AN: Okay, I know it's been forever since I updated this, but I working on finishing stories this summer before I start new ones. (Please keep the scoffing laughter to a minimum). Some of you may need to read the beginning of this story and its sequel all over again to remember what happend, and for that, I apologize.

Disclaimed: I don't own and I really want to know what happens next season!

--

As Dean squinted at the yard through a blur of sweat, he reflected that chopping logs had to the worst work in the world. Worse than a painting a house or training or even that awful military course Dad had made him run once, the one where he had to crawl on his hands and knees under barb wire and then jump over a high wall at the end, Dad making him do it a hundred times to work on his timing.

But chopping logs – Dean had no idea it could be so awful, so draining and exhausting. After all, it was just raising an axe above his head and letting it drop. But he had to raise it really high and bring it down with enough force to break through the logs. By the twentieth log, Dean would have sworn he was trying to cut through petrified woods, like that place out west, the Petrified Forest that Dad had thought demons had made.

They had driven out there, just him and Dad when Sam was in college. Rather than go out to the middle of the desert and investigate the actual logs, Dad had decided to start in the tourist center. They had talked to the people that worked there, gone into the gift shop, and even seen the movie about how the rocks were formed. The scientists had come to the conclusion that evolution over a million years had caused the wood to turn to stone. By the end of the movie Dean had thought that he himself had turned to stone, sitting there watching it drone on and on.

"Hey, Dean? Dean!"

Dean jerked awake, coming back from the Petrified Forest to Bobby's backyard where Sam was yelling at him. "Yeah, what?"

"You blanked out on me," Sam accused.

"I did not," Dean shifted his weight, keeping the head of his axe on the ground but balancing the other end with his palm. "I was thinking."

"Don't strain yourself," Sam advised. "I know it's hard for you."

"Bitch," Dean shot at him, but he couldn't help smiling. "Okay, how many logs left?"

"Dude, we haven't even made a dent in them," Sam gestured to the yard where all the logs covered the worn grass and short shrub. "We've chopped about fifty, and I don't see that much of a difference."

"There has to be," Dean looked around the yard, turning about to see the whole thing. They had started at the edge and worked their way into the yard, but the space they had cleared barely made any room in the whole yard.

"I was wrong – there must be five hundred logs here," Sam threw out his arms in despair. "We've been working for almost three hours. That's a rate of twenty logs an hour from us combined. That means it would take us twenty-five hours to finish this!"

"Ah, screw you and your college math," Dean snarled.

"College math?" Sam retorted. "That's like fifth-grade math."

"We're not fighting," Dean tried to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "We got to save our energy."

"My hands hurt," Sam complained.

"Such a girl," Dean shook his head. But his own hands were aching, too, probably from griping the axe handle too tight.

"You think we can ask Bobby for gloves?" Sam ventured.

"Oh, yeah, that's a great idea. Go him whining about blisters. What time is it?"

Sam walked over to the stump where they had put all their stuff. The spring morning had been cold, and they had started out to chop in coats. The coats were soon tossed on the stump along with their long sleeved shirts, and both brothers stood in tee-shirts soaked with sweat. Sam had put his watch on the stump, and he picked it up now to glance at the time.

"Almost eleven," Sam reported, setting the watch back down by an odd-looking rock.

"Okay, we work for another hour," Dean advised. "Then we inside for lunch or water or blister cream or whatever."

San grimaced, but said, "Fine."

The axe felt like iron as Dean lifted it and brought it crashing down on the log. He liked the noise the wood made as it split, a crunching, ripping noise that boomed over the yard. And even though Sam was taller, Dean thought his axe made more noise than Sam's.

They worked in silence, splitting the logs into small pieces and then carrying them to the growing woodpile. It felt good to carry the logs and take a break from swinging the axe, but each time he returned to chopping, Dean found it harder and harder to raise the axe.

Sam was working at the same rate, maybe a little slower because he kept trying to find a place on the handle that didn't hurt his hands. Dean rolled his eyes and kept working.

The sun rose high in the sky, but Dean kept on, refusing to ask Sam to see what time it was again. His back hurt, a dull sort of ache that pinched between his shoulder blades. Dean's arms hurt, too, along with his hands and strangely enough the back of his neck.

He approached a particularly large log and took a deep breath. The axe weighed a hundred-million pounds, and Dean tried not to groan as he lifted it. His arms felt weak, and even as he brought the axe down, he knew it was not hard enough. Sure enough, the blade of the axe thudded into the wood but did not split it. The handle jerked in Dean's hand, and he winced at the jarring impact.

Perhaps he might have been fine and pulled out the axe to try again or simply announced he was done, but before he could anything, Sam laughed. Not a cruel laugh, just that short scoffing noise Sam made when Dean did something he considered dumb.

Dean whirled to face him. Sam had the axe resting on the ground, head-down the same way Dean had been holding it earlier. Sam opened his mouth to say something, maybe something mean or something kind or just something casual, but he never got to say the words.

"Agh!" with a yell, Dean charged at him.

Sam opened his eyes wide, but Dean hit him at the waist, knocking him back to the ground.

"You're – crazy!" Sam shouted as he tumbled back on the grass with Dean on top of him. "I didn't do anything."

"You did plenty," Dean snarled. He ground his hands down on Sam's shoulders, pushing him into the ground, and then pulled back to stand up.

But Sam had reached his breaking point. Yelling, he grabbed Dean and threw him down on the ground.

For the next few minutes, they fought/wrestled on the ground, not really hurting each other but not really playing nice either.

Dean got shoved into a log and Sam nearly cracked his head on the axe head, but they managed to keep out danger as they rolled to the edge of the yard where it was more dirt and mud than grass. Dean had Sam face down – he was not sure how he got the taller boy there, but Sam's face was smushed down in the dirt and he was hollering for Dean to let him.

"No!" Dean yelled. "Eat the dirt – eat it!"

"Boys," the bellow came from behind them.

Immediately, Dean jumped up to face Bobby, but Sam just rolled over the grass, too tired to stand up, flopping his arms out in exhaustion.

"That bit about fighting was just a joke," Bobby frowned. "I didn't expect you to start brawling in the yard."

"Sorry," Dean rubbed the back of his sore neck. "Just kind of got carried away."

"He started it," Sam said from the ground.

"I told you to take breaks," Bobby went on, displeased. "I have water and ice lemonade for you – I didn't expect you to try to work four hours straight."

"Sorry," Dean said again. "We weren't making a lot of progress. It got harder as we went on."

"How many times did you sharpen the axes?"

Dean glanced at Sam who glared back at him.

"Uh –" Dean stalled for time.

"You didn't even sharpen the axes?" Bobby shook his head. "I put a whetting stone on that stump," he pointed to the stump where their coats lay, "for you to sharpen the axe at least once. Some the logs are damp – blade gets dull pretty quick."

"I told him we should, but he refused to listen," Dean hedged.

"Did not!" Sam yelled from the ground, still lying there.

"Kids – what are you going to do?" Dean shrugged. "We'll come in now and start again after lunch."

"Good," Bobby crossed his arms, giving Dean a stern look. "And next time save your energy for the work."

"Sure thing," Dean grinned. He headed for the axes, planning to put them away until later when he would sharpen them first thing. The thought of food did sound good, and the mention of lemonade made his mouth water.

He had taken only two steps when he heard Sam shout out. Whirling around, Dean froze as he saw his brother.

Sam had jumped to his feet. He was jerking around, slapping his hands at his torso, yelling as he jumped. A moment later, Dean saw the movement on his shirt and arms, hundreds of red little dots blurring together.

Sam was screaming, more from pain than fear. Bobby rushed forward to grab the writhing young man, pulling him forward in the grass. In a quick flash, Bobby ripped Sam's tee-shirt.

"Hurry," Bobby ordered. "We'll hose them off. Dean, go turn on the water."

Dean raced towards the house before he could even think what he was doing. But one thing was crystal clear.

Sam had rolled over into a fire ant hill.

--

"It could be worse," Bobby noted as he stirred the paste of baking soda and water in small bowl. "They mostly bit your chest. Didn't have quite enough time to go any lower."

Sam made a low whining noise in reply. Stripped down to just his boxers with his hair still wet, he was straddled over a chair backwards. He clutched the back of the chair, waiting for Bobby to treat the bites on his back which were far more numerous than those on his chest.

"Aren't – aren't you supposed to put that antibiotic stuff on there?" Dean gestured to the red, bumpy skin.

"No, cortisone works best, but I'm out of it," Bobby explained. "Baking soda and water will take most of the sting out, but it will be a few days before the bites clear up altogether."

"Should we give him a beer? Whiskey?" Dean couldn't take his eyes off Sammy's back. Sam must have been bitten over three hundred times. Dean could barely see any normal skin from all the red bites.

"No, some ibuprofen will do," Bobby said as he gathered some of the paste on a clean, smooth cloth. "Alcohol will just worse the pain. All right, hold still."

Sam braced himself for the first application of the paste, but when Bobby smeared the first of it on, Sam jerked forward. "Ah-ah," he arched his back trying to get away from the cloth. "No, no, it hurts too much."

"Just bear with me, kid," Bobby kept rubbing it on. "It just hurts for a second."

Sam looked like he didn't quite believe Bobby, but he held onto the chair and did not move. As Bobby moved up to coat his shoulders, Sam finally started to relax.

"You're right," Sam admitted. "It doesn't hurt as much as it did. I want to scratch though."

"No scratching," Bobby told him firmly. "One I get this on, I'll find you a long sleeve shirt to wear. Something cotton, that won't rub but will keep the paste from coming off."

"How did they get on him so quickly?" Dean asked, still standing a few back. "I mean one moment we were rolling around, and the next, they were all over him."

"They just move fast. And since Sam has been working, he was probably sweaty and didn't feel them until they started biting."

"I'm sorry, man," Dean started to apologize, but Sam shook his head.

"No, we were both goofing around."

"Get him some water," Bobby told Dean.

It took nearly thirty minutes to get the paste all over Sam. He tried to spread the stuff on his stomach himself, but it hurt to move his arms that much. Bobby spread it out, but when he started on Sam's sides, Sam was overcome with the pain and ticklish sensations, and he begged Bobby to stop.

"He's got to finish," Dean told him. "Otherwise you'll be hurting for days. Come on, it will be over in a few seconds."

"Easy for you to say," Sam growled. "You didn't get jumped by your brother and shoved to the ground and then rolled in an ant pile and then bitten until your skin is on fire. It's burning and the paste stuff is cold, and it really hurts."

"Okay," Dean sat across the small table from him. Any other time he would have laughed – his younger, 6'4 brother straddling a chair backwards, bare chest smeared with white paste while he clung to the chair back and complained. But he could see the pain in his brother's eyes, the same eyes that had looked up to him for so many years.

"Give me your hands," Dean stretched his own arms across the table.

Same blinked, but then reached his hands out. Dean grabbed them, holding onto Sam's wrists.

"Okay, you grab my wrists, too," Dean directed. "And while he finishes up, you squeeze as hard as you like."

Dean felt Sam's strong fingers dig into his wrists. They were tight, and Bobby had not even started applying the stuff yet. Dean was afraid Bobby might say something about Sam being childish or roll his eyes even though Sam could not see him.

But Bobby only said, "Okay, right side first."

Dean felt it the moment Bobby applied the paste to Sam's right side. Sam jerked up a few inches and dug his fingers into Dean's wrists. Sam had his lips pressed together – whether to keep from screaming or laughing, Dean could not tell.

As Bobby started up Sam's side, higher and higher on his ribs, Sam's face screwed up in pain. Dean wanted to laugh (he'd forgotten how ticklish Sam had been as a child and apparently still was as an adult), and from the face Sam was making, you'd think he was being tortured.

"Ah!" a small, high yelp escaped Sam's lips as Bobby swiped right under his armpit. Bobby did roll his eyes at that, but Dean found that he himself was unable to laugh. Sam's grip was getting unbearable around his wrists, crunching like a vice.

Bobby must have hit a sensitive nerve because suddenly Sam yanked back, nearly pulling Dean's arms out of their sockets.

"Ow!" Dean growled. "No, you don't."

He pulled back, making Sam leaned forward against the chair back, Sam's arms out on the table.

"Come on, Bobby, finish it," Dean ordered. "I got him. Get that stuff on him while I still have my arms."

"This is all your fault," Sam accused, the first sign of tears rimming his eyes. "You have no idea how much this hurts – Oh! Not there, Bobby."

Bobby, who had moved to the other side, hastily smeared the paste on, going as fast as he could while Sam twisted and writhed in Dean's grasp. In a way, it almost seemed like an exorcism. Dean though the bites could be the demon, Sam was the host, and Bobby was the exorcist while Dean tried to control the physical raging of the possessed host.

"And done," Bobby stepped back.

Sam slumped against the table breathing hard. Dean pulled his hands free, wincing at the red marks around his wrists. He rubbed the marks gently, commenting, "Okay, that's done. What next?"

"Nothing," Bobby said. "We'll put him in a shirt, get him to rest, keep him from scratching. He needs to drink a lot of water. And stay out of the sun. You'll be on your own this afternoon, Dean. You knock out some more logs and Sam can help me clean up my library."

"Sounds fair," Dean admitted though he was not looking forward to chopping all by himself that afternoon. But he felt guilty about Sam – Dean knew what ant piles looked like and he should have noticed them before pushing Sam into one.

Bobby carried the bowl of paste back to the sink and then he turned to face the brothers. "Either of you do something so foolish again, and I'll tan both your hides."

Dean felt his face flush red, but Sam protested, "I'm the one that got bitten."

"And if I have to sort you two out again, I'll make those red bites feel like puppy dog nips," Bobby threatened. "Got it?"

"Yes, sir," Dean and Sam muttered together. Sam tried to look rebellious, but covered in white paste, he did not quite pull it off and looked more sulky than defiant.

"Good," Bobby stated. "Dean, go get the axes and sharpen them while I get lunch ready. Sam, I had a white shirt hanging in the laundry area that you can wear for today."

Dean started for the door, and Sam rose shakily, trying not to shake off the drying paste.

Bobby looked Sam over. "You should be all right. At least, until we put more paste on tonight."

Sam shot Dean a horrified look, but Dean was running for the door. He made it outside before Sam could protest, and Dean didn't stop until he reached the yard and grabbed both of the axes to sharpen.