They were supposed to be getting back to normal. Sam wasn’t sure it was really possible, but he could see Dean’s point. You can’t live on high alert every minute of every day, or you simply burn yourself down to the wick. So here they were, in another run down motel, two weeks after the gates of hell had opened in Wyoming, following the trail of increased signs of demonic activity.

At least Sam was following the trail, searching for unusual local storm activity, unexplained disappearances, large scale cattle deaths, tapping away on his laptop. Dean had gone out to get them lunch. Sam glanced now at the motel door, heaving out a worried sigh. He could hardly bear to look at Dean these days – but not looking at him was worse. Sam was acutely aware of the clock running down on Dean’s deal, and any distraction to finding an escape clause for it chafed him unbearably. He found himself watching Dean all the time, soaking up the sound of his voice, memorizing every mannerism, cataloguing every feature, storing it all up against the day when he might only have the memories. Sam knew it was defeatist - and also sappy, because Dean told him it was - but he couldn’t seem to control it. So, getting back to normal? No. Not exactly.

But Dean was determined to have normal, and when he strolled in five minutes later, loaded up with a newspaper, coffees and a brown paper bag, Sam could see nothing on his face except his usual smirk.

"Hey there princess. I bought a healthy salad for you and pastries for me. Have you found anything yet?"

"A lot of conflicting stories as usual" Sam replied, snagging one of the pastries from the bag.

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed in mock indignation. "Lucky I’m the sharing, caring type" he muttered, setting his coffee on the bedside table and sniffing appreciatively at a pastry for himself. "Let’s see what the local newshounds have to say, ’ Dean murmured, settling himself on the bed, and spreading out the papers.

Sam had just turned back to the laptop, munching on his pastry, when his cell phone started clamouring for attention.

Checking the caller ID he smiled and answered.

"Hey Bobby…"

"Sam where’s Dean? Is he there with you?" Bobby demanded urgently.

Sam straightened in his chair and glanced across at Dean, disturbed by the edge in Bobby’s voice.

"Yeah Bobby, he’s right here. What’s up?"

"Sam, have you boys been out yet? You can’t let Dean see a newspaper. Any newspaper. Or the TV. I mean it Sam ….get him here to me right now. Sam? SAM?"

Sam looked across at Dean and was alarmed to see his brother rising slowly off the bed, looking down at an article spread open on the covers. Dean’s head was down and he was holding himself stiffly, and Sam was shocked to see the colour leaching from his face. Sam’s eyes were drawn to what Dean was looking at, but he only had time to make out the photograph of a woman as Dean started to shake. Sam took a step towards his brother, phone still clutched in his hand, when without warning Dean straightened convulsively and gasped, lifting his hand to his mouth. A trickle of blood oozed out beneath his fingers, and as Sam lunged forward to reach him, dropping his phone on the bed as he did so, Dean stiffened again and fell back against the wall. Sam grabbed him as he slid down to the floor, trying to support him as his head snapped back forcefully against the panelling.

What the hell is this? Sam thought in a panic. It looked like a seizure, or some weird haemorrhagic disease.

"Dean what is it? What’s wrong?" Sam pleaded.

Dean’s eyes were half-shut, and his head was lolling. Sam slipped one hand behind his brother’s head trying to prevent it from slamming up against the wall again, and used his other hand to try and pull Dean’s hand away from his face.

But as he pulled Dean’s fingers away from his mouth Sam felt a chill chase down his spine. Dean’s lip was split, his mouth bleeding from the cut. It looked like someone had hit him. And as Sam watched, horrified, a spasm of pain crossed Dean’s face, and his head jerked back again, one eye swelling shut and a vivid slash of red growing across his eyebrow and cheek.

Sam whirled around to the empty room, desperately seeking the threat. His heart was hammering so painfully in his chest he could barely breathe. He couldn’t see anything, hear anything. Was Dean being attacked by invisible killers? Daevas maybe? A daeva couldn’t reach through Sam to Dean, he was sure. Sam threw himself in front of his brother, his back to Dean and his arms spread protectively in front of him, but Dean cried out again and when Sam spun around Dean was clutching at his chest and moaning. Sam lifted his t-shirt and stared unbelieving at a wicked welt that ran across Dean’s ribs, scarlet and purple and swelling in front of his eyes.

A terrifying thought gripped Sam and turned his insides to water. What if the debt on Dean’s deal was being collected early? He hadn’t heard hellhounds, hadn’t seen claw marks on the floor. Sam lurched to his feet and yanked their rifle and the salt canister out of the duffle, ramming rock salt pellets home and kneeling down beside Dean. He poured the salt out so fast it sprinkled on Dean’s shoes and then sat adjacent to him, aiming the rifle across the space directly in front of his brother. He didn’t have to wait long. Dean groaned again, huddling in on himself, one arm curled protectively across his stomach, and Sam fired.

"’Stop it! Sam yelled, as the sound of the gunfire died away. "Leave him alone!"

In the sudden silence, Sam became aware of two things: that Dean’s breathing was harsh and ragged, and that Bobby’s tinny voice could just be heard, slightly muffled by the bed covers where Sam's phone had landed when he'd dropped it.

Sam reached for the phone and slumped back next to Dean, resting one hand on his brother’s leg to keep contact between them, and not taking his eyes from Dean’s bruised face.

"Bobby…"

"Dammit Sam, it’s started hasn’t it?" Bobby’s voice blasted through the phone, harsh with fear. "You get him in the car and you get him to my place, as fast as you can Sam. I’ll be ready when you get here."

Sam’s heart constricted in his chest and his voice was shaky.

"Bobby what is it? Something’s attacking him…."

"Sam LISTEN, there’s a time limit on this thing, and I can’t explain it to you now. He’s going to get worse Sam, but you don’t stop, do you hear me Sam, you DON’T stop to take him to a doctor or a hospital. You just get him here. Now Sam!" And to forestall any further arguing, Bobby hung up.

The click was like a starter’s pistol. Sam was spurred into action, flying around the room on slightly wobbly legs, ramming their belongings into the duffels and sprinting out to the car to hurl them into the backseat, wrenching the passenger door open as well. By the time he returned to the room Dean’s nose was bleeding too, and he had a new welt across his jaw. He was completely unconscious now, not making any sound at all, and Sam felt hot tears of helplessness stinging behind his eyes.

"Come on, Dean," he murmured, heaving Dean’s limp form up into his arms with strength he would never have guessed he had. "We’re going……just hang on…."

Dean was frighteningly still and pale as Sam settled him in the front seat as quickly as he could while still being gentle. As he gunned the engine he sent a silent prayer heavenwards for roads clear of traffic and highway patrol officers, and pointed the nose of the big car towards Bobby’s place, about three hours away.

His mind was in turmoil, a confusing mixture of fury and fear, questions chasing themselves through his overwrought mind. How could Bobby have known something was going to happen before it did? And did that mean that Dean knew something too? Dammit, Sam thought savagely. They were supposed to be getting back to normal.

"This is not NORMAL!" Sam yelled at the universe, pounding the steering wheel in frustration and doing his level best to ram the accelerator pedal through the floor of the car.