Title: Against the Clock
Author: Swanseajill
Rating: Gen, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Pairing: None
Spoilers: Set in Season One, between Faith and Shadow
Disclaimer: Don't own them, making no money from them.

Summary: When Sam goes missing during the investigation of a series of murders, Dean battles illness and the clock to solve the case before Sam's time runs out.

Author's Notes: This is a straightforward casefic with some sick!Dean and hurt!Dean thrown in for good measure. It's set in Season One because I'm a little worn out with all the current angst of deals and hell and stuff. It was written for Sylia91 who was kind enough to bid on me as an author in an auction last year - and win! Sylia, I'm sorry it took so long to write and I hope it was worth the wait.

Grateful thanks as always to stealthyone for her fantastic beta job and for encouraging me to see this fic through to the bitter end.

The story is in thirteen parts and I'll post a part every day, or every other day.

Chapter 1

The sonorous roar of the Impala's engine was familiar and somehow comforting. Sam stretched out as far as he could and allowed it to lull him further into a state of pleasant drowsiness already kicked off by the satisfying if cholesterol-building breakfast special, courtesy of Rosie's diner.

It was a long drive from north Colorado to their destination of Longville, Texas. Their latest hunt had involved several sleepless nights staking out a chupacabra's lair, and he intended to catch up on some sleep until it was his turn to drive.

The high-pitched bleep of an incoming text message tore him unceremoniously from the edge of oblivion. He grunted in annoyance, straightened and glanced across at Dean. His brother was struggling to pull his cell from his pocket while steering around a tight bend. The cell slipped from his fingers and fell somewhere between his feet.

Dean growled a profanity and looked at Sam.

Sam looked back and raised an eyebrow. "Want me to pick that up for you, Dean?" he asked sarcastically.

Dean smirked. "Aw, Sammy, I know you never pass on the chance to grovel at my feet."

Sam flicked his brother the finger and contorted his body into a shape it wasn't meant for as he fished under the seat for the cell.

He found it and held it out to Dean.

"You'd better check it," Dean said, steering around another hairpin. "Unless you'd like an early swim."

Sam glanced gingerly over the edge of the road at the gorge far below.

"I'll pass." He flipped the cell open and checked the caller ID.

And stared in shock at the name on the display.

Dean flicked him a glance. "Who's it from?"

"Unbelievable." Sam shook his head, still staring incredulously at the four digits displayed on the screen.

"Sam!" Dean snapped.

"It's from Dad," Sam said flatly. "It's coordinates."

He was reeling, flooded with mixed emotions. There had been no word from Dad for over a month, not even in response to his desperate message that Dean was dying from a damaged heart. He'd found it hard to believe that even Dad would be callous enough to not once check in to see if Dean was okay, and a nagging fear had taken root in the back of his mind. What if Dad hadn't made contact because he couldn't, because something had happened to him? He was sure Dean harbored the same fear, though they'd never once discussed it.

As he stared blankly at the phone, he felt anger welling. He might have guessed. Dad was doing what Dad did best -- keeping his own agenda, setting his own priorities, keeping them out of the loop. Had he even wondered how Dean might feel about his silence? Had it occurred to him how Dean might feel about being so low down the priority list that he didn't even warrant a phone call? Probably not. Dad never had been too intuitive – at least, not as far as his family was concerned.

Now, he actually had the nerve to text them coordinates.

Sam looked at Dean. His brother's eyes were firmly fixed on the road, but his jaw was locked, and a nerve ticked in his cheek. "From Dad?" he asked tersely. "You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Who else sends us coordinates with no message?" He scowled. "He's a piece of work."

"Come on Sam, what's wrong with that? You know--"

"What's wrong with it?" Sam snapped. Dean could be so dense. "What do you think, Dean? No word for more than a month, then he has the nerve to send us coordinates. He can't even bother to pick up the phone, not even after…"

Dean glanced across at him, expression unreadable. "After what?"

"You know what," Sam ground out. "You almost died a month ago, and he hasn't even called. Not then, not now. No message, no text, nothing. Then out of the blue, he sends you coordinates for a job. Doesn't that bother you?"

Dean abruptly slammed on the brakes and steered the Impala to a halt at the side of the road. He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence was startling. After a moment's silence he said, "He must have had a good reason. He'd have called if he could."

Sam snorted. "Not good enough. You're his son, Dean, and you were dying!"

"Thanks for the reminder," Dean shot back.

Sam was beginning to regain his ability to read his brother, and although the angry words were directed at him, he could detect the confused emotions that lay beneath.

He spoke more softly this time. "I just think… what he's doing… the way he's keeping us in the dark - it isn't right."

"Sam, just shut the hell up, okay?" Dean snapped. "Dad knows what he's doing. He's sent us coordinates, which means a job, so we're gonna check it out. End of conversation." He held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

Sam bit back a scathing retort and slammed the cell into Dean's hand. They'd had this argument too many times before. The last one had resulted in him literally walking away, and Dean had almost died as a result. He didn't plan to make that mistake again. Sure, Dean's blind faith in and obedience to their father were frustrating as hell, but it wasn't his fault Dad was a jerk.

They sat in silence while Dean stared at the text message, who knew what thoughts going through his head. After a while, Sam sighed in acceptance of the inevitable and reached for his laptop on the back seat. "Give me the coordinates. I'll check them out."

Silently, Dean handed over his cell. Sam powered up the laptop and plugged the numbers into the computer. A few minutes later, he looked up. "Springwood."

"Springwood? Awesome!"

"I don't think Dad wants us to hunt Freddy Krueger, Dean," Sam said dryly.

A slight smiled touched Dean's lips. "I don't know, it might be fun."

Sam was relieved that Dean was making an effort to break the tension. "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but this Springwood's in Colorado, not Ohio."

Dean frowned. "Springwood, Colorado. Sounds kinda familiar."

He reached over the seat and rummaged around in the back until he came up with Dad's journal. He flicked through the pages for a few moments, then slammed his palm triumphantly down on one. "That's it. Series of unexplained murders – all took place on the same day every year for the past four years."

"And Dad thought it was our kind of gig?"

"Why else would it be in his journal?" Dean handed Sam the journal and started the car. "Let's hit the road. Springwood's south of here -- can't be more than a four-hour drive. You can read all about it on the way."

Sam refrained from commenting on the obvious -- that they should weigh up the relative merits of this case versus the haunting in Texas. It would just cause further argument, and Dean would do whatever he wanted anyway.

Fighting back feelings of resentment against both his brother and father, he began to read carefully through the journal entry as Dean started the engine and steered the Impala back onto the road.

He read the entry through twice, struggling as usual to read Dad's untidy handwriting and the scrawled comments in the margins of the page.

"Okay," he said finally. "You were right; Dad was investigating a series of murders. The victims were all killed on the same day every year, for the past four years, with the same M.O. – a bullet to the heart. Dad got there just after the murder last year. Police theory was a serial killer, but they didn't have many leads – just a mystery man seen talking to the first victim a few hours before her death, but they never found him. Dad was convinced the cause was supernatural, but he didn't have time to figure it out because he had to leave in a hurry to, quote, 'pursue other leads.'" He paused at that. "Think he was on the trail of the thing that killed Mom?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe. Either way, it must have been important. Dad wouldn't just walk out on a hunt without good reason."

Sam nodded. That much was true enough. "Anyway, he planned to come back before the date this year." He paused. "Guess he has something more important to do."

He couldn't hide the sarcasm and Dean glanced at him sharply. "He sent us, didn't he?" He held Sam's eyes until Sam shrugged acknowledgement. "What date are we talking about?"

"June 4. That's tomorrow. Cutting it a bit close."

Dean grinned. "Nothing like a deadline to concentrate the mind." He put his foot down, and the Impala responded with a roar.