror – in that voice and Sam … he didn't know what to do about it. Dean, scared? Those were just two very different things. Fear wasn't something they could afford, fear could get them killed, fear was only allowed in special occasions and Sam was sure he wasn't dying. So … shit.

"Dean..."

He put his own voice into a whisper and sat down on Dean's bed, his back touching Dean's calf. He put his elbows on his knees, washed his hands down his face – feeling tired, so damn tired - and sighed.

They were so, so screwed.

And it had been such a beautiful morning too. Sunny and warm and smelling of pines from the nearby forest and he went for a run, before picking up breakfast and coffee and everything was looking so great and the birds were singing and people were laughing and now this.

So screwed.

-:-

"What," he swallowed down the dread that was creeping all sour like up his throat, "… what happened, man?"

"Let's just ... not talk about it, okay? I touched it and that's that."

"Dude, I told you…" was a really dumb thing to say, but he said it anyways, because sometimes anger and Dean clouded his judgment on what was appropriate to say, but damn it … damn it, Dean. It wasn't as if they hadn't talked about this before going on the hunt. Do not touch anything. Do not even breathe or look at anything. And he know that he had been very specific about this, because he saw Dean nod and heard him say 'promise', but clearly something went wrong in that communication.

"Do you have a death wish? 's that it?"

Uh, probably not a very good idea to say that either, but again, anger and Dean mixing up in his brain made his mouth spill out shit he really shouldn't.

"What? No! Screw you, Sam."

Could he believe that? Because after … dad … Dean sure looked like he had plenty death wishes and a lot of opportunities to execute them. Maybe this was just one of them. How the hell should he know? Dean was a locked box right now, nothing coming out nor in.

"Okay, fine. So what the hell happened? I told you not to touch anything."

He wanted to look at Dean, but couldn't. He just couldn't tear his eyes away from a blue tree that was peeking out through a half opened bathroom door.

"Yeah well, there was no other option, okay? Can we just drop it and figure this out?"

His brother sounded pissed off wrapped in a flat tone. Like he had already given up and surrendered to his fate – the 'figure this out' part was just for Sam's benefit.

Well screw that.

He unglued his eyes from the blue tree and looked at Dean. His brother was still staring at the gray screen of the TV, but at some point he did move his hands into his lap and wiped away the sweat from his face.

He wasn't mad at Dean, not anymore. He believed him, that there was no other option to deal with the hunt, but to touch it. Because hell, if Dean did have a death wish, it probably wasn't to go down like this.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"You hurt anywhere?"

He expected for Dean to give him the stink eye and tell him to back off, but when his brother raised his right hand up from his lap and showed him his palm, for a second there, he didn't know what to do with it. He stared at the offered hand and thought 'will he bit off my arm if I touch him?'

"Uh…"

Dean wiggled his hand in front of Sam's eyes and said, completely flat and sounding like he was five: "It cut me."

His brows raised up in confusion, because: "It cut you?"

That was new. He hadn't read about that anywhere. In the book that Bobby send them, all that was written - and he could quote it – was 'do not touch, but do find a way to burn it'. There were no words about the thing cutting anyone. And he knew Dean, if he cut himself, he'd say so. But his brother said that it cut him. Was it alive?

"You think … that it was, umm, alive?"

"Huh, could be, man. I mean … I remember grabbing it and then this sharp pain, but I didn't grab it that hard. Barely even held it. So … hmmm … could be."

Then something clicked. It clicked so hard in his head, that he barely contained a gasp, because … oh, uh, crap.

"Dean, I think …" he stopped himself, because really … should he share this with Dean? After all of this? After what happened? Should he tell his brother?

The answer was simple. Yes. Yeah he should, because Dean was smart and he'd figure this all out eventually and then he'd go all pissed at Sam for not sayin' anything and then they would have to drive around in awkward silence and that was just too stressful. So soon after … dad … it would just be too much to deal with. To have another thing between them that would hang over their heads.

But when he looked at Dean, he saw his eyes widen up and he knew that he waited a little too long to say anything, because Dean just figured it out too.

"Sam? Really? That thing was what the son of a bitch used to cut off the kids hair?"

"Dean…"

"Goddamn it."

"Dean, it was magic, okay? It probably, I don't know, turned into a knife or scissors or I don't know what, and when you touched it …"

"It turned into something sharp, right? Cut me? Poisoned me? Couldn't take my hair, because hello, not a redhead, but poisoned me anyway? Well, Sammy … that book Bobby send us? Is one useless piece of crap."

He chuckled. It wasn't one of those 'fuck this is so funny, I'm gonna pee my pants' chuckles. No, it was one of those 'fuck this is so messed up, I'm gonna end up in a psych ward' chuckles.

"Well, then we'll just have to write this in …" he swallowed his tongue. He couldn't say it. He couldn't say 'dad's journal'. He couldn't say it through the build of tears in the back of his throat. He just … couldn't. Even if they had that thing for almost a year and some change, but now … now it was all theirs. There would be no dad coming to collect at some point. It was theirs. The only thing they had of their dad.

" … dad's journal?"

Dean. The words were choked out, but … he said them. Made everything more real now.

"Yeah. In dad's journal."

They were silent for a while then. But it was a comfortable silence, one that felt wrong to interrupt. There were noises coming in from the outside; people walking around, waking up, cars starting, TV's too loud, someone yelling 'Davy, come back here and eat your cornflakes!". And it was just so normal.

Even if Dean was coming closer and closer to feeling the full effects of the poison. Closer and closer to all but dying.

"Show me the cuts." He whispered, because he didn't really want to see 'em, didn't want to see the things that'd bring his brother close to dying, but he knew he had to. Had to know. Had to know to describe everything to Bobby so that the old man would be able to find a cure. A way to fix this, because he was not gonna let his brother suffer. He was not and it didn't matter what it would take.

He gripped Dean by the wrist and looked at the palm. They were red. The cuts. Not infected, just red looking and … almost healed.

"They look like they're days old."

"Yeah, saw that. I just … damnit Sam."

He nodded, because yeah, damnit.

He didn't know what to do about the cuts, because they really looked all healed up and he wasn't gonna risk reopening them. Besides what had been done, had been done and there was no undoing it. No antiseptic or bandages or whatever would make Dean alright. Nothing, but a cure. A counter-spell, something.

"Yeah, okay, look ... just ...'s gonna be okay, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah ... sure. Whatever."

Neither of them believed a word they were saying. It was all lies, and lies they knew how to deal out.

"We have to get you someplace ... else. Somewhere where there are no people for miles around, okay?

Dean nodded.

"Dean..."

"Don't ... let's just ... I don't know ... go to Bobby's. Okay?"

"I don't know if we're gonna make it there in time, man."

"We still have some time, right?"

There was hope on Dean's face, in his eyes, his voice and Sam felt like an asshole having to break it, but…

"Dean," he sighed, "it's a long drive to Bobby's. Too long."

He would give anything, anything at all, to be able to take Dean to Bobby's, to take him somewhere his brother would feel comfortable enough to … scream out in unbearable pain … but there was no time. The drive would be too long, take away too much time that they could've spend searching for a cure.

"Shit."

They really were so screwed.

Just the thought of coffee and doughnuts waiting patiently to be munched on, made them both sick to their stomach. How could they eat, when in a few hours, Dean would be screaming his lungs out?

-:-

They packed their shit in record time and were on the road even faster. The motel manager didn't know what hit him when Sam slammed the credit card on his desk, mumbled something incoherent and ran away.

"We'll try to find a back road somewhere or a cabin or a house someplace... somewhere private, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah... I'll try not to..."

Sam whispered: " 's gonna be okay, Dean."

"Huh, yeah... I just... I think you should leave me wherever we stay and go... just... leave me there and come back after..."

"You're kidding right?"

His brother was a moron if he really thought he'd leave him alone to deal with this.

"No..."

"Shut up."

Sam drove on down the highway illuminated by bright, too bright sunshine. He had no direction, no plan other than drive, drive, drive and look for something private. Hidden. Didn't matter what; a barn, an abandoned house, a cabin, a freaking shack … didn't matter what, as long as it was hidden from prying eyes and ears and it had a roof. Preferably a bed too. But it was okay if there was no bed. The floor would be okay too.

-:-

They drove on some back roads, but there were always houses nearby, and they couldn't have that... couldn't have someone hearing them, hearing Dean.

Dean was good at hiding his pain, clenching his teeth and all, but he wasn't that good. No one was that good.

This was going to hurt like hell.

"How you feelin' over there?"

He glanced at his brother and saw Dean rubbing his forehead and blinking way too rapidly.

"I … don't know. Kinda dizzy right now."

Shit.

"Gonna puke?"

"Naw, not that bad. 's just … whoah … uh, the road is a bit … spinning."

"Dean?"

"I'll be fine, just drive."

"I can stop for a minute."

"Just drive."

"Okay. Okay."

They needed a plan here, damnit. Needed a direction. Needed to call Bobby. They needed to find something … before … before Dean would start … showing signs. He couldn't call it 'all but dying'', not even in the privacy of his head, but that was what it would be.

All but dying. Pain, nosebleeds, hallucinations, panic attacks, bruises that would form on his body, choking for air, he was already dizzy … all but dying. He was gonna wish he was dying. But no such mercy would come, because Sam … he was not gonna … he wasn't. Could never.

He would find a cure. He still had some time left. And he had Bobby. And Bobby had books and connections and … they'd find a cure. They had to find something to make all of this easier on Dean. The thing poisoned him, cursed him, but not killed him, because like Dean said 'hello, not a redhead', but there was still a curse starting to work inside of Dean.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

He took his eyes of the road and looked at Dean.

There was a – river – of blood flowing out of his brother's nose, down his lips, dripping off his chin on his lap. Dean was trying to stop it with his hands, but that was like trying to stop rain from falling.

"Jesus, Dean!"

"I hnow, I hhnow … dampff it."

They didn't have a lot of time here.

TBC...