Burning Man
K Hanna Korossy

He woke feeling muddy and weak, skin clammy and head throbbing. A moment of taking stock and, yep, there were squishy, lukewarm bags at all the key points: neck, armpits, and, oh joy, groin. He stared at his bedroom ceiling, disoriented, trying to remember how he'd gotten hyperthermic, but there was nothing. Last thing he remembered was heading out the bunker door.

"Wha' happened?" Dean asked the ceiling, because it was too much trouble to turn his head.

"Found you passed out outside the door, burning up," Sam said wearily from somewhere to the right.

So maybe he wasn't missing that much, after all. But, no, still didn't make sense. Dean frowned at his ceiling light.

"You should've told me you were sick, Dean."

"I wasn'." Crap, he needed to see Sam. Dean turned his swollen head on a neck that felt like a cooked noodle. Heatstroke sucked, even after your body cooled down.

And there Sam was with his perma-frown, tired and worn and worried. Which was really how he looked most of the time these days, Amara breathing down their necks and all, but still. Dean always hated when he knew he was adding to the load.

"I wasn't sick," he said, trying to talk more clearly. "Dude, I felt fine."

"Well, you were about two minutes from frying-an-egg-hot when I realized the door was still open and went to check on you," Sam said reasonably, running a hand over his face. Not much stubble; this had all gone down fast. But he'd had to carry Dean down the stairs and to his room, which wasn't good.

Dean shoved the melted ice away from his neck and other more invasive points, and groaned as he rolled onto his side. Felt like he'd run a marathon, in the desert. "I'm not sick," he insisted, even if the shaking arm he propped himself up with belied him.

"Uh-huh," Sam said, the smartass. He shoved to his feet, towering over Dean, who was still only half-upright. "I'm gonna get you some Gatorade and a sandwich." He pointed at Dean. "Stay in bed."

Dean rolled his eyes; he was fine. But he only waited until Sam was out of the room before letting himself fall back to his pillow. His aching head on his damp pillow, but he wasn't up to do anything about either.

Well, crap.

00000

It was the next day before he felt mostly back to himself. Gone were the days of youth when Dean bounced back after a twenty-minute nap and a fistful of painkillers. He needed actual sleep now, his stomach burned if he took more than two Tylenol, and his body held grudges. Dean still felt tired, not that he was going to admit that to Sam. That was how he felt most of the time these days, too, anyway.

"I trust you—that's not why I'm going with you," Sam was arguing.

Dean bounced the keys in his hand, tongue pressed up against the back of his teeth as he considered how much he should argue this. On the one hand: thirty…six?-year-old guy who didn't need a chaperone. On the other, Sam in the passenger seat was usually a good thing. Dean didn't need him riding along, but did he want him? Always.

He gave a put-upon sigh just for appearance's sake and nodded at the door. "Fine, but if you're not done at the library by the time I've hit the store and post office, you're walking home."

"Uh-huh," said a thoroughly unimpressed Sam. Maybe there was such a thing as knowing each other too well.

Dean reined in a smile and followed his brother up the stairs.

Next thing he knew, he was peeling up gummy eyelids to stare at a blurred Sam, who looked way too pale even to Dean's questionable vision.

"—ean. Talk to me."

Sam was using his Dad voice. It sounded strong and in-charge, and something in Dean pulled toward it like a hooked fish, but it meant Sam was scared. Huh, had it meant Dad was scared, too?

"Dean!"

"Yeah, 'm here. 'M good." Dean made the effort to figure out which way was down, and pushed up. Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen yet.

"You're not good—you fell over like someone dropped a safe on you. And you're hot again."

Oh. That was the cold thing against his cheek. He brushed at Sam's hand because, dude, boundaries. "'M always hot," Dean muttered.

Sam grumbled something, then his hands were digging under Dean's arms and pulling him up and, crap, the world was spinning and his legs didn't want to work, and it was just embarrassing being plastered against your brother, even if he was a Goliath and his legs seemed to work just fine.

Dean sighed. "Don' carry me this time."

The trip was too long, and he spent way too much of it up close and personal with Sam's Adam's apple, but at least Dean walked to his bed. Mostly. Sort of.

Another bottle of Gatorade, two Tylenol, and ten minutes under the fan Sam had dug up from somewhere, and Dean could finally look into his brother's eyes and see clearly the concern in them.

"I think we've got a problem," they said at the same time.

00000

Once Dean could climb the steps without needing a break halfway, they did some experiments. Standing in the open door was fine. So was sticking an arm or foot out. His head, though, or more than half his body, and it was lights out, flame on. Same with the garage entrance. Each time, Dean came to to Sam holding him up, and that was just not cool. Literally.

"Okay, so."

They were sitting at the library table, lights low in concession to Dean's seemingly eternal headache. His body was not loving the whole yo-yo thing. Dean had an icy bottle of water against his forehead, his feet up on a chair.

"Tell me about the last time you were out," Sam continued calmly from across the table, like he wasn't asking why Dean had turned into an acro…agro…leaving-the-house-phobic, or like that wasn't a huge problem if they couldn't fix it. Amara was bound to surface somewhere soon.

"Uh." Dean's brain still felt a little fried. "The night I went to have a drink at Pooches, right?"

"Uh, maybe? You said you were going out to get a drink, came home around one?"

Dean's mouth curved at the memory. "Right, right. The busty Asian beauty."

Sam winced. "Porn? Dude—"

"No, Sam, a real woman, at the bar. Uh…Angela? I think? She's in town a few days visiting family. She, uh, wanted to see my car." His smile grew, and he raised his eyebrows at Sam.

Who looked thoroughly disgusted now. "Yeah, I don't need to know what you did in the car—I sleep in it sometimes, remember?" Sam shook his head. "Was she…mad or anything? Gave off any witch vibes?"

"No, she seemed pretty satisfied." His grin slipped. "I don't make promises I don't keep, man, you know that." Not on the road, but especially not in their backyard; contrary to what Sam thought, he wasn't an idiot. Or a total man-whore.

"I know," Sam admitted, which lowered Dean's hackles. "Anything else happen? You talk to anyone else, break anything, touch anything weird?"

"Define weird," Dean said with another suggestive grin.

Sam made an exasperated sound. "So you want to spend the rest of your life stuck in the bunker?"

Okay, now he felt a little claustrophobic. "No! Dude, seriously, I'm telling you, it was a normal night! Had a few drinks, shot the breeze with Donnie, had some fun with a pretty girl. Everybody went home happy, nobody did anything 'weird.'"

Sam sighed. "Well, there's no hex bag. But it's gotta be a spell, right? The bunker protects you, but as soon as you're out in the open, it hits you. If it weren't for the wards, you'd be dead by now."

And wasn't that a happy thought? Dean tried to think through the last few days—well, the last few days before the outdoors turned to lava—and still came up with nothing but a splitting headache. He gave Sam a miserable shrug.

Sam's face softened. "We'll figure it out, okay? And until then, I can probably come up with a charm or something you can wear if you need to go out. Worst comes to worst, we'll call Rowena."

Dean dug the cold bottle harder into his forehead and closed his eyes. "Right. Because that never ends badly."

Sam picked him up some hamburgers from town that evening and watched John Wick with him. So. Not a total waste of a day, at least.

00000

"It was Angela's mom."

"What was Angela's mom?" How did the spark plugs get so dirty so fast? Baby sat in the garage half the time these days. Well, especially the last few days. Dean gave the plug a last rub and looked sideways from under the hood at Sam. "And who's Angela?"

Sam blinked. "Seriously? Your…busty… You know what, I'm not even saying it."

"Oh!" Dean straightened up and lowered Baby's hood carefully. "Angela! Right. You found her?"

"I found her mom. Mrs. Chiang, lives out near the lake." Sam tilted his head. "Turns out she wasn't too happy about her visiting daughter hooking up with some guy at a bar."

Dean blinked at him. "You're kidding. And she, what, whammied me?"

"Well, she did have some of your…" Sam's nose wrinkled. "…DNA to work with. And Chinese magic, it's pretty old and powerful."

Dean's heart sped up. "But you can break it, right? C'mon, tell me you can undo it."

"It's done," Sam said unenthusiastically.

"It's—? All right!" Dean crowed, punching Sam in the arm. "Dude, you rock." A sudden thought shut him down. "Wait, you didn't…" He made a vague overhand stabbing motion.

Now Sam looked truly disgusted. "No! She's not a monster, just…kind of an overprotective mom. One call to Angela, and Mrs. Chiang undid it herself. Said she was sorry."

"No, she didn't," Dean said, not believing that for a second.

"No, she didn't," Sam concurred. "If you ever see Angela again, I'm pretty sure not even the bunker's gonna protect you."

"Yeah, okay, roger that. But I can leave now, right? No more sunstroke from Hell?"

In answer, Sam just swept a hand toward the garage's entrance.

Dean gave him a hard glance, then dropped the rag he'd been wiping his hands on and started walking.

Five minutes later he was outside, breathing fresh air that had rarely tasted so good.

Sam joined him in silence soon after, hands in his pockets as they stood side-by-side, looking at the fascinating Kansas scenery.

"Hey," Dean said, his eyes on an overactive squirrel. "Thanks."

"Can't have you stuck here at home missing out on all the fun," Sam said wryly.

"Yeah. We'd have to fix you up a new car."

Sam reared back from him. "What? No, I'd be driving the Impala."

Dean's turn to pull back. "No, you wouldn't."

"Yes, I would. It's not like you could drive it."

"My car—she belongs with me."

"Oh, yeah?" Sam spread his arms wide. "You gave it to me when you died."

"Well, I'm not dead now, am I?"

"Not yet."

And not this time thanks, yet again, to Sam. Dean gave it a second, bobbled his head, and conceded. "Okay. You could drive her sometimes."

"You are such an ass," Sam said, but there was laughter in his voice, and he tipped into Dean's shoulder affectionately.

Dean shrugged, already thinking about what he'd make for dinner for a real thank-you he knew Sam didn't need. Feeling thoroughly contented as he said, "Yeah. I know."

The End