It wouldn't have been so bad if the damn glove had been the end of it. They managed to find that fairly quickly, buried under some loose hay in the loft. Dean had salted and burned it while Sam held off the angry spirit of Claude Tucker, a third-generation horse breeder who was forced to sell his farm to a male couple. However, once the glove is reduced to a pile of foul-smelling ash, Tucker keeps coming.
"What the hell?" yells Sam, swiping Tucker's spectral form with a farrying iron. "Why's he still here?"
"I don't know!" Dean calls back. "There must be something else of his laying around!"
"Well, find it!"
That's how Dean finds himself wading through waist-deep hay, searching for the last remains of Claude Tucker. Finally, after about twenty minutes, he digs up a piece of dirty broadcloth. He sneezes twice and forces his way out of the hay, swiping at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. "Got it!" he shouts, his voice raspy and thin. He salts the cloth and takes much pleasure in lighting it aflame.
Sam comes running in from the pasture. "Geez, took you long enough."
"You thi--aaa-chuhgh--that you could ha--aaaah-shoouhh--done any better?"
Sam frowns. "What's wrong with you?"
"I dod't--ahw-JHUOOGH--dow." Dean sniffles and rubs his hand on his jeans to try and relieve the itching. God, he feels like shit.
"I think you're allergic to hay," says Sam, starting toward the doors. "Come on, the fresh air might help a little."
It doesn't. By the time they get back to the car, Dean's eyes are so swollen he can barely see and the hives on his hands itch so bad that he draws blood scratching them. Sam retrieves the first-aid kit and covers Dean's hands in cortisol cream, then wraps a chemical cold pack in a wet bandanna and places it over Dean's eyes. The low moan that Dean lets out is almost orgasmic.
"Ugh, could you not do that again, ever?"
"Shuddup."
"Shit," mutters Sam. "These antihistamines are like five years old. We need some new ones."
"Do we dod't," protests Dean. "Gibbe the dab pills."
In response, Sam clicks the first-aid kit shut. "They probably won't even work. The drugstore isn't that far from here, you can hold out a few more minutes."
"Easy for you t'say," mutters Dean.
Sam snorts. "Dean, you've come home with bullet wounds and not said a word, but you can't handle a little allergy attack?"
"Fugk you."
"I'm just saying..."
"I will kick your fugking ass whed I'b better, dod't thigk I wod't."
Sam starts the car and turns the stereo up to drown out Dean's wheezing.
Fortunately for Dean, the drugstore is the first thing they come to in town. Sam wastes no time procuring Benadryl and water, practically shoving the pills down Dean's throat himself. Dean clasps the deliciously cold water bottle with both of his abused hands and relishes the relief.
Dean's pretty groggy by the time they get to their motel on the other side of town. He climbs out of the car and nearly faceplants on the pavement.
"Whoa, hey, I gotcha," says Sam as he grabs Dean around the waist and hauls him upright. He puts an arm around Dean's shoulders and guides him into the motel room. Dean sinks down on his bed with a sigh and another obscene moan.
"Seriously, you need to stop doing that," grumbles Sam. "You're creeping me out."
Dean flips him off--well, he tries to, it's hard when he can't see where Sam is. He's too exhausted to push the point, so he just gives in and sleeps. The last thing he registers before dozing off is a wet washcloth draping over his eyes.