Hello. First of all, thanks for the interest and kind words regarding this story. Second, there are spoilers both in the A/N and the story up through 5x05.

Okay, I don’t think I’ve been “kripke’d” too badly yet by what’s gone on so far in S5, but time is running out and here’s what I came up with. Might be considered AU? Don’t really know what AU is, as far as how far a story has to step out of canon to make it AU?

*Takes a deep breath* How I like to see Dean and Sam. Not saying this would ever actually happen. But it should. Their brotherly love, their bond, their entire dysfunctional yet enduring relationship demands that I celebrate it -- because on some level those of us who love them can relate to what they’re about.

(Oh, yeah, plus a sick Dean is a HOT, ravishing, awesome Dean).

Of course, I don’t own them, or the show or anything involving them and the show, I only own the words on this page, which may or may not be a good thing.

Remember my mantra: I make shit up. So if the Bible stuff sounds weird and goofy, repeat to yourself: she makes shit up. Based on, you know, stuff I read. And think about.

/

Sam is driving himself crazy, checking his damn phone every few minutes.

He’s driving Bobby crazy as well, though Bobby doesn’t say anything forthright, just frowns and looks like he wants to say something.

Which means, at some point he’s going to, won’t be able to stop himself.

The rain has been steady all day, the skies pregnant with it. Everything is damp to the touch, especially the books Sam has been reading, the ones whose titles he sent to Dean the other day. The pages are tacky under his fingers, but he reads anyway, can’t put the books down once he gets started.

Read for awhile.

Check the phone. See if Dean’s left a message.

Listen to Bobby grunt, snort, make some sort of noise after he catches Sam doing this. Or, if Sam’s really lucky, get some sort of Bobby eye roll to accompany the sounds.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

“How’s them books?” Bobby asks at one point. “You learning anything?”

“Always,” Sam says. He pulls his phone closer, squints at it. Nothing. “I’m always learning something.”

“Apparently not how to use one of them high-tech phones,” Bobby says. “Because then you’d know, if you want to talk to someone, you might have to be the one to dial the number instead of waiting for the person to magically call you first.”

Talk to “someone.” As if the “someone” could be anyone other than Dean.

Sam sighs. “Bobby. It’s not as easy as that. Plus, I sent him a text last night and I haven’t heard back from him so it’s pretty obvious he’s got nothing to say to me.”

They're the first words they've spoken about Dean and they sting more said out loud than they do when they’re just in his head, surprising Sam a little.

“Goddamn texting,” Bobby mutters. “That texting shit is no good. It’s got no meaning. You want to call someone you need to take the damn phone and talk to someone so you can hear his voice.”

They still haven’t mentioned Dean by name, but that’s who they’re talking about.

And Bobby’s pretty much telling him to quit fucking around and give Dean a call, not just because he’s driving him crazy, but because he knows Sam wants to do it.

Sam pulls the phone open and presses Dean’s number. It goes right to voicemail, and Sam thinks about hanging up without leaving any sort of message but the look on Bobby’s face changes his mind. “Uh, hey, it’s me again,” Sam says, after the tone. He can’t believe how awkward he sounds, like leaving Dean a message is suddenly so difficult. “I -- uh -- have some more info you might want regarding those books you asked for. So, yeah -- call me when you get the chance.” He glances over at Bobby, who looks almost puzzled at how Sam is stammering over the conversation. “Oh, and Bobby’s here -- he says “hi.”

“What was that?” Bobby says, when Sam shuts the phone. “I’ve had less painful conversations with my proctologist. And you weren’t even talking to anyone, just a damn machine.” He shakes his head at their state of affairs, and Sam can tell it’s a sadness more than anything, that everything has gotten this far between him and Dean, even though Bobby doesn’t know what’s happened, not exactly.

It’s true -- Sam had feels leaving such a stilted message, but maybe Bobby’s right, maybe talking to Dean in person will be easier.

“Might be too much TMI about your proctologist, Bobby,” Sam says. “And since when would you need to see -- one of those guys, anyway?”

Bobby makes a sweeping gesture over his motionless legs. “Yeah, well, not much of a choice when you’ve got this going on.”

And Sam, shamefully, has no answer for that, even though he knows Bobby isn’t expecting one.

/

It’s only by some miracle that Dean hears his phone. He’s been in and out the past few hours -- more out than in -- and everything has merged into one: the time of day, where he is, what’s happening with him. Just when he starts to have a thought about that, what might be wrong with him, he falls asleep. His fever is soaring and he can’t stay awake more than a few minutes at a time, even though when he does fall unconscious it’s fractured and restless and fraught with shivering and pain.

Dean pulls the phone toward him, sees the missed call from Sam. Painfully presses the code to get the voicemail, not able to really believe how doing just this simple act is wearing him out so that all he wants to do is drop the phone, roll over and go back to sleep.

The only thing he wants to do more is hear Sam’s voice.

“Uh, hey, it’s me again. I -- uh -- have some more info you might want regarding those books you asked for. So, yeah -- call me when you get the chance. Oh, and Bobby’s here -- he says “hi.”

It‘s beginning to get hard for Dean to breathe.

He thinks briefly to when he had the pneumonia -- and his thought has to be brief because he’s not able to think for very long about anything before going out again -- and the weird breathing he’s having now is a little like that, but not really. That had been like a bad cold gone awry, his lungs filled with fluid, making it hard to take any kind of breath without coughing; this current situation is like there’s something jammed way in the back of his throat, something painful and thick and burning, making it hard to swallow and making it hard to breathe without feeling like he’s choking.

Alastair.

Every minute, every hour, every day, every year there -- things jammed inside him, down his throat, up his nose, things that burned and delivered the worst pain imaginable and smothered him so that breathing was impossible.

It’s nearly impossible, but Dean forces himself to get away from all that, that line of thought. Instead, he tries to think about other illnesses he’s had, things that might be similar to what this is. He thinks about strep again, even though he’s pretty sure he’s never had it before. Sam’s the one who had sore throats when they were growing up.

Sam again.

Sam -- on the voicemail.

Something about wanting to talk to him about -- something. Information. Maybe information on what’s wrong with him? Dean tries to think and can’t, can’t remember if he called Sam or told him somehow and asked him if he knew what might be wrong with him. Dean doesn’t think so, but he’s beginning to have a hard time keeping separate what he’s been thinking and what he’s been dreaming and what he’s actually gone ahead and done.

Fucking fever.

He plays the message again, gasping for breath from the exertion of everything by the time he’s done. Well, fuck maybe he should call Sam back, see what he has to say. It couldn’t really hurt to talk to him, get the info or whatever he has.

He’ll know something’s wrong. He always does.

Not always.

Don’t go there. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’re thousands of miles apart, in literally every way. Who the fuck cares if he knows you’re sick? It isn’t like there’s anything he can do about it.

Yeah, Dean thinks, and it feels like all his thoughts are dripping out slow as fucking molasses -- sludging through him even as his heart races threadily in his chest. I should call and see how Bobby’s doing, at least.

“Dean!” Dean never even hears Sam’s phone ring before he answers -- Jesus, it’s like Sam’s holding his phone in his hand just waiting for Dean to call or something.

“ t’s me,” Dean agrees. He’s kind of in shock that Sam is on the other end, and he tries to wake himself up a little. “What’s up?”

He sounds like shit, no matter how much he’s trying to sound alert and with it. Sam gets on that right away, no preliminaries, no pretense that this is a conversation about anything except what’s wrong with Dean. “What’s happened? Where are you?”

“Not sure,” Dean says. He closes his eyes, aware of how hot and sticky the pillow is beneath his head. “Ohio, I think.” Five words and his throat is burning, whatever’s in there threatening to gag him. Damn, he should’ve gotten some water before trying to call Sam, but that would’ve meant standing and walking and he’s really not all that steady on his feet right now.

“But what’s wrong? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“Tired,” Dean answers. He doesn’t want this be their first conversation they’ve had in weeks, the two of them wrestling over how sick he is, not when there’s a dozen other things to talk about. “Maybe the flu or something.”

But he can let him in on it a little.

There’s no reason not to.

“Where are you?”

“Don’t know, exactly. Enid -- maybe -- something like that.”

“I think Enid’s in Oklahoma.”

“What -- there can’t --can’t be an Enid in Ohio, too?”

“What motel?”

“I don’t know -- Sleepy-Something or other.” In some ways, this conversation is a relief to Dean, one they’ve had hundreds of times before, the comfortable yet edgy back-and-forth they engage in when they’re stressed and need to know where the other one is at.

On the other hand, the fucking room is spinning and Dean thinks he might have to puke within the next couple of minutes, and in order to do that he’ll have to crawl into the bathroom so he’s going to have to hurry Sam along here, as glad as he is to hear his voice.

“What’s the info -- info -- you’ve got for me?”

He hears Sam hesitate for an instant, then rush on. “It’s complicated,” he says. “It’s got to do with what’s coming next. For you, I mean. I think. But I’d be interested in hearing what you have to say first, what you think.”

“Sam, I really don’t have the time to compare notes on this right now,” Dean answers. He gets that he’s sounding like his usual asshole self, and while he doesn’t want that for a long distance conversation with his brother -- who’s made the effort to call him, for whatever reasons -- he can’t help himself, he knows he’s going to puke, it’s just a matter of where and when. “So, if what you need to tell me is going to take awhile, I’ll have to call you back.”

He doesn’t give Sam a chance to answer, to even say goodbye before he hangs up because he can’t, he needs to pull himself out of the bed, get into the bathroom and stick his head over the toilet just as he pukes, thick yellow fluid that absolutely kills his throat coming up.

He’s too exhausted when he’s done to flush the toilet much less haul himself to his feet and go back into the other room. He curls up on the floor, panting, aware that this isn’t really a great plan, to lie here on the bathroom floor, especially when he basically just hung up on Sam without warning and, knowing how Sam is, most likely worried him sick.

Maybe not. Things are different now.

I’ll call him back in a minute, Dean thinks, just as he remembers he left the phone in the other room, and he falls unconscious at the same moment.

/

The rain has let up and Sam is outside, trying to get some fresh air. He’s been stuck in the house nearly three days now, and while that’s normally not a problem for him, it is now, now that Dean just basically hung up on him without telling Sam anything, like where he is or what’s going on or how he’s doing.

And it’s really become a problem now that Dean won’t answer his phone or even text Sam back, just to let him know he’s okay.

It’s a huge fucking problem.

“Hello, Sam.”

Jesus. Sam very nearly jumps out of his skin at the voice, whirls around, his heart threading in his chest.

Cas.

“There’s no fucking reason for you to have to sneak up on me like that,” Sam states, trying to slow his breathing a little. “At least none that I can think of.”

“I’ll work on that,” Castiel says, in the same bored voice he always seems to have. “Your brother has made the same observation.”

Instantly, the reference to Dean brings Sam back to the mission at hand. “How is he? Dean? You’ve seen him?”

“I -- have seen him,” Castiel says. “Though not as recently as you might be hoping. Dean is -- busy. Very busy.”

“With -- the Apocalypse?”

“Yes. You could say that.”

“Is he -- all right?”

Castiel’s eyes boring into his in that way that has always made Sam slightly uncomfortable. “What are your thoughts?”

What the hell is that supposed to mean? “My thoughts?” Sam stammers. “About what? The apocalypse? Dean?”

“Both.”

“I think Dean is -- maybe -- needing help.” It’s the best way Sam can describe it, based on his dream and the short, uninformative texts he’s received. He deliberately keeps the apocalypse thoughts to himself.

Castiel nods, regards Sam with something like approval. “And you’re giving him that help?”

“As much as he’ll let me.”

“And how are you measuring that? About how much help you think he needs?”

Really, how is Sam gauging that? What Dean needs right now? “I -- I’m going by what he’s asking for, what he’s telling me,” Sam answers, the doubt creeping into his voice once more. Because truthfully, he doesn’t really know where Dean’s at or what Dean needs at this point.

Not true, Sam. You know fucking good and well what Dean needs, how he’s feeling. It makes no damn difference what he told you, what he wants you to believe, what he thinks is best. He raised you, cared for you, loved you like no one else ever has. He still does.

You know what he’s telling you, what he’s asking you for.

“And what’s he telling you?”

Fucking Cas. He’s not doing anything, not even really saying all that much but his few carefully chosen words delivered in that flat Cas tone unnerves Sam. “He’s telling me -- nothing,” Sam finally says.

“Don’t you think it’s been the other way around?”

“Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam snarls. But it’s all a front -- Cas’ words are clear as crystal to him.

“It means,” Castiel says, apparently happy to state the obvious. “Aren’t you the one who’s told Dean -- as you put it -- nothing?”

“I’ve told Dean everything. At least everything since -- since the last seal was broken.”

Cas smirks -- or maybe that’s what passes for a smile from him, Sam can’t be sure. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Now Sam is starting to get pissed -- not because Castiel is saying or doing anything Sam doesn‘t already know, but because the more time that passes and he doesn’t hear from Dean, the more tense he’s becoming.

Especially given the dream from last night that he can’t shake.

Dean in distress somehow, somewhere.

Dean needing him for something.

“Look, I’m not really up to your cryptic banter at the moment,” Sam says. “Maybe you should be having this conversation with Dean.”

“Like I said, Sam, Dean is busy right now.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam says. “I wouldn’t know what he’s doing, exactly.”

“He’s busy fulfilling the prophecies you’ve been studying.”

“How do you know what I’ve been studying? And I haven’t been studying anything. And what “prophecies” are you talking about?”

The Castiel smirk again. “There are things happening that Dean is experiencing. Things in Revelation. Things elsewhere. The same applies to you as well, Sam.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope. I’m not experiencing anything. I’m not fulfilling any prophecy.”

“It’s time to start being honest with yourself, Sam. Honest with Dean. For his sake.”

Sam sighs. As if he wants this, being apart from Dean. “This is as honest as it gets, Cas. I decided it was best for us to be separate. Dean agreed. It doesn’t get much more honest than that.”

“And now it’s time for you to get back together.”

This time, Sam’s sigh is loud and irritated. “Cas. . .”

“It’s all right, Sam. Your instincts are correct. He misses you. He needs you. Just don’t forget to put what you’ve been reading into practice. Use what you’ve learned.”

And then Cas is gone, vanished as quickly as he’d appeared.

/

It’s been awhile since Sam has driven anywhere other than on errands for Bobby, and he finds himself somewhat unprepared for the twenty-one hour drive between Bobby’s and where Dean is in Ohio -- a place where Sam is unsure of how to get to, exactly, especially since Dean himself had seemed so unsure about where it -- he -- is.

He’s been trying to call Dean again since Cas delivered his usual cryptic take on things and disappeared back into thin air; he’s had no luck and it’s pure worry that Sam’s running on now -- despite how off and short Dean had sounded when he’d called, Sam knows it wasn’t because Dean was pissed or didn’t want to talk to him.

Something’s going on with him, Sam's pretty sure he’s sick again, for the third fucking time since he’s gotten out of hell, and while Sam has a damned good idea what the sickness is about this time, he isn’t completely clued in, can’t be clued in unless he’s actually with Dean himself and not trying to figure out what’s going on with him over the phone.

And, regardless of why this is happening, it’s the what that needs to be taken care of. Dean is clearly in trouble. He needs some kind of help, even if he won’t say it.

He needs Sam.

“This is just temporary,” Sam had said to Bobby, as he’d tied the tarp down to the back of Bobby’s truck and gone back inside to say goodbye. “I’m just going to make sure he’s okay. We’re not hunting together. I’m not hunting at all.”

He and Bobby have gone over this, more than once.

The Sam-not-hunting thing.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re not hunting,” Bobby had said dismissively. “But you’re not going to be coming back here. At least not for awhile. And not without Dean.”

Sam thought to protest this, then thought better of it.

After all, Bobby could just be right about some things.

Yeah, Sam had time to think, as he drove out of Bobby’s. Him and fucking Cas.

/

Dean wakes up on the bathroom floor, no real recollection as to why he’s there.

He’s never felt this sick before in his life.

He’d felt like complete and utter crap when he had the pneumonia, there’s no denying that, but somehow, that had been tolerable.

Sam had made it tolerable. Making sure he was warm, comfortable, dosed up on the drugs he was supposed to be taking. Doing what it took to figure out what the hell had been wrong with him.

That had been the old Sam.

It’s still the same Sam.

No, it’s not. That Sam is gone. The Sam that cared about what happened to you -- he’s gone.

It’s okay, though. Even if he isn’t the Sam from before, I’m not the same either.

Dean manages to crawl from the bathroom back to the bed. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sleeping in the fucking bathroom but when he pulls himself up onto the rumpled bed and checks his phone, but there’s a ton of messages from Sam and his already skittering heart lurches in his chest even more.

He can’t talk to Sam right now, he’s going to barely be able to stay awake long enough to send him a text.

***Sleepy Hollow.

Plague.***

It’s definitely vague, but Dean can’t do anymore, is beginning to slide back into that undertow of darkness, at least for a little bit.

Besides, Dean has time to think just as he slips under. Sam is too smart not to get it.

/

He’s just entered Michigan when Sam gets Dean’s text.

***New Message***

Sleepy Hollow

Plague

It takes Sam all of thirty seconds to get it.

Dean’s in a motel called Sleepy Hollow.

The part about the plague is a little more ambiguous -- and will be until Sam actually meets up with Dean and can see and hear for himself what’s going on -- though clear enough for Sam to understand that he and Dean are on the same path.

Like before.

Like they should be.

/

“I'm pretty sure this is the motel my brother said he's staying at,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice even, not sound like he’s some crazy person. As soon as he could, he'd pulled over to look up where the Sleepy Hollow motel was in Ohio; it'd taken all of one minute to find out it was in a city called Euclid, not Enid. After that, Sam had driven without a stop, had made it to Euclid and the seedy dump with the deceptively clever name. But Sam didn't know which room Dean was in; he'd tried calling Dean from the parking lot but gotten no response, hadn't really expected one, and had been forced to sort of explain the situation to the desk clerk on duty. The guy had agreed to show him the room Dean might be in once Sam explained the situation as best he can, but Sam can tell he's leery.

The last thing they need right now is for some jittery motel owner to call the cops. “I know he called it the Sleepy Hollow and I think he’s been sick.” The man looks at him, still wary, and Sam tries again. “Look, I swear I’m not trying to pull anything. If you could just open the door -- I’ll even wait here until you make sure it’s him, but I really have to insist you check or I’ll have to bring the police in on this.”

Shit, he hopes this guy doesn’t call his bluff, get the cops here -- then they’re going to be in real trouble, having to lie about -- well, pretty much everything.

Although at this point, Sam knows he’s ready to do anything to get that door open and see how Dean is, do whatever it takes to find out if he’s all right.

“His name’s Dean --” and Sam barely remembers to cut himself short at giving a last name, not sure what name Dean himself was using when he checked in, hadn’t thought to even ask him.

How different now, how far away we’ve fallen from each other --

The desk clerk looks at him, sighs and knocks one last time before inserting the key in the door and then pushing it open.

Sam forces himself to wait, his legs aching to push past the guy and into the room, which is dark and warm, even from Sam’s stance in the doorway.

“Hey,” he hears the guy say. “Are you Dean --?” He peers over at Sam in the doorway. “What’d you say your name was?”

But Sam can see it’s Dean, had never had a doubt that it’s him, and pushes his way into the darkened room. “That’s him,” he says. “That’s my brother.”

After that, he barely takes notice of anyone or anything else in the room. “Dean,” he says, once he gets to the bundled up figure on the bed. No movement, no sound except for Dean’s ragged breathing. “Dean!” Sam tries a little louder.

He still doesn’t budge, and Sam puts his hand on his shoulder, pulls the blankets off him and shakes him all in one motion. “Dean, I need you to wake up.” Dean finally stirs, though barely. He says something, though Sam can’t tell what it is, if it’s even an actual word or just a moan. He pushes his hand up against the side of Dean’s forehead, slides it down Dean’s face and rests it there. “Jesus. Dean, can you hear me? It’s Sam.”

Sam senses, rather than sees, Dean struggling to get his eyes open at the sound of his voice. The heat is pouring off him, and Sam can see that it takes everything Dean has just to open his eyes open and focus on him.

Again, Dean groans.

“He okay?” the desk clerk interrupts.

“Um, yeah, sure he’ll be fine.” Sam’s mind is racing; he has no idea if Dean will be fine or not but he needs to clear this guy out of here. “I think it’s just the flu, he’s been sick for a couple of days. “I appreciate you letting me in -- but we’ll be fine. Thanks again.”

Of course, he and Dean look the furthest thing from fine -- Dean particularly -- and the guy looks suspicious.

But, thank God, gives the benefit of the doubt. “Yeah, all right,” he says, inching his way out the door. “You gonna need the room another night?”

“At least,” Sam answers grimly, and the guy gives a nod and is gone, and Sam is free to finally give his full attention to Dean.

And he doesn’t know where to begin, not really. He doesn’t know what he expected to see when he got here, but Dean lying pretty much unresponsive in a darkened room isn’t it.

He shakes Dean’s shoulder. Hard. “Dean, come on. I need you to talk to me. Tell me what’s been going on.”

Dean stirs, brings his hand up to his eyes in an effort to wake himself. “Been sick,” he says. “Did you get my message?”

“But what do you think you have? What’s been happening?”

“Fever,” Dean whispers. “Hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything hurts.”

The words explode at him, or maybe it’s the way Dean delivers them, and while Sam knows he means physically -- that he is referring to the physical pain from whatever the hell this sickness is -- the words resonate through Sam like the crack of a gunshot.

Everything hurts.

Dean’s been telling him that for months now. Sam knows it, has always known it.

And been unable to face it.

Isn’t really sure he can face it now.

You have to face it. He deserves that much from you, you acknowledging his pain instead of wallowing in yours all the time.

Sam swallows hard, tries to get back to Dean’s present needs -- what might be wrong with him. “What specifically?” he asks gently. He can do that much for him right now, even if Dean doesn’t want it -- be gentle with him. “Your head? Your throat?”

“Everything.”

Back to that. But Sam can tell Dean’s talking about the sickness now, nothing else and he tries something else. “Is it like when you had the pneumonia?” he asks.

“No.” Dean begins to sag against him. “Not that.”

“Did you get hurt hunting?”

“No.”

His voice is barely a whisper; he’s beginning to go out, and the heat radiating off him is palpable. Sam gently eases him off and lays him on the bed. The fever, Sam is thinking. Whatever is going on, I’ve got to get the fever down.

The shifting around rouses Dean and he blindly gropes for Sam. “Sammy --”

“It’s okay,” Sam promises. “I’m not leaving, just going in the bathroom for a second. Lie still, I’ll be back.”

He isn’t really sure what he’s going to do, or if what he’s dealing with is something normal or not.

Everything hurts.

He runs a couple of the towels under the cold water, fills a couple of the glasses, grabs the Tylenol on the counter. It’s not much, it’s obvious Dean has already tried this but it’s all they’ve got for right now.

Dean’s right where Sam left him, curled up on his side, arms locked around himself in an attempt to get control of his shivering. It’s not as if Sam has never seen him this way before -- the pneumonia bout was a lot like this, especially when the fever was so high.

It’s the idea of Dean being like this for days -- alone -- that is making Sam clench inside, the thought that he almost -- almost -- didn’t come here, almost left Dean here by himself when --

Everything hurts.

Sam sets everything down, begins to pull Dean’s jacket off. “No, Sam. It’s too -- cold.”

His voice is still a whisper.

“I know,” Sam says, and he continues carefully pulling the jacket off. "I know you’re cold but I have to.”

And then, amazingly, Dean allows it, lets Sam take off his jacket, doesn’t resist a thing, doesn’t even seem aware that Sam is still there.

Maybe he’s given up.

Dean doesn’t give up. He doesn’t know how.

Everything hurts.

He gets Dean’s jacket and shirt off lays him on his back. Dean is shaking and moaning, and Sam guesses his temperature is well past one hundred and four. This is bad, at least as bad as when Dean was fighting the pneumonia, but this is also something different, and Sam thinks he knows what it’s all about, at least part of it.

He puts one of the cold, wet towels across Dean’s chest, the other against his forehead. Dean mumbles and feebly protests, tries to push both the towels and Sam’s hands away, but he’s too weak and out of it to keep it up and his hands fall to his sides. “Sam,” he whispers. “I feel -- like hell.”

Sam won’t -- will not -- turn away from it this time. It’s the key to so many things, just letting Dean know he’s hearing him. “I know,” he says. “There’s a reason for that -- it has to do with the research I’ve done -- some of the things you’ve read. But we’ll talk about it when you’re better. Right now, you just need to go to sleep.”

“I -- don’t know if I can.”

“Just try.”

And Dean does fall asleep, but it’s a terrible kind of sleep, one where he shivers and moans and tosses back and forth, not really fully aware enough to talk but never completely going out either.

All Sam can do is keep rewetting the towels as soon as they become warm. At some point, Dean quiets down, becomes more settled and despite his intentions, the long drive and his own weariness steal over him and Sam dozes off in the bedside chair he’s set up camp in, Dean’s ragged breathing lulling him in some kind of inexplicable way.

Because he’ll take the sound of Dean’s fevered breathing any day over not hearing it at all.

He doesn’t know how long they’re like that, but the next thing Sam is aware of is Dean groping his way across the bed, like he’s looking for something, and Sam jumps to his feet, not completely with it himself at the moment, and just as Dean’s hand clutches the edge of the bed, he calls Sam’s name and just by how Dean looks and how he says it, Sam knows what’s up and by some miracle the trash can is within reach and Sam grabs it and gets it over to Dean just as Dean pukes his guts out, a stream of thick fluid that seems to go on endlessly, and as Sam holds the trashcan with one hand and braces Dean’s back with the other, he notices the yellowish liquid is ribboned with blood.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is shot to shit, a wretched, gravelling mess. He heaves again, but seems determined to talk this time when he has a break. “Sam -- bleeding.”

“It’s okay,” Sam promises. “It’s -- supposed to happen.” At least he thinks it is, according to his reading and his research and what seems like what might happen next.

Use what you’ve learned.

Dean leans forward, retches one last time, coughs and gags up the final remnants of whatever it is he’s puking up. Sam keeps his hand against his back, waits to make sure he’s done before easing his hold on him. “You feel any better?”

Dean puts his head down, shakes a “no.” He’s grabbing at the air with one hand, something he’s always done when he has a high fever, like he’s trying to reach some sort of lifeline. His fingers brush Sam’s sweatshirt and Sam takes Dean’s hand, stops it in mid-flight and squeezes. “You should try and sleep again,” he says. “You might be able to now that you’ve puked.”

Dean is so out of it he doesn’t even know Sam’s holding his hand, is too busy swaying back and forth. “Too hot,” he whispers, which would almost be comical considering how hard he’s shaking from the chills, but there’s no time for irony or anything else right now.

“Here.” Sam sits down next to Dean, boosts himself against the headboard, takes one of the pillows, lays it across his lap, carefully pulls Dean up so he’s sprawled across the pillow, readjusts the wet towels and pulls the sheet up all in one motion.

Dean is still restless, can't seem to get comfortable. At one point he opens his eyes in terror and calls Sam's name, struggles to sit up. "Dean, relax," Sam says, and gently pushes him back against the pillow. "I'm right here, I'm fine."

"Sam?"

"Right here."

After that, Dean settles some, his lips forming words that Sam strains to hear, words that seem to be soothing to Dean somehow.

Eventually, Dean falls asleep.

And Sam does as well, but not before taking advantage of the situation, the fact that Dean is out, so out in fact that Sam knows that he could do anything right now and Dean would never know it, never remember it even if he did know it.

He places his hand on Dean’s forehead, holds it there and keeps it there well after he’s gauged Dean’s temperature -- which is still way too warm, even with all the wet towels.

Use what you’ve learned.

Eventually, his hand begins to comb through Dean’s tangled, wet hair. If Dean was awake right now, Sam has not doubt he’d never stand for this, Sam this physically close to him, would be trying to beat the crap out of him for touching him like this.

Right now, Sam doesn’t care.

Put into practice what you’ve been reading.

Sam closes his eyes wearily, continues gently pushing Dean's hair off his forehead, begins to let himself put into practice what he's learned.

/

Dean awakens in one big rush, the sight of the room, the feel of the pillow beneath his head, even the weakness and aches of his own body slamming into him all at once.

He's lying on the bed, blankets piled on him, and he feels a little warm but it's a huge improvement over before, the bone-crushing chills. He's dead-tired but he knows he's better, can feel it. "Sam?" he calls, the first thought to enter his mind. His voice is raspy but thank God the pain in his throat has lessened, it's not like before when talking -- breathing -- had felt like it was killing him.

Sam. He pokes his head from out of the bathroom. "Hey. How are you?"

"Better." Dean grimaces as he sits up. He does feel better but he's maybe thirty percent at best. "I -- I thought you were here but I wasn't really sure. I mean, if I was imagining it or not."

"Not surprised. Your fever was crazy-high. How's everything else?" Sam swallows before saying anything else. "You were saying that -- everything was hurting."

"Yeah, I -- it felt like my throat was swollen, like there was something burning in there. Kind of like when I --" Here he trails off,

"It's plague, don't you think? The seven vials in Revelation?"

"Yeah, but Sammy, that's not the kind of plague being referred to. Not like you're thinking where people get sick."

"No, I know. The blood, the boils, the scorching heat -- you took all that on, I think as some sort of -- confirmation about something. There's a reason you were hit with all those things right now, something connected to the seals and the seven trumpets."

A confirmation. Just what Dean doesn't want to hear. Not right now, anyway. But Dean manages to smile at him -- a small smile, but a real Dean smile nonetheless. "You've been doing some reading."

Sam smiles back. "So have you."

"Not enough. Haven't been able to do much of anything the past few days."

"You've done plenty," Sam says. "You always done more than your share. I was glad to help. Really."

Dean puts his hand up to his aching forehead, frowns as he feels the warmth that still lingers there. "What all do you still need to tell me about what you found out?" he murmurs. He's still so goddamned tired, tired enough where listening is going to take all his effort.

Sam must be picking up on that, that he's still worn out because he pulls the desk chair up to the bed and sits down. "It'll wait for a bit," he says, quietly. "You should eat something and then sleep for awhile."

"Maybe." Dean closes his eyes, and he hears Sam get up from the chair, like he thinks Dean is going back to sleep, but really, Dean is trying to decide what he wants -- needs -- to say next.

"Why did you come?"

Sam must be shocked at the question because he sounds almost flustered. "Why? Because I could tell you needed me to come. Because -- I just felt like I should."

"Because you needed to give me some kind of important information?"

"No," Sam says. "Because you're my brother. "Because I've come to realize that whatever happens -- with all this apocalypse stuff, Micheal's vessel and Lucifer and -- all of it -- however it plays out -- for both of us -- I want us to be together when it does, for as long as we can be. Because of all the things I've learned in these last few days, the one thing I can't seem to get away from is the idea that 'if two of you shall agree in earth as touching anything that they shall ask --"

The words pierce Dean to the quick, words he'd not been expecting to hear. Not from Sam. "It shall be done for them." The words spill out of his mouth automatically, but he can't believe Sam is sitting here, thinking the exact same thing he's been thinking the past however many days, the one fucking verse of scripture that hasn't left him alone despite how many others he's pored over, trying to figure things out.

Again, Sam smiles. "You were saying that last night -- or this morning, whenever it was -- when your fever was still really high. And I remembered when you had the pneumonia,” Sam goes on. “When you had me driving all over Colorado? Do you remember what you said to me when I asked you where you wanted to go, what you wanted to do?”

Still, Dean doesn’t say anything, but something eases within him and he goes still, knows exactly what Sam is referring to. “You said you wanted it to be “just us.” Dean, I didn’t quite get that at the time -- not completely. Part of that was my fault, and I know I haven’t done right by you in so many ways -- but the one thing I know is, I want it to be “just us” -- just like you said -- when the time comes and everything plays out.”

"Sam. . ." Dean doesn't know what to say. Until this very moment, when the words are actually hanging between them, he hasn't realized how badly he's wanted to hear them, how deep and unyielding his loneliness for Sam has been these past few weeks. Yeah, he's found out he's a lot stronger than he'd thought in many ways, being apart from Sam hasn't been a complete wash, but with this newfound discovery of strength has come the realization that he's still vulnerable in some ways, that they need to be together more than they can afford to be apart, and that being together might be crazy and fucked up and dysfunctional for awhile -- hell, maybe forever -- but it can't be any other way, not for Dean and not even for Sam.

And it's got nothing to do with the apocalypse or the seals or any of that crazy shit and everything to do with the fact that everything will come to some kind of judgment, some kind of ending at some point, good or bad, right or wrong, but they'll be brothers long after all that happens, bound together forever and there's no escaping that.

But Dean can't ask him to stay. And he won't tell him to go. But later, when he wakes briefly from the sleep he's fallen into, he sees the light has shifted in the room, can tell hours have passed, and he feels more like himself than he has in days, and Sam is still there, Sam isn't going anywhere, and while Dean feels better he's still exhausted, can't really stay awake, and as he's drifitng back to sleep, the last image he has is Sam's silhouette sitting by the window, staring down at the pile of books in his lap, the words about the two of them agreeing on earth as touching anything and it shall be done echoing in his head and wending their way into his heart.

Okay, all done now. As always, it didn't turn out like I planned, my stuff rarely does. I hope it's not too -- gooey? Sappy? Fucked up? Then again, this is what came out so it's what I'm going to stand by. I mean, I can't force it into something else, this is what it seems to want to be. Thank you for reading. I -- I may need a SN break right now, I'm going to try and work on my real fic in Nov. -- then again, when Dean and Sam beckon, I have a hard time saying no. . .all right, just going to post this now before I lose my nerve. You guys are the best : )