A/N: Wow, I don't usually communicate this much up front! (those of you who have been following my stories recently may have noticed I'm publishing a lot right now) Maybe I'm losing my touch, feeling like I have to clarify so much more...feel free to comment in reviews ^-^

Anyway, a quick blurb about my basis for this story-I don't claim to have incredible medical knowledge. I've admitted this before. However, this time, I have pretty decent personal experience to draw on. Both my little sister and I had serious bouts of illness when we were young, and my descriptions are based on how those illnesses manifested. They're not necessarily typical. But I promise they happened in real life. End whiny author justification. Enjoy!

It didn't take long for Sam to pack what they'd need, and he quickly became impatient. Dawn was well passed, but Dean was still asleep.

"Up an' at'em, sunshine. We've got a hunt, remember?" he announced, striding back to the bedroom of their motel suite. The bed that was still occupied groaned and shuffled.

"Go 'way. I feel like crap," came the muffled voice from the paisley sheets.

"Really? There's a werewolf killing hot chicks and you want to stay in bed?"

"You bet your ass, 'sunshine.'"

Sam flipped the covers off the bed. Dean, in his t-shirt and boxers, curled up against the exposure. He did look kind of pale. Then again, he'd gone a little heavy on the booze the night before. "Come on. We've only got a couple days before we lose the full moon, and I found his trail going into the woods."

Still grumbling, Dean rolled out of bed and got ready. Sam sat by their packs, coffees on hand, thumbing his scarred palm to try to distract him from his irritation. Of all the times to not be himself, Dean had to pick the height of a case?

"If I puke while we're out there, I'm blaming you," his older brother growled as he emerged.

They picked up the trail easily enough—snow layered the ground from the day they arrived. Clawed footprints and blood spatters marked the way.

"Think one of us got him?" suggested Dean.

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. He also had a good chunk of his last victim. Remember? What's with you today?"

"It's too early and I feel like crap, I told you."

"You really should cut back on the beer when we're working."

"You always pick the most ungodly ways—oh wait, you have a history of being ungodly in general."

"Haha." Sam knelt, to study a patch of bloody snow next to a tree. Blood and fur stuck to the rough bark around shoulder height. "You may be right, though. He stumbled here. Probably wounded in the side, throwing his balance off."

"Great. Now we're chasing a werewolf who's specifically pissed with us," Dean remarked.

They zigzagged through the woods. Here and there, summer cabins hunkered among the trees, closed for the winter. With each one that proved clear, uninhabited, Sam felt his frustration build again. It was nearly lunchtime. No sign of anything living besides themselves and a few birds and squirrels. Moreover, Dean was definitely struggling to keep up.

"Dude, you roofie yourself or something?"

"Shut up. You've had enough bad days of your own where I had to drag your ass along." Dean might have said more, but caught his boot on something under the snow instead. The closest tree kept him from falling headlong to the ground.

Sam forgot his annoyance for a moment, springing to help his brother. That's when he realized Dean's skin was burning. His face had gone from pale to ashen, and his breathing was uneven.

"Dean, I am so sorry! I should have been quicker to suspect—I mean, you don't usually act like—," Sam sputtered.

"Skip the apologies; just get me to somewhere I can lay down," Dean chided him.

The next cabin was a few hundred feet away. Sam wrapped one of Dean's arms over his own shoulders to support him over the distance. Propping Dean at one of the trees closest to the cabin, he checked the area out. No werewolf. No signs that anyone had been there recently. He picked the lock and retrieved Dean.

The interior was musty. Only a cot, a set of bunk beds, a table, chairs, and a fireplace with a threadbare loveseat furnished the old building. Two doors at the far end had to be the bathroom and some kind of closet.

"Very 'Little House," Sam muttered. He helped Dean take off his pack and lay down on the cot, then bolted the door. "You should probably eat something. Might help the dizziness." He started pulling the supplies out of the packs.

Dean shook his head. "I don't think I could keep anything down. God, I'm burning up."

"I need you to drink some water, at least," insisted Sam. He watched carefully while Dean complied. Meanwhile, Sam himself used some of his own water to wet down a bandana, which he put on Dean's forehead. His older brother didn't even remark about it.

The whole scene was pretty ironic. So often Dean was the one taking care of Sam, patching up Sam, looking after Sam. Sam felt a little awkward being the one in the hot seat now. Not only that, but it reminded him of when they were kids, and Dean had ended up in a similar position with him. He knew the story well from all the times Dean told it.

"Keep up, Sammy. Dad doesn't want us out by ourselves for very long."

"I'm trying, Dean. I don't feel good."

"Stop being a baby."

"When's Dad coming back? Why couldn't I just stay in the hotel?"

"Because I'm not leaving you alone anywhere. Go get the milk." Thirteen-year-old Dean grabbed a cart as they entered the convenience store, and headed for the grocery aisle. Bread, peanut butter, jelly, canned fruit…all the usual boring stuff Dad told them to get when he disappeared for several days. He double-checked how much money they had before grabbing some ships. Eight-year-old Sam showed up with the milk and a package of cookies, looking hopeful.

"Please?"

Dean sighed. "Fine."

"I really don't feel good, Dean," Sam complained.

"But you want cookies? Come on, we're almost done," grumbled Dean. They paid for the food, and hefted the bags across the street to the hotel. Dean busied himself with putting cold stuff in the old box refrigerator. "Are you going to bring those bags over here or what?"

A loud thud answered him.

"Sammy?"

Still by the door, Sam had collapsed. Groceries rolled out next to him.

"Sammy!" Half-panicked, Dean tried to bodily lift his little brother, pulling him over to the couch. Sam's face was on fire, his hair plastered with sweat. He didn't move.

Dean mentally ran through everything their father had taught him about first aid. How to take care of a fever... something cold. The ice machine sat two rooms down from them. Dean filled the ice bucket, wrapped some cubes in a towel, and placed it along Sam's face and neck. Then he searched their first aid kit for a thermometer. Dean tugged his brother's shirt halfway off, and pressed the little glass stick under Sam's bared arm. He remembered Mom doing that when he was little.

The tiny red line was hard to find, but when he did, it reached well past the 100 mark. He added an ice towel to Sam's chest. Back at the first aid kit, he looked through all the medications trying to find something that would help…