A/N: I have decided that the remainder of this story, in it's entirety, will probably work best as a series in the same 'verse due to the scope of the thing. As a result, I've ended on a rather ambiguous, but (hopefully) satisfying note. Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!

"Alright, start from the beginning."

The brothers sat across from each other at the cramped dinette table. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to stave off the headache he felt beginning to buzz behind his eyes. Daylight was just starting to fade, spilling golden shafts onto the carpet through the slats in the blinds.

Dean rested his forearms on the cracked Formica and blew out a long breath.

"Well I was wanderin' around looking for leads- you, dad, the demon, SOMETHING, when I came across a case in the local paper. Buncha old ladies getting' ganked; pretty gory stuff, too. The fuzz was practically creaming their pants cuz of course they thought they had the next small-town serial killer on their hands. Honest to God, they were like dogs eying a steak. Could see the book deals already."

Sam gave him a weak smile of acknowledgement, a weary sickness in his bones at the familiarity.

People don't do this. They don't sit around motel rooms talking casually about murder and police investigations. They don't recognize the difference between a sensational news story and real danger breathing down the backs of their necks.

"Anyway, I did a lil research- yeah, yeah, don't look so surprised- and sure enough, these killings tend to happen around the full moon."

"So you think Saul's a werewolf?" A nauseating little flip of his stomach as he felt his heart speed up.

I'm not excited.

Dean rolled his eyes. "What I think is that you were wasted last night, you saw some dude who maybe triggered somethin' in that head of yours, and now you're jumping to conclusions."

"I know what I saw."

"Okay, okay," he spread his arms wide, indulgent. "Say that dude really was there. Any particular reason you think he's quit mauling old ladies and decided to chase after you?"

"He could've caught our scents, figured out we were hunting him!" Sam was getting defensive. Why won't you take me seriously?

"So he hangs out with you at the bar?"

"You know, I'm getting real sick of you patronizing me, Dean. I was drunk, alone. A better target until you showed up."

"Alright, you've convinced me," his brother said in the tone he used when he was tired and just wanted to stop arguing, but wasn't willing to concede his point. "We'll check it out in the morning."

"Fine," Sam gritted his teeth. It seemed that with every passing moment he could hear the grains of sand fall to the bottom of the hourglass.

Dean stood up, flicking off the lights on his way to the bedroom.

"I dunno about you, Samantha, but I'm gonna find a nice western to watch on TV and maybe even order a pizza. You're welcome to join 's long as I get to pick the channel."

Sam didn't answer. He sat alone as darkness slowly enroached on the room, blood pounding in his ears. Invisible ants crawled up and down his legs. He had to do something.

Sam let his head loll back as he entered the motel. He'd never realized how wonderful the patch of mold over the doorframe was; how nicely it complemented the carpet, how smooth the edges were. A sign that the universe was perfectly aligned.

Dean was hunched over some books at what passed for a kitchen table, a yellowing scrap of parchment dangling loosely from one hand.

Sam decided to grace his brother with a languid wave.

"Are you high?" Dean set down the paper with a decisive smack and leaned forward, as if he could somehow smell it on him.

As a kite, motherfucker.

"Seriously?" He molded his face into a look of injured innocence. His muscles were made of warm clay. "After all we've been through to get this far? Thought I'd do some…" he searched for the word, "investigating. On my own. Last night."

"Bullshit. Lemme see you walk in a straight line."

"What if I told you Saul wasn't a werewolf?" Sam leaned against the stove for support.

"Oh I see, he's your fucking dealer, is that it?" Dean roared. The chair flew backwards and in an instant he was in front of Sam, hand fisted around his collar.

"He followed you here because you were a paying customer! God, I'm an idiot," He barked out a laugh. "I can't believe I thought I could trust you. Made up some stupid story about a hunt just to put me off your trail. Tying it back in with the last case was a nice touch though. Convincing." He jabbed a finger into Sam's chest, which caused him to rock back against the stovetop.

"Nono, Dean. Lemme 'splain," His tongue felt heavy, the words buzzing around his lips like lazy bees. The evening's events were congealing in his memory. A knife in his hands. The need to lash out; to cut away at whatever stood in his path.

But all I really wanted was a hit. It was so simple…

Saul hadn't flinched at the silver point pressed into his back in the alley behind the bar. Only a hiss when Sam dragged the tip across his skin, blood blooming though the tear in his shirt, but no steam or howling.

Human. A disappointment.

"Hey kid, I can help you out, just let me go, please…"

Help me?

"I g-got good stuff. I remember you, from the truckstop, yeah? You like a lil' smack? I have that. Free of charge."

The realization had hit Sam like a punch to the gut. In fact, his stomach tightened at the prospect; a shiver that continued all the way down until his toes curled.

He'd swallowed heavily; suddenly aware that he was salivating at the thought.

This'll be the last one… A final farewell.

"You know what, Sam? I don't want to hear your excuses anymore. You fucked up, plain and simple." Dean's voice cut through the haze in his head.

"'M sorr-"

"Do you even want to get better? Cuz from here it doesn't look like you're trying too hard."

Sam swayed back on his heels, as if Dean's words had physically struck him. The drugs blunted the emotional impact, but he still managed to feel vaguely stung.

Who was it who dragged me through the mud to get sober? Oh, that's right. Sure as hell wasn't me. Maybe ya shoulda left me in my little junkie paradise.

His tongue couldn't quite seem to wrap around all of that, so he shrugged instead.

Dean's jaw tightened.

"Alright, c'mon we're getting in the car." He snatched a dirty t-shirt off the floor, and in a sudden burst of violent, manic energy, strode over and yanked his bag out from underneath the bed.

"What?" The world was still soft around the edges, dreamlike. Same felt as if he were watching his brother through a thick layer of cellophane.

"Get in the car," Dean repeated, dumping out the contents of the dresser drawer with a flourish. "Time for a change of scenery." He gave Sam a level stare. "I'll be sure to cover our tracks this time."

New town, new start. Cover last night's sins with a different horizon. Sound familiar?

"What if it doesn't work?"

This is me giving up. It's too hard. You can dangle Dad or Revenge in front of me all you want, but nothing can compare anymore. I need a different kind of rush now.

"It will." His voice rang with chilling certainty as Dean ran his fingers along the knife that he was in the process of sheathing.

Sam was too tired to argue ethics anymore; how Saul was a bad person, yes, but not a monster. How Sam could easily be in his shoes had he enough self-control to save a hit or two from each of his own purchases to sell. How Dean didn't deserve to take a fall for him.

He still believes in me. Or at least in the bullshit person I used to be.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, chewing on the sentences. The roar of the high was beginning to slide into a sickening fatigue.

I can at least sleep in the Impala…

Dean tossed a duffel in his general direction, which Sam promptly fumbled; his hands stiff and clumsy as blocks of wood. Together they stumbled out under a sky that was just beginning to streak through with pink. Dean turned the key in the ignition and was rewarded with a satisfying growl. He cast one long, shadowed look at his little brother; sprawled bonelessly in the passenger seat, mouth open like he was a little kid. The vivid purple bruises and half-crusted scabs on his arms told another story.

Two men watched as the black car took off chasing the sunrise.

"I still don't see what this has got to do with anything," Saul grumbled under his breath.

"The Righteous Man is close to breaking under the strain," the taller one responded. He pulled the collar of his coat closer against the early-morning chill. "The younger brother reaching out to fill that craving he's had ever since he was a child. He doesn't know what it is yet, but all in good time, eh?"

Saul laughed humorlessly, his eyes flicking to black.

"You've done your job well," His boss continued, reaching out with to lay a tender hand on Saul's head, "I know I promised you a promotion after this, but I'm afraid I have one more task for you. Trust me when I say it'll be even easier than the first."

Before Saul could respond, the man slashed his throat with superhuman speed. He cradled the body carefully, lowering it to the ground behind the motel's dumpster. With a slight flourish, he produced a thin, glass vial from his coat pocket, which he held under the spurting stream of blood.

"One misguided, the other hopeless, both desperate. We've got the Winchesters right where we need them, Father," He murmured, casting sickly yellow eyes down to the ground.

The End
(or is it?)