Save My Brother
Set after "Death Takes a Holiday"
Dean Winchester looked over at the passenger seat to find his little brother Sam asleep against the window. The two of them were headed to the old house where the body of a ghost they were hunting was hidden. Dean looked at the clock on his radio: 11:40 PM.
Man, this is gonna be a long night…
"Ah!" Dean suddenly yelled, turning the wheel to the right as his right hand flew to his left ribs. The Impala swerved onto the shoulder, bumping along.
Sam jolted up in his seat, eyes wide. "Dean, what the hell?"
Dean jerked the wheel, sending the car back onto the road. He breathed deeply as his hand clutched his left side under his jacket.
"What happened?" asked Sam, glancing over at Dean.
"Nothing," Dean told him, moving his hand back to the wheel. "Deer in the road."
Sam sat back in his seat. "Oh. You okay?"
"Yeah," Dean nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"We almost there?"
"Uh, another twenty minutes."
Sam fell into silence, and Dean looked back at the road.
What the hell was that?
Something hard and sharp had slammed into his left side. But there was nothing there. He was just sitting in the Impala when the pain hit him…but nothing had hit him.
Twenty minutes of worrying later, Dean parked the car and sat in the driver's seat as Sam got out. As soon as Sam closed the door, Dean lifted his shirt up, glancing down at his torso. Purple bruises littered the skin above his ribs.
"What the hell…" Dean muttered.
"Hey."
Dean let his shirt fall as he looked over at the passenger door.
"You coming?" asked Sam. "I need the keys."
Dean climbed out of the Impala, heading for the trunk and unlocking it. They pulled salt guns, salt shells, a bag of salt, a can of gas, and two shovels out before closing it. They made their way into the house, heading for the cellar. They walked around on the dirt floor, looking for where the body might be buried.
They finally came upon a flat patch of dirt, like someone had patted the dirt down. They set everything down, beginning to dig. Half an hour later, they found the bones.
"Alright," said Dean. "Let's burn this mother up."
The ghost appeared in front of Dean, throwing him out of the grave and into the wall. Dean looked up to see Sam grappling with the ghost, the salt gun at his throat. Dean scrambled to his feet, rushing towards the grave. He felt a pain flare up across his face, and the next second, he was on his back. The pain had been hard and blunt, but just like in the Impala, the pain had come out of nowhere.
What the hell is going on?
Sam gave a shout of pain, shaking Dean from his thoughts. He jumped up, pouring salt and gas on the corpse. He lit a match and dropped it in, igniting the bones. The ghost disappeared, the salt gun dropping.
Sam looked up at Dean, eyes wide. "What happened to you?"
Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"You got a giant bruise across your face," Sam told him.
Dean walked over to an old mirror, looking at the purple bruise spreading from his eye to his nose over his cheek bone.
Seriously, what the hell?!
"Huh," said Dean. "Must've hit my head when he threw me."
"You okay?" Sam asked, concerned.
"No, actually," Dean said, facing Sam with a bit pout on his face. "Hold me, Sam. I think I'm gonna cry." His pout disappeared. "Yes, I'm okay! It's a frigging flesh wound, man! I think I'll live!"
Sam waved him off, turning to grab his shovel. "Just asking, man."
Dean and Sam filled the grave and headed back to the Impala. It was 1:00 AM now, and it took an hour to get back to the motel. Half an hour away, Dean was staring at the road in front of him when he felt pain explode in his head, blurring his vision.
"Dean!"
The world went black.
Sam looked over to see Dean's head whip to the side.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, reaching for his brother.
Dean's eyes slid closed, his head dropping onto his chest and hands falling from the wheel. The Impala drifted towards the guardrail, and Sam grabbed the wheel. He aimed the car towards an empty patch of dirt and grass on the other side of the road. He slid his leg across the bench seat, kicking Dean's limp one out of the way and slamming on the brake pedal. The Impala jerked to a stop, and Sam pulled the parking brake, not bothering to shift it into park.
"Dean!" Sam called, leaning over his brother. A cut was bleeding on Dean's forehead over his right eye, which Sam knew had not been there a minute ago. "What the hell?" He placed his hands on Dean's shoulder, shaking him. "Dean, wake up. Come on, Dean."
Dean moaned, lightly slapping Sam's hand away. "I'm not in the mood, Cassie. Go get your rocks off somewhere else."
Sam almost laughed out loud. "Sure, Dean, I'll get right on that."
Dean's eyes flew open, and he looked up at Sam. "Sam?"
"What the hell is going on with you?"
"Nothing," Dean brushed off. "Probably delayed reaction to hitting the wall."
"Bullshit," said Sam. "I watched a cut appear on your forehead like you were getting hit by something, but there was nothing there. That is not normal." Dean put a hand to his cut, bringing it away bloody. "You can't sweep this under the rug."
"I don't know, man," said Dean, confusion on his face. "What am I supposed to say?"
"Well, for starters, how about, 'You drive, Sam.'"
"What? No way!"
"Dean, whatever's happening with you, you got knocked out at the wheel. Do you want to die?"
Dean mulled it over for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Bitch." Dean got out of the car and walked to the passenger side, getting in. Sam had slid over to the wheel.
"Jerk," Sam replied, pulling back onto the road.
As they pulled into the parking space in front of their room, Dean suddenly gasped, shooting up in his seat.
"What?" said Sam frantically. "What is it?"
"Son of a bitch!" Dean muttered, drawing his arms around himself and moving his legs incessantly. "So cold!"
"You're cold?" asked Sam, feeling Dean's forehead. Dean slapped his hand away. "Well, you don't have a fever or anything."
"Not that kind of cold, you idiot," Dean told him. "It feels like—" Dean broke off as he shivered violently, gasping again. "It feels like I got dunked in a lake in the middle of winter and then stuck in a walk-in freezer."
"Come on, let's get you inside," said Sam, getting out of the car. He headed to Dean's door: he hadn't moved. Sam opened the door. "What's wrong?"
"I can't hardly moved," Dean muttered, rubbing his hands over his chest.
Sam reached in and pulled Dean to his feet. He wrapped Dean's arm around his shoulder, grasping his hand.
Sam gasped, looking at the hand he had a hold on. "Man, Dean, your hands are like ice."
Sam quickly moved Dean to the room, unlocking the door. He ushered Dean inside, putting him on a bed. He shut the door, turning the lights on. He flipped the heater on to its max, heading for Dean's duffel.
Sam knelt next to Dean. "Come on, let's get you into something warmer."
Dean shook his head, hugging himself tight. "Too cold."
"Dean, I gotta warm you up. I'll be quick."
Dean shrugged out of his jacket, letting Sam strip him of his shirts.
"Holy shit!" exclaimed Sam. He stared at the bruises on Dean's ribs. "Was that from the ghost, too?"
"Uh…yeah?" Dean told him, too cold to make it sound believable.
Sam glared at him. "Dean…"
"Alright, alright, warm me up first, then I'll tell you," said Dean, shivering again.
Sam got two long-sleeved shirts onto Dean, along with two pairs of socks. He stuffed him under the blankets, pulling the blankets from the second bed on top of him. Dean clutched the blankets close, shaking.
"Alright, spill," said Sam.
"I didn't swerve because a deer was in the road," Dean told him. "Something hit me in the ribs."
"Something?"
"It was like the cut. Nothing was there, but it still hit me."
Sam frowned, pointing at Dean's face. "That wasn't from hitting the wall, was it?"
Dean shook his head, closing his eyes. "After I hit the wall, I got up, but something hit me in the face, knocking me down."
"What the hell is going on?" muttered Sam.
"N-no c-clue, S-Sam-my," Dean shivered.
Sam rushed to their first-aid kit, grabbing the thermometer. He rushed back to the side of the bed.
"Open up," Sam told him. Dean opened his mouth, and Sam stuck the thermometer under his tongue. He waited for a moment until it beeped. Sam pulled it out and looked at it. "Shit!"
Sam put the thermometer on the bedside table and proceeded to climb into the bed next to Dean.
"W-What are y-you d-doing, S-Sam?" asked Dean, wanting to pull away, but the warmth felt so good.
"Your temperature is at 96 degrees and dropping," Sam told him. "I gotta use body heat to warm you up. No laughing; I'm trying to save your life."
Dean didn't have the strength to make any sarcastic comments as Sam wrapped his arms around Dean's chest. Dean instinctively snuggled closer to the body heat.
"Crap, Dean, you're so cold," Sam hissed as Dean's face touched his neck.
They lay there for a few minutes before Sam stuck the thermometer into Dean's mouth again. He pulled it out, eyes wide.
"95?" said Sam.
"Th-th-that b-b-bad?" Dean was shivering violently now.
"That's bordering on hypothermia, Dean," Sam told him, pulling Dean closer.
"Th-th-this n-n-n—"
"Never leaves the room, I got it."
Fifteen minutes later, Dean's temperature had dropped to 93 degrees.
"That's it," said Sam, pulling out his cell phone. "We need help."
A knock came at the door, and Sam looked up at it. he was reluctant to leave Dean, but he didn't have a choice. He opened the door to a familiar face.
"And help is what you'll get," said Missouri Moseley.
200 points to whoever can figure out what's happening to Dean!