A few months ago Mad Server, Enkidu07, and Soncnica asked me if I would join them in a new write/rewrite H/C Dogme "Needy Dean" challenge. We all agreed to write a S1 Hurt/Sick!Dean fic according to a set of 'rules', our vow of chastity, that would ensure that each story was in line with what we saw onscreen that season, and not incorporate some of the common themes, however delicious and satisfying, that appear so often in fan fiction.

Today, all four of us are posting our fics. I hope you'll read Left Behind by Enkidu07, Display by Mad Server, and Going Up in Flames by Soncnica.

Then we all passed our fics to the left and rewrote someone else's in the other brother's point of view. One week from today, I will post my rewrite of Enkidu's fic, Mad Server will post her rewrite of this story, Soncnica will post her rewrite of Mad Server's, and Enkidu07 will post a rewrite of Soncnica's. If you are confused, don't worry, so was I. I hope it will be clear when all eight fics are up.

And speaking as the newbie, I was delighted to be invited. Not only was it a privilege to collaborate with some of my favourite fellow Dean whumpers, but it's been just as much fun anticipating how we will build on each other's work

Disclaimer: I, for one, am very happy that Kripke owns all things Supernatural. He whumped Dean very very well in Season 1.

The EMF in Dean's hand barely lit up at first. Just an occasional blip, blink, and buzz as he and Sam circled the building. When it suddenly blazed like a Christmas tree, Dean shouted and yanked the bud out of his ear. The tinny squeal was loud enough for Sam to hear several feet away. He winced in sympathy.

Dean's shoulders dropped as he shoved the EMF in his jacket pocket impatiently, snarling the wire around a button. "Well, fuck. It's a spirit or something. This town sucks."

Sam squinted against the late afternoon sun. "Come on, we knew it wasn't going to be aliens before we got to town." He glanced in his brother's direction. "And you like Blake's Lotaburger."

Dean scratched his chin thoughtfully and nodded. "Good green chile cheeseburgers." His eyebrows arched up over wide eyes. "But there are Lotaburgers everywhere in New Mexico. This is Roswell, Sammy, Roswell. We should be tripping over aliens. There should be more here than some lame museum and Ronald McDonald in a spacesuit."

Sam watched his brother a little impatiently. The disappointed big brother sulk. Before he'd gone to college, this would have really annoyed him, but then anything Dean and Dad did really annoyed him when he was a teenager. Now, after everything, and being back with Dean… he still didn't like it, but he could at least keep his temper. And sometimes, he almost didn't mind dealing with it. Right now, his brother needed another nudge. "Don't forget the big inflatable alien in front of the Toyota dealership."

Dean sighed. "Damn, I did like that. But that's when I thought it was a sign of things to come. Then we got into the bustling center of Roswell proper." Dean scowled at the building, before his mercurial moods shifted again. There was a manic smile on Dean's face when he looked toward his brother. "Maybe it's the ghost of an alien? Dude—it could be zombie aliens!" He clambered onto a discarded crate to look through a window. Flapping a hand at Sam in a 'come here' gesture, Dean peered inside, cupping his hands around his eyes.

Sam walked up to an adjacent window, stood on his toes, and looked in, saying flatly, "Gee, Dean, it looks like every other abandoned factory I've ever seen." All he could see was the walls straight ahead and up to the ceiling, but he didn't have to tell Dean that.

Dean turned to look at him and Sam could feel the eye roll. "Glad you have a good view there, Giraffe Boy." He hopped down and punched Sam's arm, hard. "I bet you can't see more than the ceiling even if you are Andre the Giant."

"It's not my fault you're a dwarf."

"And it is my fault that you like to show off?"

"Asshole."

"Circus freak." Dean snickered and headed for the doors. "Let's break in."

"Let's come back tonight after we do more research. I don't know what we're doing here now."

"We're just taking a look. Get some clues about what we'll be up against at the Roswell Processing Factory." He bent over and effortlessly picked the locks. "What did they process?"

"Meat. Mostly goats. Sheep. Some cattle."

"Goat? Gross." Swinging the double doors open, he looked back at Sam. "No wonder they went out of business. I mean I've seen it, but…"

"Goat meat is a staple in a lot of countries, Dean. The meat is lean, they're great dairy producers, they require little space, are inexpensive to feed and raise…"

Dean held up his hands. "Thank you, Professor Winchester." He looked around and said, "I feel kinda sorry that this place was the last thing the little can biters saw," pointing at the chains hanging from the ceiling and the metal basins and vats lining the walls and floors. "Have you ever noticed how freaky goats' eyes are? Like they were put on sideways."

Sam ignored him, instead scanning the open floor of the building before bringing his eyes up to the catwalks above. "You getting anything?"

Dean pulled out the EMF and waved it in a circle around him. "Only background stuff now. But you heard those guys at the bar last night. Lots of injuries here. This place had bad juju before it closed." He leaned over to check under some gigantic sinks. "Now, there's strange noises, smells, lights at night… maybe this place is haunted by the ghosts of the slaughtered animals?" When Sam snorted, Dean went on. "Zombie goats!" He dropped his voice. "Their eerie bleats echo through the night."

"Dean, what is it with you and zombies? It's like you're on speed." When his brother just moved to another section of the building, Sam called after him, "A poltergeist is more likely."

Grinning, Dean called back, "No, a poltergoat!"

Sam shook his head and checked the interior of what looked to be an immense walk-in refrigerator. "Not sure we've done a slaughterhouse before. There would be a lot of bad vibes lingering here."

"Vibes? I love how you use all the technical terms, Sammy." Stepping onto a metal grate inset in the floor, Dean looked down between the bars then up at the chains overhead. "Do you think this is where they killed the little sheep?"

Sam didn't look over, just hitched a shoulder and opened another door to reveal a gutted bathroom. Hearing his brother shout, he looked up in time to see Dean backpedaling off the grate as a swirl of air moved up from below and dropped a layer of ash on Dean and the surrounding floor.

Gray dust floated off Dean's clothes as he brushed at himself. "Crap!" Several explosive sneezes later, he rasped out, "We should get out of here and come back tonight."

"Great plan, Dean. Sounds familiar."

"And here I thought you were a smartass before you went to college." Dean took a step forward, still smiling, when his head jerked back violently. There was time for a befuddled look in Sam's direction before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped like a rock, the salt gun skidding a few feet across the floor.

Sam retrieved the gun. "What? You're a fainting goat now?" There was no reaction. He walked toward his brother's prone body and leaned over to look at him. "Dude—you are so lying in ancient goat shit." No reaction. "Dean?"

The tinny sound of the EMF wailing in Dean's pocket had him grabbing Dean's shoulders and pulling him to a sit. His brother, suddenly wide-eyed and hyperventilating, promptly socked him in the jaw. Sam staggered back a few steps. "Shit, Dean."

"Something…" Dean rubbed his forehead, groaning, "something hit me."

Sam's eyes darted around the factory floor. The dust had settled. There was no target, no cold spot, no wisp of spirit, nothing. "Dean, whatever it was, it's gone. Did you see anything? Hear anything when the wind came up?" Holding out a hand, Sam waited for his brother to take it, then hoisted him to his feet. "What happened?"

Dean shook his head, grimacing. "I don't know! Feels like someone hit me with a baseball bat." Ash floated off him in a cloud.

"Man, we're going to have to disinfect you. Or hose you down before you get in the car." The only reply Dean gave him was a raised middle finger.

It was a few yards back to the exit, but before they reached it, Dean grunted and his knees buckled, depositing him back on the floor. "Fuck!" He grabbed at the top of his boots, hands coming away bloody. "The hell?"

Before anything else could happen, Sam hooked him under the arms and began dragging him toward the door. Dean's boot heels rubbed bloody paths in the dust behind them. His brother, of course, started to protest as soon as the New Mexican sun hit his face, but Sam didn't stop until he had folded Dean into the passenger seat, stowed their equipment in the trunk, and hit the gas with a lead foot.

"So. More research?"

Dean just groaned.

"Leggo, Sam, enough. I got it. 'S'not that bad."

Watching Dean lurch out of the car in the motel parking lot was enough to make him try to help, but Dean held up a hand and steadied himself against the car, rolling his shoulders.

Sam's eyes were drawn down to the blood trails on Dean's boots. "Riiight."

"It isn't. Stopped bleeding in the car."

Disbelief brought his head up and his attention back to Dean's face just as his brother was darting a sideways glance through his lashes in his direction, as if he was gauging Sam's reaction.

Sam held up his hands this time. "Okay, man." He shrugged and grabbed their duffels, pretending not to notice the flashes of pain on his stubborn brother's face as he hobbled after him into their room at the motel.

Dean sat heavily on the bed and leaned forward to untie his boots. Head down, he muttered, "That was a mistake."

Coming through with the weapons duffel, Sam grabbed a shoulder and pushed up as he walked by. Dean went a little cross-eyed but raised his head. He slowly dragged one leg over his knee and began working on the bootlaces. Sam watched little drifts of dust falling to the carpet.

"Dude, you're filthy. Take a shower."

Dean blinked a few times. "That was the plan."

Once the water started up in the bathroom, Sam powered up the laptop, found an unsecured wi-fi connection to piggyback on, and began researching the factory. A few minutes in, he got up long enough to collect Dean's ash covered clothes from the floor of the bathroom and set a clean pair of jeans, boxers and a tee shirt on the towel shelf.

By the time Dean emerged from the bathroom toweling his hair, Sam had covered several legal sized pages with notes. "How're your legs?"

Dean didn't reply, just threw his towel on the bed before coming to the table and sitting on the chair next to Sam. He lifted a leg and dropped his foot, heel first, right on Sam's notes. Frowning, Sam pulled his notes free and pushed Dean's foot to the floor. "What, you can't wrap your own leg?"

Dean brought his heel back onto the table, pulled up the jeans leg, and dropped the first aid kit on Sam's lap. He looked at Sam, then back at his leg. "C'mon man, a little help?"

The cut was shallow, just oozing a few drops of blood, but it went totally around the lower leg. Sam reached for the first aid kit, and pulled out antibiotic ointment and some gauze. "The other leg like this? All the way around?" He got a grunt in reply. "Was that a yes grunt or a no grunt?"

Dean, who had been rubbing his forehead, squinted in his direction. "What? Yeah, the other one's like this. Not real deep but all the way around." He leaned his head back. "Hurts like a bitch." He waved toward the notes. "What have you found so far, Geekzilla?"

Sam dabbed ointment on the cut and started to wrap it. "My money's on a poltergeist. They would be drawn to the aura there." When he'd finished the first leg, he tapped the other, and waited for Dean to switch legs. "The building was recently sold. The activity started when the new owners came to inspect the building. I need to go to the library for a couple of hours to check the public records. You can stay here and rest up."

"We need to check for deaths in the building too."

He tied off the bandage and slapped Dean's knee. "Done. You think it's a restless spirit?"

"Maybe. It's just… the pow to the head, the cuts… a poltergeist could maybe do that, but I'm not sure. Usually they throw things." Dean reached into the first aid kit for a couple of aspirin and dry swallowed them. The next look directed at Sam was worried. "It's just when they slaughter animals they press this kind of stun gun right on the animal's forehead, right? It knocks them out so they don't suffer. And they cut off their feet."

Sam felt his eyes widen. "Something was trying to… slaughter you?" He felt a chill go down his back.

"Well it didn't do a very good job." Dean raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad it was a half assed attempt." His smile faded as he seemed to notice Sam's expression. "I'm sure the spirit doesn't think I'm a sheep or bull or something. They get confused, stuck in a pattern, that's all, but we'd know if anyone had died from it and no one has. As long as I stay away from the grate, I'll be fine."

"That won't be a problem because there's no way in hell you're going back in the building."

"You can't go by yourself. It could mistake you for a, an, uh… really tall goat."

Sam stood. "Dean, you look terrible, man. You sure you want to go to the library?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

The shovel broke through the coffin easily. Dean stood up and stretched his back, before tossing the shovel out of the grave. He accepted his brother's help to climb up to ground level. Sam went back on guard duty as soon as Dean seemed stable.

"Told you I could do this."

"And how's your head?"

His grin in reply was a bit forced, but Dean was smiling when he said, "A lot better once Victor the butcher here goes up in flames." He poured salt and kerosene into the grave and dropped the match. "I'm sorry for the guy. Murdered by his wife's girlfriend. At work. That's got to hurt."

"I'm just glad we did this before he got more violent." Sam stowed the sawed-off, and gathered up their equipment. "Let's get back to the hotel."

It was Dean's turn to frown. "We're going to the factory, right?"

"I'm going to the factory." He held up a hand when Dean started to protest. "You aren't."

"I'll stay in the car."

That was totally a lie but still, unexpected. Sam pulled his brother into the glow from a nearby street light. Dean pinched his eyes shut and listed to one side. His face was chalk white, he was sweating… maybe he would stay in the car. Sam just snorted out a laugh. Like that was going to happen. "Your legs started to bleed again, didn't they? And you look like you have a migraine." He pointed Dean toward the car and got him walking. When Dean stumbled, Sam pulled an arm over his shoulder and supported his brother back to the Impala. "And you can't walk a straight line."

"Can still kick ghost ass. And you aren't going alone." Dean dropped into the passenger seat without even glancing at the steering wheel. Leaning forward, he started to empty the glove compartment.

"What are you looking for?"

"More aspirin."

"There's some in the back. I'll get it." Sam opened the trunk, put away the duffels, and snagged a bottle of water and a couple of pills. Sliding behind the wheel, he handed them both to Dean. "Here."

Sam waited while his brother washed down the pills with half the water, then took back the bottle and finished it. "I just need to ward for poltergeists. Ten minutes tops."

"Not alone."

"Don't worry, Dean. I'll take Mr. Sawed-off Shotgun with me." Sam began the forty mile drive back to Roswell. His brother's breathing evened out in sleep during the first ten minutes.

Sam parked the car about a block from the factory and reached a long arm into the back seat for the anti-poltergeist bags they'd assembled that afternoon. Dean didn't stir as Sam quietly climbed out of the car and pulled the salt gun out of the trunk. He jogged to the building and the still unlocked doors.

The factory was quiet when he glanced inside. Go in, set the bags, done. Piece of cake. He reached behind him for… his flashlight. It was back at the car. Crap.

Before he could turn, Dean's deep voice rumbled in his ear. "You forget something, Samantha?" A flashlight was pushed toward him, and a broad hand between his shoulder blades pushed him forward. He dug in his heels and stopped after Dean was a few steps into the building.

"Dean, damn it, wait outside."

"If there's nothing here, then I'm safe. You got a poltergoat or spooky cow in here, you need backup." He held out a hand and snapped his fingers. "Gimme some bags. Do,"he pointed to the cardinal points, "north, east, south, west."

A groaning noise filled the factory and the chains overhead started to sway and clink in a non-existent breeze.

Sam grabbed Dean's arm. "No. East first. It's closest to the grate. By the time this thing figures out what we're doing, you'll be on the other side of the building." The noise of wind picked up. Dean was shaking his head, but Sam pointed at Dean's legs. "I don't want you at death central right when things get bad. East first."

A forceful nod. "Alright! Go, go, go!"

Sometimes Sam wondered why he'd ever left for college. The coil and burn of stretched muscles, energy coursing through him— his body just moved. Four, five steps at a time up the stairs, running full tilt and unerringly over the catwalks 30 feet over the factory floor, skipping over obstacles, gyroscoping around corners with one hand barely on the rail, breath fast, adept, controlled, living one second, one nano-second at a time, and believing down in his gut that all the laps, all the training, all the moving, and putting up with Dean, and Dad, all the being a freak… was worth it.

"Dean, east, south, done!"

After a beat, Dean called back, "Ditto!"

"Quoting Ghost? You're a pansy!"

"You watched it? Have the hots for that guy? You're a little girl!"

Grinning, he called back, "Fuck you!" Sam placed a bag on the west wall and screamed over the wind. "West! Dean, you okay?"

The voice that replied was hoarse. "West… done." Sam bent in half over the railing, wristing the flashlight back and forth across the factory floor until he caught his brother limping across the concrete. Yelling, "I got it! Sit down or something,"he threw a hex bag to settle against the final wall. "North. Done. Dean, I'm on my way." He hauled ass to the steps. "Dean, you done?" Panting and laughing, Sam hopped down the stairs. "Dean! You ready? 'Cause I just smoked your ass."

"Fuck. Shit. Hell. Damn. SAM!"

Sam reached ground level, both feet slapping the concrete. "Dean!"

The sound of wind was the only reply. Something ice cold lodged in his stomach. God damn it, this was why he'd gone to college. "Dean! Where the hell are you?" Pounding around the floor, he tossed a final bag at the northernmost point of the building. Wind skirled and twisted around the factory for a few seconds, pulling his hair over his eyes, tugging the shotgun, and rattlingthe catwalks and stairs, before sweeping outside.

It was over. And in the ensuing silence, the sound of the chains creaking overhead brought his gaze and the flashlight up. Dean had been caught and suspended in a spiderweb of chains, metal loops wrapping him like a burrito. Dean was struggling with a loop of chain around his neck.

"Fuck, Dean, I told you not to come in here!" His voice sounded like it had gone up an octave.

"Get me… loose." One hand slipped and Dean's arm dropped. "Can't…" Red faced, Dean dragged his arm up and pulled at the chain again.

"Hang on!" Sam was off like a shot, following the chains' path as they trailed across the ceiling then down to a tangle of metal knots wrapped around a cleat set in the floor. He tugged and swore but nothing moved. The chains might as well have been welded together. A quick glance back toward his brother put a chill up his spine. Dean wasn't struggling. He wasn't moving at all.

"Fuck! Dean! Hold on!" Sam swung the flashlight in crazed arcs around him, the light jittering with the tension running down his body. He was moving before he'd even consciously recognized what he had found, a glint of metal enough to get his feet running pell-mell. Steel rods probably used to move the basins. He kept scanning. Cinder blocks. Lever. Fulcrum.

Sam thought he would have a heart attack before the cleat ripped out of the floor and the chains and cleat started to slither up, drawn by their own weight and the weight of Dean's body. Sam threw himself forward, snagged a trailing edge of a knot of chain, and belayed it around his waist, managing to keep Dean and several hundred pounds of chain from smashing into the cement floor. It wasn't graceful, but nothing hit hard enough to break as he lowered Dean gently to the floor.

More chain dropped in graceful arcs and piles on and around Dean when Sam released his hold and sprinted back. Once the now loose chain was off Dean's neck, it was easier to gently roll his brother out of the other chains wrapping him. The flashlight illuminated a now stark white face, the earlier flush replaced by waxy skin and blue lips. Dean's eyes and mouth were slightly open. He wasn't breathing. God, he looked dead.

Sam's breath caught for a second before he did what he'd been trained to do. He slapped Dean across one cheek, hard, and ran knuckles down his sternum. "Dean! Dean, breathe, damn it." He shook him and watched Dean's head roll back and forth, his bloodshot eyes still eerily open. Another slap, another scrape to the sternum, and finally the fingers on Dean's left hand curled. "You start breathing right now, you son of a bitch, or it's going to be CPR and a knee to the jewels!"

His reward was the raspy sound of a breath. Then another. He sat back on his heels, relief flooding over him, grinning stupidly when Dean started to cough; it was the best sound he'd heard all day. "Dean, hey, wake up."

Dean blinked, eyes rolling for a second, then blinked again, coughing and hacking in between wheezing breaths. He motioned Sam closer. Sam leaned down and put his ear next to Dean's mouth.

"You… fuckin'… perv."

Sam laughed all the way to the car. He was still chuckling as he pulled up as close to the factory door as he could, grabbed some ice packs from the first aid kit, and ran back inside. Dean was up on his knees, one hand to his throat, and one on the ground. One bleary eye opened and squinted as the flashlight beam caught him in the face.

"Feel like crap."

"Look like it, too. Here—hold these to your throat."

Dean reached for the icepacks and swayed until Sam grabbed his biceps and belt and brought him to his feet. When they reached the car, his brother crawled right onto the back seat and flopped onto his back.

Before he closed the door, Sam looked at Dean appraisingly. "Are you going to be able to hold the packs on your neck? The swelling…"

"'M'good." It sounded like his throat was full of glass but Dean still managed to pull up a smile and gestured grandly toward the front seat with one of the ice packs. "Home, James." He saw Dean smirk and press both ice packs on his neck as the door slammed shut.

"Jerk." Sam gunned the engine. "Next stop, the Frontier Motel."

A shower, three Vicodin, fresh bandages, and two more hours of ice packs on his neck, and Dean was a new man. Stoned, but a new man. "Wan' food."

Sam was eating breakfast at the room's small table, eyes locked on the laptop. "Shut up and drink your shake. It's banana cream pie flavor."

He used one hand to easily catch the latest projectile lobbed in his direction, threw it back, and used his other hand, holding his half eaten breakfast taco, to point toward the shake. "You know you can't eat anything solid right now."

He could see Dean's eyes tracking on the taco, one hand groping for another pillow.

"Dean, you throw another goddamn pillow at me and I will take away the ice cream. Besides, your hand eye coordination is worth shit right now." He crammed the remainder of the taco into his mouth, and worked on chewing and swallowing as he powered down the laptop and threw away the wrappers and crumbs. "See? All gone."

He picked up the shake and waggled it. "Dean?" Having collected his brother's attention, he handed him the shake. "Banana cream pie. Eat it while I take a shower."

When he emerged a few minutes later, he was more than ready for bed. Dean had finally gone to sleep, slumped against the headboard. He pulled the shake out of Dean's lax hand, set it carefully on the table, turned out the light, and crawled into bed. After tossing and turning for fifteen minutes, he sighed and got up, roused his brother long enough to get the pillows out from behind him and help him lie flat on the bed. Dean rolled onto his stomach with a sigh and was out again.

Sam felt the world fading out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

A/N: Remember the remixes next week. Mad Server will post the second chapter to this fic on January 2nd.