A/N: Written for tattooeddevil at LJ. No seasonal spoilers, just some post-hunt fun. Warning for language.

Dean tromped through the mud, splattering muck onto his brother, who—the bitch—had somehow managed to not get muck up to his crotch in their dangerous tumble with the werewolf. Sam shot him a tight frown, as if trying to determine if Dean was ruining his jeans on purpose, and then sighed, a universal sign that he was going to let it go.

"That went well, all things considered."

Dean shrugged one shoulder in agreement. "No bloodshed on our part, the werewolf was a douchebag even in his human state, and we didn't waste all our silver." His lips curled into a grin. "I think this calls for victory pie."

"Which is different from consolation pie because…?"

Dean snorted in outrage. "You get whipped topping with victory pie, you dork—everyone knows you eat ice cream when you're upset."

"Oh, of course." Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean could see the smile there, even by the light of the bright moon. It lightened his load a bit—frankly, he hadn't wanted to take a werewolf case, but then, it turned out Ol' Man Parkus was a dick of the chasing little red riding hood variety, and they hadn't been able to pass the job along.

Dean could see Parkus's shack-house up ahead. It looked like weather-gray slats nailed together to form a makeshift rectangle, and mud coated the drive and the yard in a matching shade—the guy didn't believe in friggin' grass seed, apparently. The driveway ran right between the tiny house and the equally small barn. The brothers had circled the place several times, nudging chickens and goats (the favored livestock of wolves, it seemed) out of the way as they checked to see if Parkus was home. Which was why Dean was still amazed that his brother looked so…clean. It wasn't fair.

Dean felt a tickle on his shoulder and reached inside his shirt to scratch it. He winced when the tickle brought the light sting of a bite. Another further down his arm brought him to a stop. Before he could lift his sleeve, he had to slap at something on his mud-caked knee.

"Son of a bitch!"

He straightened, scratching at his back.

"Dean? You okay?"

"No, Sammy," Dean snapped. His nail caught one of the little pricks, and he lifted it, shining his flashlight over its tiny insect body. Shit. "I think that werewolf gave me fleas."

"He—?" And then Sam burst out laughing. "Dude, only you would get fleas on a hunt…"

Dean mocked him, letting his nose wrinkle in distaste as he slapped at another of the bastards who'd reached his ass. Sam only bent forward, trying to suck in air as his giggles—the big girl—doubled.

"Yeah, yeah, chuckles. Laugh it up." Dean pouted, charging past him. "Meanwhile, I'm getting eaten alive over here…"

And just as quickly as it had appeared, the laughter stopped. Dean glanced over his shoulder, somewhat worried that something had distracted his brother, but Sam was staring straight ahead, eyes wide. Dean could see the panic in his gaze.

"Dean…Fleas feed on blood. They bite."

Dean raised a brow. "And?"

"And a werewolf bite…It's how the disease is passed on."

Dean blinked at his brother. Then it sunk in. "But…that's never happened before, right? I mean, supernatural shit doesn't spread through friggin insects. I've never heard of someone sharing a mosquito with a vampire and going fangy…Right?...Right, Sammy?"

The brothers simply stared at one another. A split second later, they both kicked mud into the air, at a dead run toward the shed. "Here!" Sam shouted.

Dean followed the call, sliding to a stop just in time for Sam to yank a hose out of the side of the house. He spun the faucet and raised the nozzle high.

"Fuck—fucketty—fuck—" Dean stripped off his jacket and tossed his shirt aside, kicking his boots off at the same time. "Hit me, Sammy!"

By the time the water slapped him across the face at full force—Christ, they really got this kind of water pressure out in the country?— he was standing in his boxers, trying in vain to ignore the chill night air. The jet of water was stinging, brushing over his chest, legs, and—

"Shit, Sam!"

"Sorry, man. Turn around so I can get your back."

Dean shifted, feeling the jet hit his spine and resisting the urge to jump out of the way. "You got it? You see any more? We need the holy water next, and then…" His voice trailed off as he wiped the water out of his eyes. He wiped again, as if he couldn't quite comprehend what was in front of him.

An old hound shimmied its way out from in under the porch, giving the hunters a lazy stare before it plopped back down on its hind end and reached its back leg up to scratch its flank. The dog let out a frustrated whine as it tried to reach the right spot and failed.

The water had shut off, dripping from the nozzle now. Dean glanced over his shoulder to see that Sam's eyes were on the old dog, too. Specifically on the rotten plank of wood the dog had crawled out onto. Dean had hunched forward on that very spot to get a look through Parkus's side window.



"So, it wasn't the wolf's…?"

"No, Sammy. It wasn't."

"Can we blame this on exhaustion?"

Dean reached down, snatching up his pants. "No. Because we are never going to speak of this again. And, for Christ's sake, don't tell Bobby."