Disclaimer: No ownership or infringement intended. No profits are being made. Complete responsibility for all mistakes is mine and mine alone.

A/N: Forgive me fandom, for I have sinned...not only was I slow in posting (again), but I have delivered a much shorter than normal chapter and I didn't exactly come through on the limpness that I had promised for this chapter. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn't seem to find an obvious chapter break in the middle of the limpness that didn't seem forced, awkward and/or disappointing. Right hand up to God, swear on a stack of Bibles, I promise that the next chapter will be completely devoted to dishing out the Limp!Sam.


Atrox

Yeah, a storm is threatening,

My very life today;

If I don't get some shelter,

Lord, I'm gonna fade away.

War, children, it's just a shot away,

It's just a shot away;

War, children, it's just a shot away,

It's just a shot away.

----

Excerpt "Gimme Shelter" - Rolling Stones


From the previous chapter:

Dean left the rec room and walked down the short hallway before turning and heading quietly up the steps. The house was quiet, Debra, Dennis and most of the other guests having gradually retired to their respective quarters over the past hour. He silently slipped into his room but didn't turn on the light, fearing that the bright glow would shine through the open bathroom doors and disturb Sam.

Waking Sam when he needed the sleep so badly was something Dean didn't want to do, but he decided to risk a tip-toed trip through the shared bathroom to peek in on his younger brother. To ensure a stealthy approach across the potentially noisy ceramic tile, Dean removed his boots and padded through the small connecting room in his stocking feet.

He poked his head around the doorjamb and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. Dean chuckled quietly when he spied the large lump hidden underneath the covers. He hadn't seen Sam cocoon himself like that since he was six or seven years old and the sight of it brought a grin to his face.

Dean stood and watched for a minute, grateful that his brother didn't stir and was finally getting a restful night's sleep. He listened for another few seconds to Sam's deep and unwaveringly consistent breathing.

"G'night, Sammy. Glad you're feelin' better, baby brother," Dean whispered into the night, before turning and treading quietly back to his own bed.

****

Chapter 10: Gimme Shelter

Back in Thyme Bed & Breakfast
Crowheart, Wyoming

The following morning

Dean could feel the gentle warming of the sun's first rays on his face as they slipped stealthily through the delicate holes of the eyelet curtains at his window and splashed across his bed. It was unusual for him to awaken at the first hint of morning. That was more Sam's thing. In fact, depending on what types of dreams plagued Sam's sleep, he often rose before what most people would even define as 'morning'.

But his bed had proven to be as close to heaven on earth as Dean imagined you could get and he'd slept more soundly than he had in a long, long time. Maybe that was why his slumber had ended so early. Whatever the reason, he was wide awake and there was no denying it. There wouldn't be much point in trying to turn over and convince himself otherwise.

Dean pushed the soft linens aside and rose to his feet, stretching away the last remnants of sleep, and ambled the few steps to the window. Pushing open the curtain with the back of his hand, he stared out at the sun-washed landscape below. The rough, craggy terrain of the mountains that poked up in the not-so-distant background framed the scene with a rugged beauty of their own.

The young hunter stood, peering out the window and listening for sounds of stirring from his little brother's room, but heard only the sound of happily twittering birds filtering in from outside. If the fact that Sam fell asleep early the night before had been an indication that Sam had been pushing himself too hard, the fact that he was still sleeping in this morning was incontrovertible proof, at least as far as Dean was concerned, that his little brother was far more exhausted by the renewed traveling than he had been admitting to. Knowing the rest would do him good, Dean decided to allow Sam to continue sleeping while he went downstairs and grabbed a cup of coffee.

The older Winchester dressed quickly and slipped quietly out the door, the pungent aroma of premium coffee luring him down the steps and in the direction of the rear of the house. As he clumped lazily into the sun-drenched kitchen, Debra looked up from the morning paper she was scanning while Dennis busily fussed over trays of fancy croissants and danishes and plates of fruits sliced and shaped into the likenesses of flowers and exotic birds.

"Oh, Dean, dear, please come and sit," Debra burbled out as she animatedly indicated the tall stool directly across from where she sat at the thick wooden butcher's block kitchen island. "I trust you and your brother slept well last night?"

"Yes, very well, thank you."

Dennis wiped his hands off on a nearby kitchen towel and poured a mug of coffee for himself and one for Dean. He settled onto the stool next to his wife and pushed the cup of steaming brew in Dean's direction. In that moment it struck Dean just how much Dennis' love of cooking seemed at odds with his outward persona. The cuisinier's stocky build, thick shock of wavy graying hair and bushy walrus-style mustache gave him the appearance of someone that would be more at home herding cattle across the lonely ranges than plying the tools and skills of domesticity in a gourmet kitchen. Had Dennis been blessed with a slightly taller and more wiry frame, he could have easily passed for one of the many rough and tumble cowboy characters often portrayed by Sam Elliot.

"So what do you boys have planned for today?," Dennis' kind voice rumbled out from behind his coffee mug as he eyed the doorway behind Dean expectantly. Although Debra and Dennis had only seen the boys together for a short time after they arrived and for the hour or two over dinner, it was obvious to the couple by the way Sam and Dean had interacted with each other, that the brothers had a close bond. Dennis was certain that when Dean showed up, Sam wouldn't be far behind.

Dean swallowed some of the java, savoring its rich taste and contemplating just how much of their true purpose for being in Crowheart that he was willing to reveal. He wasn't even certain that Colt's journal existed but, if it did, he supposed you could call it an Old West artifact. He stole another quick gulp of the sumptuously full-bodied brew before answering Dennis' question.

"We're out here looking for some Old West artifacts to add to our collection. Thought we might check out some of the local dealers." Dean took another swig from his cup, the invigorating taste of the gourmet dark roast a decidedly welcome change from the usual acrid swill they found at the convenience stores. "Speaking of the Old West," he went on, "we never did get a chance last night at dinner to hear about Samuel Colt's stay in this house."

"Oh! You're right, we didn't! Well," Debra started, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as though she were giving away some national secret. "In Colt's day, Crowheart didn't really exist beyond a few homes that made up a frontier outpost. This house was one of them. It was near on to sunset when Colt rode into the outpost. He was covered in trail dust, his horse so lathered and exhausted it couldn't go on."

Debra paused for dramatic effect, taking a sip of her coffee before leaning just a bit further over the table towards Dean. She clearly enjoyed telling the tale to their guests. "Legend has it that Colt was carrying something very valuable with him on his journey and he'd galloped into town as though the very demons of Hell were on his tail."

Dean knew that Debra's statement was just an expression, her way of conveying that Colt was supposedly in quite a hurry, but he couldn't help but think how true her words might really have been. "Any idea what it was that he was carrying?"

"Not really," Dennis continued on. "It's said that he had a small trunk or strongbox or something with him that he wouldn't let out of his sight. What was in it is anyone's guess at this point. Whatever it was, though, Colt supposedly was very adamant that there would be grave consequences if the box fell into the wrong hands."

"Right," Debra agreed, once again taking over the tale. "And, as I'm sure you know, nighttime was not a safe time for travel in those days. Even if Colt had wanted to risk it, his horse was just too exhausted to continue so he begged the owner of this home for sanctuary."

"Did he...did the homeowner take him in?" So far, the Wilcox's story was hauntingly close to the story the trio of hunters were currently chasing down about Colt's journal and Dean was hungry to hear more.

Dennis set his partially empty coffee cup down and stepped into the role of storyteller once again. "We're really not sure. The whole story could be true. But it could also have just as easily been fabricated so that someone could get their fifteen minutes of fame, too."

Dean looked at his watch and realized that nearly forty-five minutes had passed since he'd wandered downstairs, leaving his baby brother to sleep in, but he wanted to get as much information from Dennis and Debra as he could while they were in a talkative mood. Benton Scruggs' story in Guns & Ammo might just have been a re-telling and exaggeration of a local legend but it was possible that Dennis and Debra might know some tidbit of information that might prove invaluable in their search for the truth.

"So you've never been able to prove or disprove the claim that Colt was here?"

"When we bought the place, the locals told us the story we just told you," Debra explained. "As Dennis began renovations, I contacted historical societies throughout the state trying to find any information that would confirm or dismiss the local legends. I poured through historical documents, newspapers of the era and personal memoirs of the period without finding anything of value."

Dean checked his watch again. Where the hell was Sam? Bobby's absence he could understand. The older hunter had turned in later than Dean and significantly later than Sam. No wonder he was grabbing the chance to lay in for a while. But Sam, he'd been sleeping for more than twelve hours now.

"That's when Dennis made his discovery," Debra stated, looking proudly at her husband, "and the fanciful local tale suddenly became an enigma wrapped in a mystery that was wrapped in a conundrum and bound together by the notoriety of a legendary Old West gunmaker."

"About the time we gave up any hope of ever finding anything interesting," Mr. Wilcox carried on, "I was in the process of remodeling one of the guest rooms. In keeping with our desire to be true to period authenticity, I pulled up the room's wall-to-wall carpeting to get back to the original hardwood floor. That's when I found the strange carving."

"A carving?" Suddenly, Dean's interest was piqued. "What was strange about it?"

"Well, for one thing," Dennis admitted, "it's location is more than a tad bit strange. It's carved into the floorboard just inside the room. I had the bedroom door closed and was down on my knees pulling up the carpet and padding when I found it. Otherwise, I'd have never seen it. It's nearly invisible from a standing position or when the door is open. It's almost as though whoever carved it intended for it to be unnoticeable unless you were on your knees. Crazy, huh?"

"That is crazy," Dean laughed out nervously. Yeah, Dean thought, crazy like a fox! Colt would have known the only people likely to be on their knees at the base of a door would be hunters laying a salt line. Sammy, I may just owe you an apology after all. This hunt may end up being a heck of a lot more than the wild goose chase I thought it was.

The thought of his little brother had Dean looking at his watch again. It was getting beyond unusual for Sam to be this late in getting out of bed. Not only that, but Sam would definitely want to follow up the Wilcox's story and do some heavy-duty research on the origins and meaning of the symbol.

"Anything else that you can tell me about the carving?"

"Just that we've never seen anything like it and we've come up empty-handed on why it's there or what it's supposed to mean despite some very extensive investigation."

"Would we be able to get a look at the symbol? I know it would make Sam's day...the way he loves these old houses, and all."

"Oh, sweetie," Debra gushed apologetically. "I'd love to let you and Sam have a look at it, but that's the room that Cameron is booked into right now and it wouldn't be right to invade his privacy. When he checks out, perhaps?"

"Right. Of course," Dean agreed begrudgingly as he stole another look at his watch. "So what makes you think that Samuel Colt might have carved the symbol and not the home's original owner...or someone more modern, for that matter?"

"The initials 'S. P. C.' are incorporated into the carving's design," Dennis explained. "At first, we thought it was the original owner's initials, especially when we learned his name was Samuel Campbell. That could account for the 'S. C.' initials, but since we weren't able to find out what Samuel Campbell's middle name might have been, we couldn't account for the 'P' initial. With that in mind, the carving alone just didn't prove or disprove the Colt story."

"We did more research, hoping someone from the Campbell family line could solve the mystery of the carving or, at the very least, supply us with Campbell's middle initial. Eventually, I was able to trace the owner's descendants, but...," Debra put her hand to her mouth and a look of deep sadness crossed her face and her eyes became moist. "Oh, dear."

Dennis reached over, embracing his wife's hand lovingly, the softness in his eyes conveying his empathy for his wife's kind and sensitive nature.

"We thought, possibly, a descendant could help us unlock the carving's secrets," Dennis spoke up. "But it wasn't meant to be. Tragedy just seemed to haunt each generation of Campbells. The last descendants we found, another Samuel Campbell and his wife, died in what the authorities called an apparent murder-suicide and their only child, a daughter, died tragically a decade or so later in a house fire in Kansas."

The innkeeper looked affectionately at his wife who was now crying softly. "The search had taken so much out of Debra emotionally," Dennis pointed out. "The Campbells, so many of them dying so young, as though fate had it out for them; well, as you can see, the tragedy of it all really got to her. The S. P. C. initials fit with 'Samuel Paterson Colt' so we agreed to stop looking...agreed it was just better to stick with the romantic notion of an Old West legend riding mysteriously into town and taking lodging here before riding off just as mysteriously."

Dean inhaled deeply before letting it out slowly as he nodded silently and considered the Wilcox's tale. "Well, as I said, we'd love to have a look at the carving. My brother's a big history buff and, geeky as it sounds, Sam's really good at deciphering the meanings of symbols."

Debra chuckled softly at Dean's ribbing of his brother and mopped at the tears that still brimmed at her eyes. "Speaking of Sam, where's that adorable little brother of yours hiding himself this morning?"

The eldest Winchester boy peered at the face of his watch and frowned at the numbers displayed there. They'd officially gone beyond 'unusually late' for Sam to sleep in and straight on into the territory of 'unheard of'.

"Good question," Dean admitted. "He's usually up, stomping around with the roosters. If you'll excuse me."

Dean slipped gracefully from the tall kitchen stool, passed through into the hallway and proceeded up the steps towards their rooms. As he passed Bobby's room, he could hear the shower running and the muffled sounds of the older hunter's voice straining to hit the notes of some unrecognizably out-of-key song.

Breezing up to his brother's door, Dean stopped long enough to rap his knuckles hard on the aged wood and speak through the closed door. "Up and at 'em, Princess. Daylight's burnin' and I've got some new info on your buddy, Colt, that I think you might find interesting."

As he turned and walked the remaining few feet to his own bedroom door, Dean half-expected Sam's door to come flying open, his journal-obsessed sibling eager to pump him for the tidbits he'd gained this morning. Instead, Dean crossed the threshold into his room unimpeded by an excited and exuberant little brother and made the turn into the adjoining bathroom.

He hadn't taken the time to shave yet this morning. Had anyone asked, he hadn't done so for fear his electric razor would wake Sam when he had had a rare chance to sleep in. The real reason, though, was that the thought of a steaming hot cup of coffee had been far more tempting and alluring than Dean's current level of willpower could have sustained. That temptation already quelled, Dean pushed the razor's plug into the wall socket and prepared to get the job done. First though, he decided that a bit more harassment of his little brother was in order. Grasping the edge of the bathroom doorsill, he leaned into Sam's room.

"Sammy! Come on! Get the lead out!"

The rumpled mound of blankets stirred minimally, a muffled and unintelligible protest rolling out from underneath them as Dean ducked back into the bathroom to shave away two day's worth of five o'clock shadow.

"As articulate as ever, I see," Dean called out mockingly from his position in front of the mirror. The buzzing wheeze of the electric razor drowning out any retort that came from Sam's room and Dean was happy to think that he'd once again gotten the better of his younger brother.

When Dean finished shaving, he bent and splashed cool water on his face with such enthusiasm that tiny tsunamis washed down his forearms and dripped onto the countertop below. Grabbing the hand towel from its hanger, he roughly mopped at his wet arms before dropping the damp towel onto the water-logged counter.

He snatched up his toothbrush and applied an inordinately excessive amount of toothpaste before shoving the instrument into his mouth and working it quickly backwards and forwards. Then Dean finished up, spitting the foamy residue into the sink and following up, first, with a noisy gargling of tap water and then an equally obnoxious trilling of mouthwash.

The hand towel was now sopping wet from sitting in the puddles of splashed water that had flooded the countertop, but Dean used it to wipe at his mouth as he once again poked his head out into his brother's room. He expected to find Sam dressing, his injured right hand and arm frustrating him with its slow and uncoordinated attempts at tying, zipping or buttoning the various pieces of attire. Instead, Sam was still hibernating under the heavy covers, the whole of his over-sized body obscured from sight, save for the huge boat of a foot that stuck out beyond the reach of the bed linens.

"Geez, Sammy, it's nearly ten A. M. Let's go!" Dean lobbed the saturated towel at Sam's exposed foot and then quickly dove back into the safety zone of the bathroom and then on into his own room, as the wet cloth hit its mark with a resounding and moist 'splootching' sound.

He'd expected an angry bellow followed by an avalanche of baby brother-style bitching, but there was nothing but a heavy silence hanging in the air. Dean silently crept back through the adjoining bathroom, cautiously leaning around the frame of the door lest Sam be lying in wait to ambush him in a quest for revenge. Nothing had changed, though, beyond the fact that Sam had drawn his foot partially back under the towering mound of covers.

Looking at the condition of his kid brother's bed, Dean chuckled quietly to himself. The sight took him back to the years when Sam was still young and innocent. Haven't seen you burrow like that, bro, since you were a kid and you were scared about the monster under your bed.

A sudden realization hit Dean with a force that took his breath away.

...or you were sick.

"Sam?" Dean called tentatively as he crossed the room. "Sammy. I swear to God if you're just lying there playing 'possum..."

Dean's mind was racing. Sam could simply be using one of the oldest ploys in the book – feigning no response until his query was in range to unleash some wickedly clever form of prank payback. Then again, Sam hadn't exactly been the picture of health lately. But, Sam would know Dean's thoughts would head in that direction and that it would make him easy prey, too. Sam wouldn't do that, though...would he? Make Dean worry over nothing just to get his jollies by one-upping him over a silly practical joke?

"Sammy, come on," Dean called out with a slightly desperate hitch in his voice as he reached out to grab the top blanket. "I surrender, ok? ...........Sammy?"

Dean pulled at the tangled wad of covers, clawing his way more frantically through each layer. When his intrusion still garnered no response from Sam, Dean's heart started pounding against his ribs as adrenalin flooded his system and panic overtook him. Sam was getting better, wasn't he? He'd had the headache and vomiting, but he'd said that he was doing ok, that he was doing better. He's just toying with me, right?

"If you're just trying to scare me, you have, alright? You won, Sammy, I'm scared. Ok? You won, now come on."

Dean tugged off the final blanket, expecting Sam to turn over suddenly, his infectious laugh and blazing grin filling the room as his ruse was revealed. Instead, Sam didn't stir and the cheerful floral printed sheets of the bed stood in stark contrast to his huddled form.

Sam lay curled into a loose fetal position on his right side, facing away from Dean, his left arm hugged close to his chest and his heavily bandaged right arm bent at the elbow and extending upward, alongside the pillow. Sam's hair had been dampened by sweat until it hung in delicate curls of chocolate-colored ringlets and his t-shirt clung to his body.

"Sam?" Dean reached out and touched his little brother's shoulder as he called his name, pulling Sam over onto his back when the touch failed to elicit a response. As he flopped listlessly onto his back, Sam's left arm followed the motion before slipping flaccidly down onto the bed next to his body.

"Sammy?" Dean grasped his younger brother by the left shoulder and shook him firmly. "Sammy!"

The younger man's skin was marked by a pasty sallowness that seemed in direct contrast to the intense warmth that billowed from his body. Beads of sweat stippled his face, morphing in size and shape until they merged into droplets so large that they rolled along, tracing a lazy trail of dampness across the heated skin.

Dean's eyes flashed back and forth over his brother's form as his heart beat wildly in his chest. Suddenly, he had no idea what he should do next. His mind whirred with so many possibilities, each scrabbling for Dean's attention that he felt as though his circuits were overloaded.

He shot from the room, noisily tromping down the hallway as quickly as he could before sliding to a stop in front of Bobby's door. Using one of his large fists, he pounded on the locked door as hard as he could manage.

"Bobby!," Dean bellowed desperately while continuing to hammer loudly at the door. "Bobby, open up! Open the door, Goddammit!"

The lock to Bobby's room clicked loudly before the door flew open wide, a frown of irritation marring Bobby's face. "Jesus, Dean! You tryin' to wake the..."

The older hunter never got a chance to finish his sentence as Dean quickly cut him off.

"Sam," Dean panted, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that he was doubled partway over, having trouble catching his breath. "I....need.....the stuff."

Before the confused hunter could get any details as to what Dean was going on about, the younger man had roughly pushed his way in and was frantically searching the room, digging into the various drawers and bags, their contents spilled haphazardly wherever they fell.

"Where are they?!"

"Where's what," Bobby questioned angrily, his irritation growing as Dean continued trashing his room without explanation. "Jesus, Dean, what the hell's gotten into you?"

"The medical supplies! I need the medical supplies!" Seconds later, he found what he was looking for tucked into the shadows of the back corner of the closet, easily accessible but safely hidden from any prying eyes that might happen to be around. Gathering up the duffel bags that he needed, Dean uttered four words that made Bobby's blood run cold, before dashing back out the door. "Something's wrong with Sam!"


To be continued...


A/N: "Gimme Shelter" is a track from The Rolling Stones' 1969 album, 'Let It Bleed'. It's one of those rare Stones tracks that includes a female guest vocalist, Merry Clayton. The lyrics of the song tell the tale of seeking shelter from a storm amid devastation and the apocalyptic collapse of society. I felt it was a good connection with Samuel Colt needing shelter at the Campbell house in order to prevent the revolver from falling into the hands of demons, an act that would only cause devastation and apocalyptic events.