AN: Probably will be two chapters to this. Think of it as an extended one-shot. Second part to be up within a week since my finals at university will be over by Monday.

Sam

"You're getting seriously on my last nerve now, man," Sam rolled onto his side and sat up wearily. The motel room was dimly lit but he could just about make out the silhouette of his obnoxious brother lumbering towards the bed next to his, and the door crashing into the wall had been impossible to ignore. Dean was back, and he was drunk. As if Dean hadn't been annoying enough recently.

"Shhhhhhh…" Dean tried to whisper, and Sam felt the bed shake under him as Dean walked into it and nearly fell flat on his face. "Don't wake Sam."

"Come on, Dean!" Sam stood up with a sigh, and grabbed his wayward older brother by the shoulders. Guiding him to his own bed for the night, Sam shoved until Dean's knees buckled and then lifted his feet, complete with hunting boots, onto the bed with the rest of him. "Shut up and go to bed. I'm trying to sleep."

"But I was having f… having fun," Dean protested, as Sam climbed back into bed and rolled over so he faced the wall, his back to his brother. "Can't rem… I can't 'member the last time you were fun, Sammy."

"God! Dean, are we really going to start this again? You can barely stand, I'm tired and it's 2am. Go to sleep!" He shut his eyes and did his best to ignore Dean's mumbling, and his many and varied insults to his masculinity, until his brother finally succumbed to sleep, leaving the room blissful quiet once more. Of course Dean's soft snores made silence a pipe dream, but Sam could deal with that as long as he wasn't talking.

They had been at each other's throats for days, and Dean's little stunt had been the latest in a long line of things that were driving Sam insane. Sleeping in until lunchtime one day so that they missed the meeting that Sam had spent hours organising with the sheriff involved in the job they were working, and then getting Sam up before 5am the next, insisting that they just had to get on the road before daybreak. He had even made Sam wait another hour to use a service station when he needed to relieve himself, and choosing expensive motels when they both knew that they hadn't got the money.

Sam knew that they were petty things, really, and that none of it mattered in the long run, but Dean knew exactly how to push his buttons and enjoyed doing it. Sam had so far resisted the urge to strangle or shoot his brother, but he was hyper aware that unless he did something soon he was liable to explode.

He lay there, staring at the blackness in the corner of the room until the sunlight started to stream through the curtains, unable to get back to sleep after Dean's interruption to his dreams. When he couldn't bear to lie there any longer, he got up and showered to make him look a little less like he hadn't slept. After all, the monsters didn't gank themselves, and they hadn't had a day off in weeks. Evil didn't rest these days and, now that Sam hadn't either, he needed to be ready when the call came in from Bobby or Ellen. Or perhaps both, if they were having a particularly lucky day.

Sam retrieved his laptop from the floor beside his bed, relieved that Dean had missed it during his rampage. That would've meant war. He made a mental note not to leave it anywhere Dean could get at it in the future. The mood Dean was in at the moment, there was no telling which of Sam's possessions was a potential target.

Two hours later, after he'd finished sifting through the never ending piles of bullshit conspiracy sites and creepy-ass chat rooms in search of genuine supernatural sightings, Dean finally began to stir and Sam pushed the computer to one side. Dean rolled over onto his stomach, legs tangled up in the sheet, and stretched so far that one outstretched hand actually touched the wall near the bed. Then he rolled off the bed and to his feet in one motion, staggering into the bathroom without acknowledging Sam at all.

Sam raised an eyebrow as the door slammed shut behind him, and then smirked with smug satisfaction as, seconds later, he heard Dean's whimper of pain from the sharp sound hitting the delicate bubble of hangover surrounding him. Let him suffer for a bit. It was his own fault for getting that drunk anyway.

"Sam," Dean called from the bathroom, but Sam chose to ignore him. Dean would take any opportunity to drag him into an argument and he really was too tired to fight with his hothead of a brother this morning. Sam checked his watch and corrected himself. He was too tired to fight this afternoon.

"Sam!" Dean growled, pulling the door open and stomping out in just his towel. He obviously hadn't showered yet, but he looked pissed. He looked like totally crap if Sam was honest. He probably should have made Dean at least brush his teeth last night, but he'd be damned if he'd admit that to a furious and hung-over Dean Winchester.

"What?" he asked, as calmly as he could manage and with poker face in full effect.

"You know damn well what, Sam," Dean fumed, holding his towel around his waist with on hand, whilst gesturing wildly with the other towards Sam. "I look like complete shit, that's what. Why did you let me go out like this?"

"Wait, what?" he blurted, incredulously. That was the last thing he'd been expecting. "I have no idea what you are even talking about, Dean."

"I'm talking about last night. You know, that time between yesterday afternoon and now. I went out… can't remember where, and I looked like a homeless person. No wonder I didn't pull. You could have told me how crappy I looked before I left. I mean look at my hair."

"Wow. Dean, are you actually that vain." Sam's flood gate crumbled, and he let rip. "Your mood these past few days has probably got more to do with your inability to pull than your hair. Your hair looked fine last night when you left. You got home and passed out on your face at some ungodly hour last night, man, and you probably drooled on yourself at some point. It's not my fault, and it's definitely not my problem. I'm fed up with dealing with your drunken ass all the time, Dean."

"Wha…" Dean's mouth dropped open as Sam's tirade came to an abrupt end. Sam knew that he'd already said too much but he couldn't take it back now. The cat had ripped the bag to shreds, and the shit was already dripping from the figurative ceiling fan.

"You heard me, Dean," Sam stammered, and then cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Go shower before that smell becomes permanent." Dean didn't laugh and the weak attempt at humour, but he did shut himself in the bathroom again. Sam heard a few moments of inactivity, with only his own heavy breathing to punctuate the silence, and then the shower puttered into life slowly. Sam took the opportunity to let his mental walls down, and rubbed his palms across his cheeks, as if he could somehow massage the words he had spoken in anger back into his mouth.

A soft beeping cut through the air, and Sam jumped in surprise. His phone was gently vibrating on the dresser beside his bed, and Sam knew he had let his guard down for too long. That would be Bobby with a job, and he needed to be calm and professional. People's lives depended on them, and they could deal with their insatiable sibling rivalry crap later.

"Bobby?" Sam asked into the phone, not even pausing to check the caller ID before answering. There weren't many people who had his number, and only a few ever had reason to call.

"Try again, amigo," a familiar voice replied and Sam smiled in spite of himself.

"Ash!" They hadn't seen Ash in a while, having been absent from the Roadhouse for at least two months, and it was good to hear from him. "How's things? Ellen? Jo?" Sam added the last name automatically, thinking that Dean would want to know how his biggest groupie was doing, and then remembered that it wasn't likely that he would actually pass on the information at the moment.

"We're all good, my man. Thanks for asking', but that's not why I called."

"How can we help?"

"Well, I just got a call from a Roadhouse regular who works in the area. The area where y'all are, I mean. Don't think you've ever met, but he called and asked for a favour."

"So, you called me?" Sam asked, although the answer was fairly self-evident.

"Exactly. At face value it's your run-of-the-mill haunting, but this one's got a bit of a temper. Alastair got on the wrong side of it this morning, and he wanted a hand. If you're up for it?" Ash added, as an afterthought, but there was no need. The Winchester's were known in the wider community as some of the most dependable hunters in the business. Family feuds aside, they knew the value of a good deed better than just about anyone.

"No worries, we'll go as soon as we can be packed up." Sam heard the bathroom door open once more, and turned to Dean to make sure he knew that he was on the phone. He pointed at the pile of dirty clothes Dean had just dumped on his bed, and signal that they needed to pack up and leave. Dean scowled at Sam and sighed, but grabbed his duffel and thankfully did as instructed. Even hung over, Dean wasn't stupid. If a call came in, they laid everything aside and did the job to the best of their abilities.

"Thanks Sam," Ash told him again, after he'd finished giving him the location of the haunting and all the additional information he had on the ghost in question. It wasn't much, but it was enough that Sam thought that they could be in and out by the end of the afternoon, if all went well.

"Sure thing, Ash. Stay safe now." He hung up and turned to grab his now full duffel bag from Dean, who was impatiently holding it out to him, car keys in hand. Sam had to hand it to him, pissed off or not. Angry Dean was definitely efficient.

They made polite conversation in the car, Sam only speaking as necessary to communicate the information Dean needed, and Dean responding in no more than two syllables. They put together a plan as best they could whilst using as few words as possible. It wasn't the most comprehensive of schematics, but the idea was simple. Dean was centre point as usually for ghosts, and Sam would cover him. It was the tactic they always used, and discussion wasn't strictly necessary. Sam knew that they could run that drill with their eye closed, since their father had made them practise it blindfolded more times that he could remember. In. Out. Done.

"This is it," Dean said, and shut off the engine. Sam hadn't noticed their arrival, but now he was alert and ready to go. He could feel his muscles were tenser than usual; a symptom of lack of sleep, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. He'd had worse.

"Okay," was the only reply he needed to give, and they climbed out of their respective car seats in silence. The house they had drawn up to was small, secluded; a cottage really, and didn't look very haunted to Sam. That wasn't any indication of a haunting though, and he could feel the goose bumps rise on his arms and the back of his neck as he stared at the yellowing brick around the door. The ghost must be pretty powerful to elicit that reaction, he knew, but that wasn't a problem. A good challenge was exactly what they needed to vent some pent up aggression.

Dean handed Sam his usual salt-round shotgun, and hooked his rifle over his shoulder casually. Dean seemed chilled, but Sam could see him shooting daggers at him when he thought Sam wasn't looking. They would have to talk, soon, but not right now. Now they killed this son-of-a-bitch.

"Come and get me, bitch," Dean called obnoxiously as he stepped over the threshold and into the hallway of the small house. The pale pink paint on the walls was crackled and peeling in places, a sure sign of neglect and disuse. Sam wasn't surprised. The aura of the spectral squatter was actually palpable inside, and he couldn't imagine that even the most stoic sceptic would actually want to live here for long.

"I'll scope upstairs. Stay here," Dean told him, already half way up the stairs. Wait, that wasn't the plan.

"Wait, Dean. We need to stay together." Sam called out to him but Dean was already gone, hidden as the stairs curved around to the right. "I have a bad feeling about this," he said quietly, to himself. He turned to shut the front door to hide their actions from anyone who might walk by, but it slammed by itself before he could reach out a hand. A blast of ice cold air ruffled his hand, and he froze.

"Shit," he whispered, turning to find himself face to face with a middle aged woman with bloodlust swimming in her cold, dead eyes. "Dean!"

"Eat your vegetables, you little wretch," the ghost hissed, speaking to an invisible daughter that she had murdered several years back. Ash had said that she had slit the girl's throat with a kitchen knife, undoubtedly the one she was clutching to her greying chest even now, because she had refused to eat her dinner. The woman had gone insane with the realisation of what she had done, and then offed herself, before returning from the beyond with a burning desire to kill anyone else who got in her way.

"No thanks," Sam told her calmly, trying to take a few subtle steps away, towards where he hoped Dean would be, but a pale hand grabbed for his arm and he felt her grip him hard. Ghosts weren't supposed to be able to touch him. He froze in shock, and realised a beat too late that she wasn't going to allow him the time to recover from the revelation that she was somehow corporeal.

"You will eat your food," she screamed and pulled him towards her, thrusting her other arm forward as he fell into her. He felt the breath leave his body as something scratched his skin, and then he was on the floor as she passed through him like she was a normal ghost. She was controlling her form, he realised, which made her the strongest ghost they had ever encountered.

"Hey," Dean roared, charging into the room and shooting the woman square in the face with a salt round. "Got you, bitch. Not so tough now."

"Dean, she can touch you," Sam gasped, his breath coming slow. An uncomfortable sluggishness was settling over him, and he didn't like it. "We need to burn the house. She's too strong and there's no time."

"Let's go then, Sam. Get up," Dean told him, and Sam nodded. He was glad that Dean wasn't trying to help him up, especially not today, but he still struggled to get to his feet as Dean ran out to the car to get lighter fluid. Burning the whole house was going to take more than they had between them.

"Ouch," Sam winced, supporting his weight on a table as he pulled himself up to stand straight. He lifted a shaky hand to wipe his face and was stunned to see it covered in blood. He hadn't hit anything as he fell, or nothing he could remember. He didn't know why he would be bleeding.

A cursory glance down answered his question, and he cursed his luck. The handle of a knife, the kitchen knife the ghost had been holding if he wasn't mistaken, was embedded in his side. That was going to be painful, he could tell. The blade hadn't looked that long from what he had seen during their brief encounter, and it had missed all major organs or arteries, but it would still have to be removed and that would hurt.

He gingerly took hold of the plastic and eased it out gently, gasping as the pain washed over him. He felt distinctly nauseous as he saw the length that extracted itself from his abdomen, but he knew that it could be worse. It would certainly not be the worst cut he'd had or the deepest, but it hurt like hell and back.

"Come on, Sam," he heard Dean scream at him from outside, and his head snapped up to look in the direction of the front door. The crimson stained knife in his hand clattered to the ground, bounced once, and then was still. Sam took a deep breath, pressed a hand against his injury, and hurried outside to join his impatient brother.

"Sorry, man," he mumbled, as Dean finished dousing the house with fuel and tossed a can of it in past Sam as he exited. He watched as Dean tossed a lighter on it, and the fuel caught. Then they were back in the car, speeding away before the whole thing ignited.

"I'm sorry I left you, Sam," Dean said quickly, clearly not keen to apologise but acknowledging that he was at fault. "You okay?" There it was. Try as he may, Dean couldn't quite conceal the concern from Sam, but it was a little bit late now that they were in the car. Sam felt his wound throb and the blood seep into his shirt, and pulled his jacket over it to hide it from Dean's prying eyes. He could have used that concern inside the house, when he was getting the knife out, but Dean hadn't been interested then. Now he was fine; had handled it and he could deal with a little bit of blood by himself. He didn't need any help from his brother. Not today.

"Nothing I can't handle," he told Dean firmly, and Dean nodded before turning his attention back to the road ahead. Not today.

AN: I'm going to be writing a lot over Christmas as I'm home from university. Any requests are considered and most welcome. Favourite, review, and follow if you enjoyed. Thanks.