BEERFEST GONE SOUTH

by KKBELVIS

One shot. Stand alone early hunt story. Sam and Dean play dodge the poltergeist.

BEERFEST GONE SOUTH

By: Karen B

Summary: One shot. Sam and Dean play dodge the poltergeist.

Disclaimer: Not the owner

A long time ago, way back in history
When all there was to drink was nothin' but cups of tea,
Along came a man by the name of Charlie Mopps
And he invented the wonderful drink, and he made it out of hops.

The British drinking song: "Beer, Beer Beer" attributes the invention of beer to the presumably fictional Charlie Mopps:

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

The Dixie Brewing Company of Louisiana stood dark and dank and long forgotten, surrounded by weeds and rusted fencing. Inside, the cold, red-brick walls were tagged with brightly colored spray-paint-art and the entire plant was looted beyond belief.

"Won't find a busty beer garden wench in a short cut dress in here," Dean muttered as he tried to walk soundlessly through the vast amounts of entangled wiring, rotting timbers, soiled rags, buckets, mops, busted up machinery, uncoiled rolls of beer labels, and rat feces.

It was damn near impossible.

It'd been raining all day and the roof of the plant leaked terribly. Everything was a sloppy wet mess, and his boots kept gumming and sticking to the tacky black and white ceramic tiles peeking out from beneath all the trash. Probably do to the glue that had washed off the rolls of unused beer labels, the strips sticking to the bottom of his boots like toilet paper. Seemed a sin they'd never find their way pasted to the backs of beer bottles only to be peeled back off by the drinker.

Dean squeezed around a busted wooden door, making his way up a rickety staircase to the third level. Carefully, he moved around a huge rotting hole in the floor. "As disgusting as this place is, sure smells good." He sniffed at the sharp, spicy air. Built in 1907 and shut down in the mid-eighties, yet the place strangely still had an overpowering smell of malted barley, hops, and yeast. "One more," Dean whispered, crunching over broken glass as he stepped up to the southwest wall, and winced when he kicked a beer bottle, sending the empty spinning into a rusted piece of machinery.

He grit his teeth and froze mid-step not even daring to breathe and on high alert as he scanned the area slowly. This was one nasty, deeply pissed off poltergeist they were hunting and he didn't need to be tipping the bitch off to their presence before he and Sam could finish hiding their mojo bags and banish it forever.

Speaking of Sam, he wondered how his brother was fairing. He didn't like splitting up, but the building was too large and the thirteen mojo bags needing to be disbursed strategically throughout the plant for the cleansing ritual demanded it.

They were not strangers to parting ways. Most times the job required them to divide and conquer.

Didn't mean Dean had to like it. Ever.

Watching out for Sam was hard-wired to his very core from the time he was four-years-old. Sam being out of his sight on a hunt or anywhere else, for-that-matter, always seemed to leave a bitter taste in Dean's mouth.

Oh, Sam was more than capable of handling himself, but the vivid images floating around in Dean's head of what could happen to little brother while big brother wasn't around were not Hollywood-created.

They were brutal, real-to-life festivals of blood.

After a few minutes of silence passed without paranormal incident, Dean took a deep breath and brought out his knife chiseling around the mortar of a brick, then wiggling it loose and removing it. He dug in his jacket pocket for his last mojo bag and placed it in the hole, quick to wiggle the brick back into place.

Standing a moment more, he waited for the usual spiritual warfare to start. Knowing the entity could attack out of the blue once it figured out what they were up to.

No doors banged. No furniture or sharp knives went flying. No mystical rope tried to wrap around his neck and hang him high.

Awesome.

This bitch was either lazy, or maybe it was off on some beer tasting party.

In that case, Dean was completely jealous.

"Sure could use a good amber with a side basket of chili fries about now," he muttered, licking his lips.

Maybe this cleansing would go down smoother than their last ritual had. He and Sam could go off and find their own beerfest to enjoy. They deserved a break after all.

Speaking of Sam…

Dean urgently pulled out his cell and texted his brother: You alive?

A reply pinged back immediately: Yeah, you?

Dean let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Am I alive?" he whispered, rolling his eyes at the screen as he texted back: Duh, bitch.

Who'd Sam think he was texting anyhoo?

Sam pinged in again right away: Code word, jerk?

Oh, right. He forgot. Poltergeists were sneaky bastards and by no means techie-stupid.

Fumbling with his phone, Dean typed in his code word: Apple pie.

Man, his texterity sucked.

Sam texted back immediately: A la mode. You done?

Satisfied by the correct corresponding response, Dean clumsily typed: Just. You?

He waited a few, but got no reply.

Dean frowned and texted: Hello..! McFly! You done?

Fifteen seconds and still he got no reply.

Dean urgently fiddled with the buttons, barely getting the three letters typed and sent: Sam!?

Nadda, zip, zilch.

Cold pricklies gathered at the back of Dean's neck as he stared at the blank screen.

Sam was a high-speed-texter and the screen had remained blank –thirty seconds now.

Thirty one…thirty two…thirty three…

The cold pricklies suddenly turned red-hot and racing down Dean's spine, not stopping until they reached the tips of his toes.

"Aw hell." He bolted back around the large hole and taking the steps two at a time as he shoved the silent cellphone back in his jacket pocket. When he got to the bottom he found the broken door to be fixed and shut. "Oh, no, you didn't." Dean grabbed the door handle and twisted but the door wouldn't open. "You lousy…" he pulled harder to no avail. "I am so going to shove a mojo bag up your ass!" he yelled, shaking a fist. He backed away a few paces then rammed the flat of his foot full force against the door jarring his teeth. Took three more tries before the door banged open, hanging off its hinges once more.

Dean burst onto the first floor and stood scanning the room and listening for any sound of Sam.

A symphony of rain fell through the various size holes scattered in the decaying roof. Drops pitter-pattered softly in some spots, while banging loudly in others.

"Six thousand bottles of beer on the wall," Dean whispered in awe, gaze traveling up the twenty-foot beer vat situated in the center of the spacious room.

Raindrops hitting the tarnished copper silo sounded more like rapid gunfire echoing through the brewery then the harmless shower it was. Gaze still roaming, nothing appeared out of the ordinary from when they'd first entered. No sign that the poltergeist had gone tactical.

"Dude, if something's happened to you," Dean snapped, turning and running toward the back of the building.

Fifteen minutes later, his search still had produced nothing except a few pooping pigeons, and a hoard of scurrying rats. Back at the center of the room, Dean ran a hand through his wet hair. "Where are you?" He went to pull his cell phone back out, but stopped when he noticed a round porthole-type window on the large beer vat, moisture beading on the glass from the inside. "Huh?" He stepped closer, cocking his head curiously off to one side.

Back in its day the vat could probably hold hundreds of gallons of beer, large enough for a dozen or so people to swim in. A beeroholic's dream… a big brother's nightmare as Dean's inborn little brother compass needle went into the red.

"Oh, no, you didn't!" Dean's heart slammed against his rib cage in fear, stumbling over his own feet before taking off at a dead run toward the vat.

The sticky floor and piles of debris once again slowed him, making the few yards seem more like a few miles before he reached the base of the copper silo. Dean cupped his hands and peered in through the round, porthole of a window. The glass dripped with moisture and it was dark inside, save for a beam of light. A flashlight, Dean realized. The angle of the beam shining up into the gray face of his shaggy haired brother slouched over sideways against the far back wall.

He grasped the corroded handle of the hatch and tugged and tugged to no avail. It was jammed or it was supernaturally locked from the inside.

Either way raw fear filled his veins as Dean roared into overdrive. "Sam!" He fisted the window, but got no response. "Sam!" he yelled louder, banging harder. "Wake the hell up!"

Sam didn't budge, and Dean froze a moment in terror. Cupping his hands once again he tried desperately to see if his brother was even still breathing, but the lighting was just too dim and Sam was too far away for him to tell.

"Sam you wake up right now, you hear me?" Dean raged, and started whaling on the glass succeeding only in bleeding his knuckles.

Still Sam had not shown any sign he was aware.

"Damn it!" Dean reared up and Ninja-kicked the porthole several times before rational thought Ninja- kicked him in the ass. "Stupid, Dean," he berated himself, pulling his gun from inside his jacket. He wanted to blast his way through the glass, but couldn't risk a bullet ricocheting off metal and hitting Sam.

Using the butt end of his pistol, Dean whacked at the thick glass for all he was worth. And where Sam was concerned –he was worth a lot.

Once, twice, three times – the sound hollow and dull.

On the third try the window caved in and spider webbed. On the fifth try Dean actually punched through. He absently swept some of the bigger leftover chunks of glass away and poked his face in. The air was stuffy, the interior of the vat like a hotbox smelling strongly of sweat and fumes.

"Dude!" Dean bellowed.

Sam remained slouched against the wall, unmoving.

Panic stricken, Dean stuck his right arm in the window up to his shoulder. He stretched and moaned and gritted his teeth tight, sweat pouring down the sides of his face, fingers reaching, searching. "Not a rabbit, Dean." His fingers just barely brushing along a bolt that would open the hatch…if he could just… "Come on, come on," he muttered but as he'd already suspected, there was no way. Withdrawing his arm, Dean poked his face once again through the all-to-small window. It reminded him of that time he and Sam had posed as Fred and Wilma Flintstone. Their faces thrust into one of those funny photo-op-cutout boards. Of course, he got to be Fred. And Sam, at age four, was all too happy to be Wilma.

"Stop screwing around and open this hatch right now, Sammy," Dean begged.

Nothing.

Dean drew back and glanced around on the factory floor. Finding a golf-ball sized rock he nabbed it, got his arm back through the window, aimed the best he could within the tight confines, and winged it at Sam.

The rock pinged against the copper wall right next to Sam's head, but he didn't flinch or bat an eyelash as far as Dean could tell.

"Son of a bitch." Dean thumped a frustrated fist against the side of the porthole at the same time popping his face back in about to yell out to Sam again when he noticed what appeared to be a ladder just off to the right of Sam inside the dome kettle. "Yahtzee," he chimed excitedly looking over at Sam's still form. "I'll be right back. Just hang on….hang on, brother," he squawked, drawing out, he turned tail and sprinted around to the other side of the tank.

There.

Dean found a ladder rigged to the side of the vat leading upward. Hand-over-hand he shot up the rungs without hesitation, taking great measure to be sure of his foot placement. He couldn't afford to slip and fall. He had to get to Sam now before it was too late. What if it already was? Dean drove that thought out of his mind, and climbed faster.

He scrambled onto the top of the humongous vat and quickly found what he was looking for – a way in. Dean bent over and grabbed hold of the handle, pulling with all his might. At first the trapdoor wouldn't open and he let loose, shook the cramp out of his hand, and renewed his efforts tenfold. He grunted and groaned and tugged until finally the trapdoor opened. A belch of hot air blasted past sending Dean stumbling backward, boot heels precariously hanging over the edge. With nothing but air to grab onto, Dean held his arms out at shoulder length to keep his balance, eyes instinctually focused straight ahead. Using the balls of his feet he stepped lightly away from the edge back to the entrance of the vat. Most people would have looked down and promptly fallen. Dean wasn't most people. Compliments of his father's rigorous training he was the master of smooth control.

Peering down inside, he winced at the twenty-foot vertical drop."Here I come, Sam," Dean shouted down, his voice echoing off the walls.

Sam didn't seem to hear.

Quickly turning around, Dean backed into the vat, placing one boot on the first rung and bouncing up and down testing its sturdiness. Finding it solid enough, he gripped the sides of the rails and descended noting the rungs were greasy and slick, slowing him slightly.

Finally, Dean was low enough to the ground and he jumped from the third to the last rung, feet splashing and sinking into the squishy mash of sediment that made up the floor of the beer vat.

"Gross," he uttered, making a beeline for Sam. "Hey, Humpty Dumpty, that was some fall. You manage that by yourself or did you have some help?" he said sarcastically, dropping to a crouch next to Sam and wondering where the hell the poltergeist had gotten to.

Sam didn't respond.

Dean hooked two fingers under his brother's chin. "Let me see you…let me see," he whispered, nabbing the flashlight from Sam's limp hand while with the other slowly and gently tipped Sam's face up off his chest.

Dean frowned shining the light on him. "Ghoulish-gray…sooo not your color, bro," he muttered, leaning in close enough to feels Sam's puffs of warm breath against his skin.

"Okay, that's good. Good boy," Dean muttered. "No excuses then, Sam. Open your eyes," he commanded, patting Sam's sweat-slicked face.

That didn't work. Sam's eyes remained shut, face lax, neck unhinged, rolling and lolling.

"Come on," Dean practically whined his panic, patting Sam's chest and noting how wet his tee-shirt was and how it stuck to his skin in every possible place. "Need you to give me something more here." Dean pinched Sam's cheek.

Sam moaned, bringing his head weakly up, hair wet and slicked down, dazed eyes barely slivering open.

"Not what I was hoping for," Dean panted in exertion, "But I'll take it. Anything feel broken?" he asked, setting the flashlight down and running skilled hands all over Sam. No blood, or lumps, or anything extra sticking in him, or whacked out of place. "I think you're okay. Just got the wind knocked out of you. Can you stand?"

Sam blinked sluggishly, his body twitching and head wobbly as he scowled in confusion.

"Sam? Habla ingles?" Dean clasped Sam's face between his hands holding his head up.

Sam continued to stare dumbly.

"I know my Spanish sucks, but, seriously, I need you with it." Dean titled sideways, suddenly not feeling 'with it' much himself, his hands slipping away from Sam. Everything was growing fuzzy around the edges and he became very sleepy and dizzy at the same time. "Something's wrong." He took in several deep breaths, coughing and hacking and spitting out drool.

Dean groped for the flashlight and shined the beam around the dark interior of the barrel-shaped container. The walls were damp and a buildup of thick, rampantly growing greenish-black mold lined the surface, the mushy floor more of the same. The tank had obviously been void of beer for a long time, yet it was like a living swimming pool. The moist air was weighted, hot, and gaseous – a virtual "greenhouse effect".

Dean's dizziness increased and the walls started to circle around them with the spinning force of washing machine gone berserk.

"Whoa!" Dean swallowed, reaching a hand out to brace himself against Sam's shoulder. "Stop the beer Vat I want to get off." He shook his head. Shit! There was something in the air."Sooo not good," he slurred, shutting off the flashlight and stowing it in a pocket. Swiping the back of his hand across his lips, he turned back to Sam. "We got to get out of here." Before Dean could make a move Sam's eyes shifted to the side then rolled white, head dropping limply back. "Sam!" Dean quickly slipped a hand behind Sam's head keeping the boy's skull from cracking against the metal wall of the vat. "Hey," he hissed.

Sam's eyes were closed, completely under again.

"Enough of this crap," Dean griped. "You want something done…" he growled, grabbing Sam under the arms and using the vat's wall for support to lift his unconscious brother to his feet. "You've got to…do it…" He hauled Sam up and over his shoulder in one move. "Yourself," he panted, fighting not to pass out. "Let's get your nine-hundred-pound ass out of here, pal," he huffed, heading for the easiest exit – the locked hatch.

Sam's arms dangled flimsily down Dean's back flopping about as Dean struggled with the bolt that would open the small hatch. His dexterity was screwed to hell not to mention his vision. Bile crept further up his throat and his heart and head were pounding. He tried to take in shallow breaths, but the poisoned air and Sam's dead weight unbalanced him, threatening to collapse him to his knees.

Not an option. He had to get Sam out of here ASAP!

The bolt finally slid free and Dean pushed open the hatch. It would be a tight squeeze, but it was just big enough. He awkwardly maneuvered Sam's unconscious body, pushing him through shoulders first. "Born three and a half weeks early, little brother," Dean grumbled breathlessly, "And your head was the size of a watermelon," he said giving Sam a final push. "Still is," he breathed.

Sam flopped out like a slippery, wet eel crumpling in a heap just outside the vat.

"Now I know how mom felt," Dean added with disgust, slithering through the hatch after him and flopping out right next to Sam. Not wasting any time, he scrambled up to his knees sucking in several huge breaths of air as he gently untangled Sam's lifeless limbs and laid him out flat on his back on the sticky brewery floor. "Help me out here, bro," Dean whispered, one hand splayed open wide across Sam's chest, two fingers of the other feeling for a pulse in Sam's neck.

Dean's hand slowly rose up and down and Sam's heart beat irregular, but strong beneath his fingers and he sighed, rocking back on his haunches. "You can't keep doing this to me, Sammy. You're going to kill me."

Sam's eyelids fluttered.

"Ah-ah-ah. Not good enough." Dean gave Sam's chest a small jostle. "Wiggle a toe or something."

Sam batted out a hand and mumbled something Dean couldn't understand to save their lives.

"Okay, Sammy- two tongues. Want to try that again?"

"Tea?" Sam squinted up at Dean, the slightest bit of light seeming to hurt his eyes and his pallor still grayish.

"No, coffee." Dean leaned in over him. "You okay?"

"Volcano," Sam slurred arms and leg muscles twitching involuntarily.

"Grass skirt," Dean responded. "You can stop with the code words already," he snapped in annoyance, running a hand through Sam's sweaty hair.

Sam spluttered and coughed harshly, his body bucking.

"Easy. Let's get you sitting up." Dean inched Sam up, supporting him against his chest. "Breathe, buddy. Breathing is key." Dean took a few calming breaths of his own. Was good advice, he thought, noticing right away how his own nausea and dizziness and stinging nose and throat lessened with each breathe.

"Socks," Sam rasped, sinking heavily against him, eyes barely open.

"Fishnet stockings," Dean answered back, a trace of a smile on his lips.

Sam's mouth kept moving but no more words came, face turning from grayish to tinted purple-blue and breaking out in a sweat.

"No, no, no, don't you dare. No turning violet, Violet," Dean screeched sarcastically, glancing around worried the poltergeist would attack while they were down. Speaking of? What the hell had they been breathing in that vat? Poison?

Sam continued to choke and gag, his color still way off.

Dean grimaced. He had to keep Sam breathing. Get fresh, clean oxygen circulating through the boy's lungs? Fast, and preferably without the two of them locking lips. Best way he could think of to do that was physical movement.

"We've got to move, Sam. Up," Dean ordered, "C'mon, buddy!" He brought Sam to his feet roughly, his brother tipping sideways and falling limp and slushy against him.

"Hot sauce," Sam slurred drunkenly, pulling away from Dean in confusion.

"Sports Illustrated." Dean sucked in a breath, wrenching Sam back to him. "Swim suit issue," he exhaled, "This way, college boy, show me your stuff! No more talking the talk…walk the walk," he uttered, lugging Sam's deadweight away from the vat and moving them both around the factory.

"Whaaaaaaa?" Sam muttered dazed and out of it, boot tips dragging along the ground.

"Move your feet, you albatross." Dean lugged him along, panting in exertion.

"Big Bird," Sam countered, chin drooping to his chest.

"Remind me to update our code words," Dean groused. Looking around he spied an old pipe hanging from a beam, a stream of muddy water trickling out of it and pattering into a small puddle. "That's the ticket." He tucked Sam closer, heading them to the seepage. "Come on, Sam, inflate those lungs." Dean tilted Sam's chin skyward and under the stream.

Large drops of cold rainwater splashed against Sam's face, smoothly rolling down his skin.

"Nuuu." Sam stiffened and shuddered, feet scrambling to find purchase as he took in small gasp after small gasp, eyes blinking rapidly.

"That a boy," Dean excitedly chanted, noting this was working. Sam's color had changed from blue to grey to pale-white that quick. "Keep it up. Breathe, man, just breathe." Dean immediately launched them back into brewery-walk-about, ignoring the strain of his own arms from dragging around most of his brother's solid bulk. "Again, Sam, breathe in again…deeper this time."

Sam's eyes finally slit all the way open his small gasps for air turning to huge sucking gasps that made his knees buckle.

Dean yanked Sam up forcefully. "Will you come on!" he barked worriedly. "Getting tired of doing all the work here, slacker," he griped, glancing at his out-of-it-brother.

Sam's skin blushed pink, and he'd gathered his feet under him finally gaining some coordination.

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere," Dean huffed out of breath.

With each step, Sam managed to take on more of his own weight, choking and spitting a few times onto the ground.

"Bitch, watch the boots." Dean did a little side dance around a yellow glob of slime.

"Sssss…iiit," Sam mumbled, totally winded, "Need to sit," he coughed and hacked, shoulders hitching up to his ears.

"Okay, okay," Dean squawked, quickly lowering Sam to the ground.

Sam's shoulders dropped as he leaned back against Dean's chest. "Ack," he turned his head to the side and spat a juicy wad of yellow-green phlegm out of his mouth. "Pickle juice," he swallowed hard, twisting his lips in disgust.

"What are you some sort of loogi connoisseur?"

Sam raised a shaky hand wiping his mouth with the back of it. "Ssssupposed to say Gatorade," Sam wheezed, clearing his throat. "Okay now." He shook his head, loose hair falling over to hide his face.

"Uh-huh." Dean dipped his head, brushing Sam's stringy, wet mop aside to get a better look. "That's why the whites of your eyes are still tinged blue." He waved a hand in the air in disgust. "Whatever that was you were forced to breathe in…few minutes more and you would have been Ffffttt," he hissed, using an index finger to make a cut-throat gesture across his neck.

"Carb…carbon dioxide," Sam coughed.

"What are you talking about?"

"It's used in the fer…fermentation pro…process." He coughed again. "Carbonated soft drinks, sooooda water, beer, wwwine," he swallowed, "Pop rocks."

"Pop rocks?" Dean barked loudly.

Sam shrugged. "How else do you think they pop?"

Dean drew back, shaking his head in frustration. "I outta pop you," he threatened seriously.

"For what?"

"For being an idiot and getting yourself locked inside the giant beer keg to begin with." Dean gestured with a chin-tip toward the copper vat. "How did you get locked in there anyway?"

Sam sluggishly glanced over and stared at 'said' keg and frowned. "I…?" He cocked his head, oxygen-starved brain still full of carbon fog.

The rain started to fall harder. A strong wind blew down from the large gap in the roof whistling through the building grabbing debris and whirling it around. Dean sniffed the air. The lovely smell of hops and barelyhad been replaced by a mixture of tuna fish, skunk, and Clorox bleach.

The beer vat suddenly began to wobble. Loud banging resounded. Not only on the outside, but from inside too, copper denting outward as if someone had dumped a dozen monkey's armed with sledge hammers inside the barrel.

"Poltergeist!" Sam and Dean sung out together.

"Where's your last mojo bag?" Dean hollered over the drumming noise, frantically patting down Sam's jacket and digging into his pockets in search of.

"I…I don't know," Sam's gaze roamed the immediate area, hand flung out and searching through the trash on the floor.

The wind picked up speed, propelling tables, chairs, desks, cabinets, and other unidentified objects about in a tornado of activity.

Dean flung his body over Sam, shoving him to his belly face down just as a large garbage can sailed by directly above nearly taking the boy's head off.

The vat continued to rock, belching like an elephant.

"Gotta get you out of here, Sammy, bitch is going to blow." Dean lifted Sam to his feet. "Move it."

A dozen or so beer bottles came at them whizzing like glass arrows.

"In coming!" Dean bore them both back down to the floor.

"Guh," Sam grunted as Dean landed heavily on his back.

Dean lifted his head only to duck back down as bottle after bottle exploded against the floor next to them like hand grenades. "I've hurled beer before in my time…"

"What's your point?" Sam used the flats of his hands to push upward.

"That I've hurled beer."

"That's your point?" Sam hissed.

"Point is..." Dean one handedly thrust the floppy haired boy back down as a piece of sheet metal skimmed by. "…stop giving away our position, watermelon head!"

"Get off, Dean," Sam panted struggling under Dean's weight.

"Sam, that's disgusting," Dean growled, rising up to give Sam some breathing room.

"You're telling me," Sam sucked in a ragged breath, body trembling weakly.

"Don't even go there."

"We need to get our hands on another mojo bag. We can't just stay here."

Knowing Sam was right; Dean grabbed the boy by the forearms and hoisted him to his feet.

Objects continued to defy gravity. Launching into the air like hot rockets and flaming arrows. Whizzing back and forth and crashing about as the deeply angered poltergeist continued to try and crush the life out of them.

"This sucks," Dean muttered, eyes narrowed as he glanced across the distance of the brewery. "You ready?" He started moving before Sam could answer.

"Front door?" Sam questioned, shuffling along next to Dean, still slightly uncoordinated.

"Good as any," Dean deadpanned, ducking them both down as another beer bottle sailed overhead. "Wish I had a shield, or at least a garbage can lid," he said, peering over his shoulder to see it strike the very spot they'd just left. "A friggin' umbrella," he added facing forward and picking up their pace. "Just try to keep low and watch out for –"

"The mojo bag." Sam stiffened eyes going wide as he ripped away from Dean's hold, darting off to the right with renewed energy.

"You idiot," Dean yelled angrily, watching in shocked disbelief as his brother zigged than zagged across the sticky floor, dodging the poltergeist attacks.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam ducked, avoiding airborne objects as he ran. His nose burned, chest tight, unable to catch a full breath and completely winded in a matter of seconds. What had he been thinking? He hadn't. He saw the last mojo bag lying just a few feet away and automatically made a run for it. His legs trembled, tingling of pins and needles as he struggled to move faster through the warzone. Bricks jiggled, popping out like oversized Pez candy from every brewery wall and skyrocketing, red-hot missiles shot out of a bazooka. Biting into the floor and blasting apart into tiny marble-sized pebbles and poofs of ruddy dust.

The closer Sam got to the mojo bag the more violent the poltergeist grew. The tiled floor buckled and bowed as if a giant's fisted hand slammed down, breaking apart the ceramic and causing a ripple effect.

Things twisted, and the vat banged threatening to upend, everything and anything – save for pigs – flew through the air. Outside, rain sliced down through the sagging decay of the roof and lightening flashed –Mother Nature getting in on the act.

Sam swiped the wetness from his eyes to clear his blurry vision. As hard as it was, he kept his attention focused on one thing and one thing only…the mojo bag. The sack wasn't that far away, but he seemed no closer to it. Like running in place on a treadmill in the midst of a bad dream, he couldn't run fast enough. Sam began to doubt if he could reach the bag before the whole dang place denigrated into ruins.

He didn't dare slow himself further by looking over his shoulder when he heard the rapid pounding of boots coming up behind him.

"Go, Sam, go," Dean shouted, strong and solid and steady. "You got this, little brother!"

Dean's confidence in him, and the fact he always had Sam's back gave Sam the spurt of energy he needed. He lunged off that treadmill and closed in on the bag.

Like a living organism the beer vat seemed to breathe, copper walls expanding in and out in a disturbing way. Strange, thick, stringy, green ooze began to boil over the top and spill down the sides, quickly finding its way to the floor, the mess looking like a mop of hair.

Sam didn't slow, purposely dropping in a controlled fall straight to his ass. With one leg folded under the other he slid like a ballplayer the last few inches snatching the mojo bag as he went. Squeezing the mojo tight in his palm, Sam scrambled up, getting as far as his knees. The brewery spun dizzily around him and he sucked in huge gasps of breath.

Dean slid on his knees next to Sam. "Dude! The giant Chia Pet's about to blow."

Shoulder-to-shoulder they started at the pulsating vat.

"What now?" Dean shouted.

"We have to put the mojo bag inside the beer vat."

"How do you know?"

"I don't." Sam struggled to his feet with Dean's help. "Not for sure anyway."

Dean sized the situation up in a heartbeat. "Hand it over," he ordered.

"Why?"

"I'm oldest."

Whoosh…whish threatened the beer vat.

"Together," Sam compromised.

Whoosh…whish…bang…bang….clunk.

Dean nodded. "This better work," he threatened, tugging Sam close, wrapping an arm around his waist and supporting much of his weight. "Or all those mojo bags we filled last night will be a total waste of $19.95."

Sam shot Dean a look.

"Don't bitchface me."

The pressure in the copper kettle was massive, nuts and bolts suddenly shooting out and whistling through the air as dangerous as any bullet.

"Go!" They shouted, rushing toward the steaming Old Faithful-like vat.

Sam mustard all his determination keeping both eyes on the open hatch, that was just about covered in green ooze.

"Hope your pitch is as awesome as your slide, little brother," Dean muttered sincerely as he rounded a hunk of rusted metal.

Sam dug his fingers into the mojo bag.

"Sweet spot, Sammy, sweet spot," Dean urged breathlessly as hot, foggy steam damn near blinded him.

They rushed past the hatch.

Sam took a deep breath and threw the last bag on the run.

"Yee – friggin' – haw," Dean drawled like a true Texan, seeing the mojo bag disappear inside the vat as they passed by.

They'd only gotten a few yards, when behind them a series of thundering explosions followed by the smell of melting-hot metal and a sick indescribable odor filled the air.

"Oh, man, that's bad." Dean squeezed Sam firmly against him not chancing a look back and laying low, as he whisked them toward the entrance. "Move, Sam, move!"

"Hell you think I'm doing," Sam panted, feet tangling.

They were only a few feet from the exit when the vat blew – a white-hot-orange-black earth shattering blast.

"Sammy, down!" Dean shoved Sam in front of him, shielding his brother's body with his as they went airborne, sailing through the air.

Then everything went quiet.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

Tag:

Dean drug in a wheezy breath and opened his eyes looking up into the rain that sprinkled down. Rising shakily up to one elbow, he ran a hand over his face and shook the drops from his hair.

What was left of the brewery rumbled and cracked as bricks, metal, and timber settled in the aftermath of the explosion.

"How the hell did we manage to escape that sticky situation?" Dean mumbled noting they'd been thrown clear of the fallen building by a good hundred yards.

No one answered his question and the sharp silence was a solid kick to his brain. "Sam!"Dean jumped straight to his feet like a jack-in-the-box and whipped around, eyes immediately finding the object of his desire not far away.

Sam wasn't moving. Stretched out on his belly, face turned away and arms out at his sides, lying in a large puddle of rainwater.

With a shriek of fear, Dean charged forward doing a reverse jack-in-the-box as he fell straight to the ground on his ass next to Sam.

"You're good. You're good, Sammy," he muttered half-uncertain, half –demanding as he leaned over to grasp Sam by the shoulders with shaking hands and gently roll him onto his back.

Sam came over like melted cheese – breathing heavily, eyes closed.

"Hey." Dean's hands where all over Sam, quickly rechecking for injury. "Sammy!"

Sam's eyelids fluttered, but didn't stay open.

Finding only a few more cuts and bruises, and a bloody graze along the boy's temple, Dean scooted up leaning over. "Sam?" He cupped Sam's chin and gave a little jostle.

Boom!

The sound of the building settling further sent Sam upright, bolt straight. "Dean," he hoarsely screeched, hand reaching out and snatching repeatedly at the air.

"Got you," Dean caught Sam's hand, lacing their fingers and holding tight. "I got you," he said, quickly bringing their entwined hands down to rest on top of Sam's heaving chest. "You're good," he said again in shaky voice, even though he didn't like the dark bruise-like smudges under his brother's eyes, or how pale and cold Sam appeared to be.

Sam's eyes narrowed as he scanned what was left of the pulverized brewery.

Clouds of dust hung thick over crumbled brick and twisted metal, puffs of gray smoke curling out and rising skyward.

"We made it out of that?"

"The Winchesters' have left the building," Dean said proudly, slipping a hand behind Sam's head and lifting him up to sitting.

Sam shuddered, still staring, puzzled. "We made it?"

Dean leaned in, grasping Sam's chin once again and making eye contact. "Keep up with me, geek…we made it."

Sam blinked sleepily at Dean "You're bleeding." He raised a weak and shaky hand up the side of Dean's face.

"Nothing a couple beers won't cure," Dean cracked wise.

Sam shook his head and swallowed on a bubbling gasp swaying woozily.

Dean frowned. "Sam?" He let go of Sam's chin. "How many fingers do you see?" He held up four fingers.

Sam hesitated, studying Dean's hand. "Too many," he finally whispered. "Dizzy, Dean."

Dean snorted, "Sounds like a new rock band." He wrapped an arm around Sam and lifted him to his feet. "Let's get you back to the car."

"Yeah," Sam murmured, head lolling as he lumbered along next to Dean. "Let's."

Sam burrowed close to Dean, a bundle of shivering limbs, stumbling along.

"Bro, could you get any bigger?" Dean complained, smiling when he saw Baby parked behind an outcropping of large oak trees, knowing she wouldn't' have a dent on her.

"Only my head," Sam slurred.

"In your case that would be a bad thing…any bigger and your head will explode like that beer vat." Dean cackled.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Dean wrenched the car door open and settled Sam inside.

"Eat me." Sam's eyes focused on Dean a moment then closed as he dropped off to sleep.

"I've heard snappier comebacks from a bag of Pop Rocks," he muttered, snapping Sam into his seatbelt. "Just rest, Sammy." Dean patted Sam's chest tenderly, then shut the door quietly, slogging around to the driver side and sliding in behind the wheel. He looked over at Sam, shaking his head. Boy was out for the count already. "Looks like you'll be out all night. Guess it's up to me to get this beerfeast back on the rails. A cold six pack, a hot pizza, and The Dark Knight Rises on Casa Erotica."

Dean smiled broadly, flipped the radio on low, and headed them down the road.

The end.

/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/

AN: Story idea for 'trapped, carbon-dioxide- Sam came from a true story I read on the net.

While it is perhaps understandable that some may be amused by the thought of drowning in beer, death by suffocation in an empty vessel is a different matter. That is what happened to two workers at the Tooheys Brewery in Sydney on Christmas day in 1952. Three men had been assigned to hose out recently emptied brewery vats. The usual practice was for water to be played onto the floors of the vats to dissolve and disperse the left-over carbon-dioxide. One of the men fell into a vat from a catwalk, and was immediately overcome by the gas. His two companions jumped in to rescue him, but were also overcome. Only one of the three men survived.