Ten minutes later, Dean was across town; wandering around the museum, looking at artifacts, and listening about the Two Rivers tribe. Learning more than he wanted to know about the harsh and stony land they had come to many years ago, which supposedly was the home on earth of the Great Spirit's sacred messenger...and blah, blah, blah.
It was fascinating and useful, and Dean appreciated this guy's time and knowledge – but he was also bored and distracted and hey, Mr. Museum Man...let's just skip to the good part, okay?
Dean sighed, knowing Sam would be silently bitchfacing him right now for being rude, and twitched a smile at the thought of his brother as he continued to glance around the museum, wondering if Sam was okay back at the hotel.
If Sam was still asleep...
If Sam's fever was higher or lower or about the same...
If Sam even remembered that Dean was gone and that he should call his big brother if he needed him...
Because Dean would be there so freakin' fast if he got that call.
Speaking of...
Dean casually patted his phone in the pocket of his coat, making sure it was indeed still there since he hadn't heard it ring or felt it vibrate.
But yeah...it was there.
So, good.
That was good.
If Sam hadn't called, then Sam was fine.
That was their deal.
That was their plan.
If you need me, call me.
And Sam hadn't called, so Sam was fine.
Dean didn't need to worry about his sick little brother because Sam was sleeping off his fever; was getting the rest his body so desperately needed and would be better and more lucid when Dean returned to their hotel room.
Everything was fine.
No news was good news...and all that crap.
So relax, Dean, and ask the nice Museum Man a question to show that you're actually paying attention.
Dean nodded and turned as the Museum Man mentioned offerings.
Because sometimes offerings led to some dark shit; their kind of dark shit.
"What were the offerings?"
Museum Man tilted his head and made a sound like he didn't quite catch what Dean had asked.
Dean tried not to sigh – because really, he didn't have time to repeat himself if he was going to wrap this up and get back to Sam soon.
Museum Man blinked at him expectantly.
Dean decided to rephrase. "Ah, what did the Great Spirit's sacred messenger ask for?"
Because Dean knew what he would ask for if he could have anything he wanted right now – a healthy little brother.
A little brother who didn't cough up blood and spike fevers and struggle to stand and talk about things that never even happened.
That's what Dean wanted.
Dean wanted a healthy, happy, safe Sammy.
The big brother sighed.
Because that was not the kind of Sammy that was sleeping back at the hotel...and that was so fucking unfair for both of them, especially after everything else they had been through in their crappy lives.
They deserved better.
They deserved their happy ending, dammit.
Dean clenched his jaw.
"Stories," the Museum Man was saying when Dean refocused on him, was answering Dean's earlier question about what the sacred messenger had asked for. "He asked the people to tell him stories."
Dean nodded like that made sense and crossed to one of the old photographs displayed on the wall, narrowing his eyes at one of the Indians pictured.
You're not...you're not really supposed to say 'Indians'...
Dean smiled fondly, remembering Sam telling him that back home at the Batcave and knowing he would be getting the same lesson now if Sam was there.
But Sam wasn't there.
Sam was at the hotel...sick and asleep and running a fever...and by himself.
Dean sighed.
Okay. That was it.
He really needed to go.
His mind wasn't on this case or anything else right now.
His mind was on Sam...and with Sam was where Dean needed to be.
And with Sam was where Dean intended to be in about ten minutes.
Maybe even less if Dean could figure out how to shave a few of those minutes off the drive back to the hotel.
Dean nodded, preparing to tell Museum Man that he appreciated his help and time but he needed to leave...and then paused when he remembered why he had been staring at the faded photograph.
Because one of the Indians seemed strangely familiar...like Dean had seen him before; had recently seen him.
Dean leaned forward for a better look, his eyes slightly widening in recognition as he realized the Indian standing on the left was Dr. Scowly-Scowl himself.
The hotel manager looking exactly the same in this photograph from hundreds of years ago as he did now.
Holy crap.
This just got interesting.
Museum Man had continued to stand behind Dean, talking about the stories the sacred messenger had asked the people for all those years ago, but Dean had seen and heard all he needed.
"I bet I know what the blessings were..." Dean predicted, still staring at the photograph and then startling when his phone suddenly rang.
Museum Man frowned at the unexpected intrusion. "Sir..." he began, his tone as shocked and disapproving as his expression. "Since we consider this a sacred place to honor our ancestors, we ask that visitors not use modern technol – "
Dean held up his hand to stop the speech, because yeah...he didn't care.
Sorry.
And Sam would have probably bitchfaced him about that, too, because Dean had now been rude not once, but twice.
But guess what?
Sam wasn't there.
Instead, Sam was calling from the hotel.
And even though Dean had known that, seeing the kid's name on the caller display of his phone made his heart pound while panic and fear tightened his chest.
"I never should've left you alone..." Dean muttered, freshly annoyed with himself.
Museum Man tilted his head in confusion.
Dean scowled. "I gotta take this..." he announced and stepped away.
Museum Man watched.
Dean accepted the call before the first ring had finished and pressed his phone to his ear.
"Sam..." Dean answered and held his breath.
Because this was going to end one of three ways – loopy Sam calling to discuss something equally loopy...sick Sam calling to ask Dean to come back to the hotel...or too-sick-to-speak Sam calling his big brother out of instinct, which would speak loudest of all.
And since seconds had now passed and Sam hadn't spoken, Dean instantly knew which scenario he was living.
"Shit..." Dean hissed, vaguely wondering if Museum Man was staring at him because the guy could hear his heart pounding.
Dean gripped his phone, pressing it tighter against his ear, listening for clues.
"Sam..."
But Sam didn't respond.
More accurately, Sam couldn't respond.
Because Sam was unconscious.
No longer asleep but passed the fuck out.
Dean knew because he could hear Sam breathing into the phone, could detect the subtle difference from years of experience with listening to his brother breathe in the bed next to his...in the passenger seat...across the table...right beside him or right behind him on a hunt.
Dean knew Sam's breathing patterns – every single one of them.
And what he was hearing now was a passed out Sam.
Dean swallowed at the implication, his mind buzzing with a hundred different ways this could have happened.
But the details didn't matter.
What mattered was that Sam had followed through with their plan – if you need me, call me – and had managed to call Dean before undoubtedly dropping like a rock.
Dean only hoped that Sam had dropped in their room and not somewhere else at the hotel.
But Dean couldn't hear any other movement on the opposite end of the line...just Sam's slow, shallow breaths.
So that was a good sign.
In this otherwise fucked-up situation, that was a good sign.
It meant there was a good chance that Sam was not in danger – was not being abducted or attacked or god knows what else.
Sam was most likely still alone and relatively safe from outside forces.
Instead, the battle was inside; was internal.
The enemy was the slow burn of a rising fever consuming Sam's body like a barn on fire; the increasing temperature scorching Sam's system to the point of completely shutting down.
Like when an overheated machine automatically clicked off and powered down, conserving energy as it turned inward to reboot and restart.
But Sam's body couldn't reboot and restart if his fever had reached a certain level.
Sam would need help cooling down – would need Dean's help...which was why the kid had called.
If you need me, call me.
Sam had followed through with his end of the deal.
It was Dean's turn now.
"Okay..." Dean sighed, trying to pull himself together and think.
Because Sam needed him to think.
Sam was counting on him to make this better.
Sam had called him.
Dean swallowed. "Sammy. I'm coming, okay?" he soothed his brother, knowing Sam couldn't respond but unable to resist the big brother default – to soothe your little brother when he was sick or injured whether he could respond to you or not.
So Dean continued to talk.
"Just hang tight, man..." he urged Sam. "I'm coming. Okay? I'm coming right now."
But first...
Dean twisted his phone away from his mouth, still holding it against his hear to listen to Sam breathe but focusing on Museum Man who continued to stand nearby.
"Hey..." Dean called, although the man was staring straight at him. "This is a museum and trading post, right?"
Museum Man nodded.
"Which means you have ice?"
Because a trading post was similar to a general store and most general stores had ice, so...this place had to have ice, too.
The logic made sense to Dean.
Museum Man blinked. "Ice?" he repeated as though he had never heard of it.
Jesus...
"Ice," Dean confirmed, his tone sharp. "Bags of ice," he added. "I need bags of ice."
Maybe five or six or however many this place had.
Dean would take the whole fucking freezer because he knew with the sixth sense of a big brother that Sam was burning up. That his little brother was literally burning alive from the inside, and he would have to get Sam's fever down fast.
Tub full of ice water fast.
But before Dean could do that, he needed the fucking ice, so...
"Hey!" Dean barked, snapping his fingers in front of Museum Man's face. "Do you have ice or not?"
Because Dean would rather buy a shitload of ice here and haul it back to the hotel than have to make god knows how many trips to the hotel ice machine.
There wouldn't be time for that.
Honestly, there was even time for this.
Dean sighed harshly, about this close to doing something he would probably regret...when Museum Man finally nodded.
"Yes," he answered, understandably wary of Dean, and gestured to the left of the room. "The trading post is on the other side of the building. They have bags of ice and – "
" – good," Dean interrupted, not needing a list of other items they kept stocked.
As long as they had ice, Dean didn't give a rat's ass what else they had.
He just needed ice, and he needed it right fucking now.
Dean nodded. "Thanks," he told Museum Man before refocusing on his phone and holding still long enough to listen to Sam breathe.
In and out...
In and out...
Slow and shallow but steady.
That was good.
"Atta boy, Sammy..." Dean praised his unconscious brother over the phone. "Just keep breathing, man. Keep hanging on. I'm coming..."
And with that, Dean ran out of the museum, keeping his phone to his ear as he dodged a few people on the sidewalk and burst into the trading post next door.
"I need ice," Dean announced. "Now."
The older woman behind the counter blinked at him. "Sure," she agreed, seemingly unruffled at being growled at by a stranger.
She smoothed her braid over her shoulder.
"What size bag?" she asked. "We have small, medium, lar – "
" – large," Dean told her. "Definitely large. However many you have..."
Because Dean's little brother was large...and it was going to take a large amount of ice to fill the hotel room bathtub.
The woman nodded. "Sure," she replied again, patient and kind. "There's a freezer on the front porch," she told him, gesturing outside.
Dean nodded, not even bothering to look. "Good. Help me load it," he ordered. "I'll drive up..." he added and exited the trading post.
The woman arched an eyebrow but followed behind her customer, waiting on the porch as the stranger crossed to a big black car parked in front of the museum.
"Sam..." Dean called, his hand cramping from how tightly he was still holding his phone. "I'm coming," he assured his brother. "I know it feels like fucking forever..."
Or at least, it did to Dean.
"But I'm coming, man..." the big brother promised. "You keep breathing and not dying, you hear me?"
Dean knew he did.
Somewhere deep down, Sam always heard him.
Just like Dean always heard Sam.
Dean swallowed, digging the Impala's keys from his pocket as he walked; unlocking the driver's side door and sliding behind the steering wheel; cranking the engine and driving the short distance from the museum to the trading post.
Listening to Sam breathe the entire time.
In and out...
In and out...
Dean smiled. "Good, Sammy..." he told his brother and parked the Impala, leaving the engine running and the driver's side door open as he joined the woman on the porch of the trading post.
"We have six large bags," she reported and gestured toward the freezer. "You still want them all?"
"Yes," Dean replied. "Absolutely."
He only wished there was more.
But six bags would work.
He would run the tub with cold water first and then add the ice...and that would work.
That would have to work.
Dean nodded in agreement with his plan and reached into the freezer as the woman opened the small front door, grabbing the tops of two bags and crossing to the Impala.
The woman did the same but carried one bag of ice in each hand.
Dean didn't have that luxury, still holding his phone with one hand and then propping it between his chin and shoulder as he opened the backseat door.
The woman frowned, clearly wondering why they weren't loading the bags of ice in the trunk.
But Dean didn't have time for that since the key to the trunk was on the same ring as the key to the actual Impala, which was still in the ignition since the Chevy was still running...and Dean didn't have time to explain all of this, just load the fucking bags in the backseat.
Thanks.
Dean sighed, nodding his permission. "Just put them in..." he told her, slinging his bags of ice on the seat and then turning to cross back to the freezer for the last two.
Because his first two, plus the woman's first two, plus these last two would equal six.
Two, four, six.
Six large bags of ice.
The woman watched the stranger approach, having loaded her two bags of ice and now just standing by the Impala; the car rumbling as the engine continued to run.
Dean loaded the last two bags in the backseat and slammed the door. "How much?" he asked the woman, reassured by the constant sound of Sam breathing in his ear over the phone.
In and out...
In and out...
"Twenty," the woman answered.
Twenty dollars to potentially save Sam's life.
It was a bargain.
It was fucking priceless.
Just please, please, please let this work.
Please let Dean get back to the hotel in time.
Please let Sam keep breathing.
Please...
The woman blinked at Dean, patiently waiting with her hands clasped in front of her.
Dean nodded, acknowledging the price of the ice, and slid his wallet from his back pocket; propping it against his hip long enough to open it with one hand and pull out a twenty dollar bill.
The woman accepted it as Dean returned his wallet to his jeans and resumed his place behind the Impala's steering wheel, still holding his phone as he reached with his other hand to close the driver's side door.
But the woman intervened, suddenly grasping the edge of the door and keeping it open.
Dean glared, preparing to warn her that he would drag her down the fucking street if she didn't let go...but the woman spoke first.
"May the Great Spirit be with you," she told him, looking directly at Dean. "May you succeed as you battle fire with ice."
Dean blinked.
Because how could this woman possibly know what he was planning to do with the ice?
How could she know what kind of battle awaited him back at the hotel?
How could she know what Dean stood to lose if this ice didn't bring Sam's fever down?
How could she know?
Yet as Dean briefly held her gaze, he had no doubt that she did – she knew.
Dean swallowed. "Thank you," he replied; genuinely appreciative, strangely calmed.
The woman nodded, releasing the Impala's door as she turned and disappeared inside the trading post.
Dean sat there in the driver's seat, momentarily stunned by her words.
Over the phone, Sam continued to breathe in Dean's ear, reminding the big brother of who was waiting for him back at the hotel; of who was counting on him; of who needed him to snap out of it and move his ass.
Dean nodded, pulling the driver's side door shut and shifting the Impala into gear.
"Alright, Sammy..." Dean called to his unconscious brother. "I'm coming..." he promised, his entire boot covering the gas pedal as he floored it.
The Impala instantly responded, surging forward with a spray of gravel and a cloud of dust as she spun out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading back to the hotel.
TBC