Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, Kripke and the CW do. I only hope the CW appreciates what they have, and start advertising it as much as they do Smallville. Bg.

Author's Note: I know this is the most annoying author's note, but this is my first attempt to share any fanfic. Critique welcome, but spare the flames please. My fellow geek-friend, the delightful Ms. M beta'd for me, but it is her first time too. I claim responsibility for all errors that may be contained within.

Seventy-five

Dean edged his way around the small confined space. He had awoken only moments before to find himself in a small, dark place. Dean could not see, but he could still hear the incessant rain he and Sam had trudged through for several hours in the damp, misty woods searching for the elusive Wendigo.

"Sam," Dean called into the darkness, "A little help here!" The silence lingered, the pounding rain the only answer to Dean's call.

"Sam!" Dean shouted. "Are you okay?"

Dean realized he was still getting wet, as the cold seeped into his skin causing gooseflesh bumps to appear on his arms. At least, that is what Dean was telling himself. "Sam?" Dean called again, this time it sounded as a prayer.

Dean pushed himself off the rain-slicked ground, and attempted to get his bearings in the pitch blackness. His head pounded, as he felt the blood rushing into his head. Dean felt his head carefully, discovering a large bump near his left temple. "Great," he thought, "Just what I need."

"Sam!" Dean shouted again, hoping to hear his brother's baritone reply from somewhere nearby. Hell, from anywhere.

The air cooled, and Dean could feel the chill to his bones. He shivered, and knew he had to figure out where he was, and where Sam was, soon. The Wendigo would no longer be a threat. The cold would get them first.

"Sammy, damn it!" Dean shouted, and whirled in a tight circle, "You gotta help me out a little here, kiddo." He strained his eyes attempting to see the weapons bag. It had to be here. If he could get his hands on a flashlight, he'd have a chance of finding Sam.

"Hot damn!" Dean exclaimed as his hands came into contact with the weapons bag. He searched by touch for a flashlight, a flare, a goddamn match. Nothing.

Dean paused his frantic searching, and cocked his head, listening. He could have sworn, he'd heard Sam call him.

"Sam?" he called.

Nothing, no sound except the rain.

"You're losing it, dude," He muttered to himself. "Hearing voices, talking to yourself, not exactly a good sign here."

He paused again. The rain pounded in his ears, echoed by the blood pounding in his head. This time he was sure he'd heard his brother's voice.

"Dean?" Sam's soft call came to Dean as if from a great distance.

"Sammy," Dean replied. "Talk to me, man. Where are you?"

"Dean?" Sam called again his voice louder this time. "Are you okay in there?"

"Yeah, Sam," Dean replied flippantly. "I'm cold, I'm wet, and I can't see a damn thing. You?"

"Dean," Sam answered. "I think you should get out of there now."

"Funny, I didn't think of that until now," Dean replied sarcastically. "I can't see anything."

"I'm serious," Sam responded. "Now would be good."

It was then Dean heard the strain in Sam's voice. Was he worried, or - "Are you hurt?" Dean asked suddenly.

"Fine," Sam answered tightly. "I'm going for coffee."

"No need to be so bitchy, little brother," Dean groused. "If it's that time of month, I understand."

"This isn't funny," Sam retorted. "I'm worried about you. Just answer me. Are you okay?"

"Gimme a minute, Sammy," Dean replied stepping forward. He lost his bearings in the darkness, and slipped on the soggy ground. "Maybe two."

"That's it." Sam replied the edge of worry sharpening his tone. "I'm coming in to get you."

"I don't know where I am," Dean replied honestly. "It's pitch black in here. Cold too."

Dean could hear pounding he presumed was Sam trying to find a way into where ever it was Dean's ass had landed. The pounding kept almost perfect rhythm with the pounding in his head, and the rain.

The pounding stopped.

"Dean?" Sam spoke softly. "Talk to me."

Dean couldn't hear the rain anymore. He felt a gentle shaking on his shoulder. "Wha?" he asked. "What happened, Sam?"

"I think you fell, and hit your head." Sam's voiced responded from the darkness.

"Tell me something I don't know," Dean retorted.

"You used all the hot water," came Sam's nonsensical reply.

"What?"

"You used all the hot water. I don't know how long you've been out, but you're ice cold." Sam responded calmly.

Dean felt hands helping him sit up, and he struggled to open his eyes. God, it was bright. He looked up into his brother's familiar hazel-brown eyes. As realization of where he was sank in, panic gripped Dean, and he looked down.

Sam's laughter filled his ears. "I covered you, man. First thing. Trust me."

Dean couldn't suppress a groan as Sam's long fingers probed the tender spot near his temple.

"You aren't bleeding," Sam observed. "but, you could still have a concussion."

"I'm fine." Dean replied tersely. He attempted to stand, but slipped on the slick shower floor.

Sam helped him stand. Dean never released his knuckle-white grip on the thin motel towel at his waist.

They clumsily maneuvered out of the bathroom, and Dean collapsed onto the first bed.

"That's my bed, you know." Sam said, barely keeping the laughter out of his voice.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean replied closing his eyes.

"You know the drill," Sam stated. "I'll wake you every two hours."

"I'm okay," Dean replied.

"I know," Sam said. "but, I'm waking you up every two hours anyway. You know how much I enjoy your sunny disposition, and witty conversation."

Dean attempted an eye roll, but the sudden movement caused the room to spin, and his lunch threatened to make a reappearance. He closed his eyes again. He recognized the soft whir of the laptop booting up.

"You know what they say," Sam chuckled. "Seventy-five percent of all household accidents occur in the bathroom.

Dean threw his pillow blindly in Sam's general direction. Sam grunted as the pillow made contact with the back of his head. The last thing Dean heard before he drifted off to sleep was Sam muttering under his breath, "I sure as hell won't be taking a shower any time soon. I may be scarred for life."