AN: Second and final part here, as promised.

Schmoop alert! (Eventually.)

* * *

Naturally, the worm didn't emerge from near them. It burst up from under their feet.

Dean's brain, which often offered inappropriate commentary, decided that the worm looked like Slimer and the Sarlacc had had an albino baby together.

Luckily, Dean's body was well-trained to act in a much more appropriate manner. Even as his brain made weird connections and he fell backwards, he stabbed his machete forward. He couldn't really swing it since Sam was too close to his side, but Sam could swing his.

Neither blow stopped the momentum of the breaching worm, however. Its leap knocked Dean to the side and Sam backwards. Sam barely rolled to the side far enough to avoid having the hippopotamus-sized creature land squarely on his chest. He didn't get quite free, and it landed mouth-first on his left shoulder. Sam made a sound of pain that infuriated Dean.

Dean leaped to his feet and pulled his machete free. He wrapped his arms around the muscular tail and pulled backwards. There was a slurping sound, and Dean could see Sam's free arm rising and falling as he stabbed into the monster over and over, but it would not budge.

Dean abandoned the attempt and instead brought his machete up and cut off the back foot or so of the worm. That got its attention, and it gave a strange, groaning scream. It reared up from the ground and, more importantly, Sam, to round on Dean in its creepy, fluid, boneless way. Dean dodged the lunge and sliced off a thick slab of flesh on the side of the worm's...face, if it had such a thing.

The worm skidded and spun back, and Dean had forgotten just how fast the effers were. He went to haul Sam to his feet, but the younger man cried out when Dean made contact with his left arm. It was wet and Dean's skin tingled unpleasantly wherever it had touched Sam. If possible, this made Dean even angrier, knowing that the ugly-ass monster had slobbered acid over his little brother.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, rising to his feet with the machete at the ready again. Dean took a step to the side like a matador as the worm charged again. This time, he took a narrow slice off nearly the entire remaining length of its body. He was reminded of a documentary on whaling and the men tonguing the poor creature they'd caught.

On the next pass, Dean only took off a few of the weird protrusions around the worm's body, but he thought it was slowing.

Not enough, though. They had to get Sam treated as soon as possible to minimize the damage from the worm's corrosive spit. Speaking of Sam, he'd rolled farther away, giving Dean a little more space. Dean stomped his feet to make sure that the thing's attention stayed on him and not on Sam.

Dean had to admit that he was grateful that the worm wasn't smarter. If it buried itself again, it could quickly be out of reach. Or it could give itself a chance to heal and then attack unseen after just a few moments.

Sure enough, the worm charged straight-on again. Dean's machete cut deep, widening its mouth with a bloody line but not actually cutting any more pieces off. But the next time the worm came, Dean moved like Jet Li (and, seriously, there should've been cheerleaders or something because he was sure it looked amazing and badass), spinning and cutting a massive chunk off the top of the worm's head.

The worm was enraged now, but this time, it halted abruptly before making a slow and clumsy attempt to attack Dean again. It screamed its strange cry and spit a stream of acid at Dean that he barely dodged. That little tidbit hadn't been in the lore.

As Dean rushed toward the worm, it twisted back along its own body. Dean knew what he'd find before he got there.

Sam, holding his left arm against his body, was systematically slicing off sections of the back of the worm like he was cutting sushi. Since the gaping mouth was turned away from him, Dean cut out a big piece of blubber from just behind the mouth.

It was the beginning of the end. It took a while and lot more cutting, but finally two panting Winchesters were standing over irregular blobs of erstwhile worm.

Then Sam turned, took a few steps away, dropped to his knees, and threw up with great enthusiasm.

Dean wiped off his machete on a handy mesquite bush and walked over in silent support. He stood with a leg against Sam's shoulder to give him something to lean against, putting his boots in danger because he was an awesome brother. He murmured meaningless encouragement. "I know, man. I know. Just try to relax, let your body relax so I can get a look at that arm, okay?"

When Sam seemed finished, Dean pulled him to his feet, careful to only touch his right side. He led Sam a few feet away from the mess...both messes...and looked him over. Sam was unsteady on his feet and his skin legitimately had a greenish tinge. Sam's left shirt sleeve was in tatters from the elbow down, eaten away by the worm's acidic saliva. Dean couldn't see the skin underneath, though, because it was covered in some sort of pale dust.

"What?" He touched the tip of one finger to a spot on the sleeve that was covered in the same dust.

"Calcareous soil," said Sam, voice rough from the abuse his throat had taken. "It's basic, so I hoped it would neutralize the acid and it feels like it worked."

Dean frowned in a way that said speak English.

"Chalk dirt made the yucky spit stop being ouchie." Sam looked too smug for a guy who was barely staying upright.

"Bitch," Dean answered, but he didn't let go of Sam's good elbow. "It's really okay? Cuz I should burn the Tremors reject. We can go back and get you all cleaned up, then I can come out alone to do it."

Sam shook his head. "It's okay, jerk. Not getting worse anyway. Let's just get this done because I don't want you out here in the dark if you don't have to be."

Dean considered just bulldozing over Sam's not unreasonable arguments, especially once he saw that there was some red blood on Sam's palm, definitely not the Kelly green of the worm's blood.

Sam showed Dean that the cut was shallow, and Dean decided that a quick burning was their best bet. Then he wouldn't have to leave Sam at all.

Said brother, still looking like something from the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney World, let Dean convince him to sit leaning against a lonesome tree. The capitulation didn't make Dean feel any better.

As fast as he could, Dean hosed down every worm piece with lighter fluid, salted them for good measure, and lit each pile on fire. He'd have thrown them all together, except they were the consistency of Jell-o and he probably couldn't have moved them without a snow shovel. He'd just lit the final piece when Dean heard the all-too-familiar sound of Sam retching again.

The smell of the smoke reached Dean then, and he knew what had set Sam off this time. It figured that something so disgusting smelled as awful as it looked and ate and everything else.

"That's it," Dean announced, his eyes watering from the smell. "We're outta here. C'mon, Sammy."

Sam looked like he was going to protest, then simply accepted the helping hand. There wasn't much out there that could possibly catch fire, the brush few and far between. Besides, the worm bits were burning out rapidly, like so much supernatural stuff did.

Sam was silent the entire trek back, holding his arm against his body in a way that betrayed the pain he was in. He also looked ready to empty anything that could possibly be left in his stomach, but luckily didn't. About three quarters of the way back, Dean took hold of Sam's elbow and helped him the rest of the way. Even that didn't make Sam react more than a weak glare.

He was just as quiet on the drive back, just cracking the window and breathing a little harshly. Dean couldn't help himself. He kept asking Sam how he was and what he needed until Sam snapped, "I need peace and quiet until I don't feel like I'm going to puke myself inside-out," which actually made Dean feel a little better.

Dean hustled Sam inside quickly once they were back at the Prickly Pear, but he was pretty sure dark eyes were watching from the office, hopefully too far away to make out any detail.

Sam shrugged off Dean's hand as soon as they were inside. "I'm gonna grab a shower," he said, and Dean almost didn't let him. But he figured that not wanting your brother to have to rescue your naked self was powerful motivation to not pass out in the bathroom. He dumped some sweats inside the bathroom and admonished Sam to hurry. The cranky "bite me" he got in response made him smile.

Sam emerged after not too long, and Dean probably failed to keep the relief off his face.

"Table. Arm on the towel," he ordered gruffly, as if that could cover it up. He'd set out some aloe crap that Sam had forced him to pick up after Dean had gotten well and truly sunburned that week in Palo Alto. (And yes, now he was glad they had it.)

"I suppose you'd ignore me if I said it was okay?" Sam asked wearily, already sitting.

"Yup."

The arm was angry red, splotchy, and slightly blistered, but somehow there weren't any spots where it was open or bleeding. It was the first thing that had gone Sam's way in a while. Even though Dean was as gentle as he could be, Sam twitched and grit his teeth when Dean spread the ointment over any spots that were remotely the wrong color.

"You want anything else on this?" Dean asked, studying the angry skin. Sometimes covering a burn helped and sometimes it felt like torture.

"No, let's leave it open to the air," Sam decided.

Dean studied him now that he was clean. He was sallow and had his ubiquitous dark circles under his eyes. In his darker moments, Dean wondered if Sam would ever lose that slightly haunted and more-than-slightly exhausted appearance.

"Think you could drink some water or juice?" Dean asked hopefully. He wasn't surprised by the vehement, negative head shake he got in return. "So I guess that's a no for pain meds too, huh?"

"No. No way. The arm's not that bad. I just need to, uh, not move for a while."

Dean knew that feeling, when any movement at all made you feel seasick and like your already empty stomach was full of something alive and angry.

"Okay, bed then."

Sam cast a look at the closest bed, emotions flittering over his face, more open than usual from having his reserves so worn down. Dean read them all like a nutrition list on the back of a box: longing to lie down and rest, disappointment that he'd have to walk so far to get to the bed, guilt that he'd actually be taking downtime (thanks for that particular foible, Dad), then resolve to work right through it all.

"No, no, nope," Dean said, addressing the unspoken thoughts. "It wasn't a suggestion. I don't care if you don't sleep, but you're going to lie there and relax."

"Dean – "

"No! The monster's dead and gone, we don't have anything new on Dad yet, and there's no place we have to be. In fact, we paid for the room for the rest of the week, remember? Shut up and lie down, would you?" Dean pointed at the bed imperiously.

Rebellion bloomed on Sam's face. "I'm not some little kid you can put down for a nap, Dean."

The brothers glared at each other, then the defiance slid away and Sam just looked tired and sick again.

Dean could hear the plea in his own voice and hated it, but he also knew it would be a lot more effective than another order. "Your body just needs some down time. There's nothing wrong with that, and you'll be better a helluva lot faster if you get some rest. Just chill while I take my shower at least."

Sam sighed, a long, weary sound. "Fine." He stood and didn't quite hide a little wobble, but Dean forced himself to wait to see if Sam could steady himself. He did, and moved to the bed, where he laid down on his back, a bit gingerly. Dean grabbed a pillow off his own bed and tucked it under Sam's hurt arm, knowing that keeping it elevated could only help.

"Need anything?" he asked and took Sam's eye roll as a no.

Dean lingered in the shower hoping that Sam would fall asleep. If the guy actually got some rest and they didn't have to deal with anything else disgusting, he should rebound pretty fast.

Food poisoning was nasty and violent, but it also didn't last terribly long. Sam's stomach just had to realize that it was okay, hopefully before he got too dehydrated. Dean could steal what he needed and set up an IV, but he wasn't terribly comfortable with it, so it was definitely a last resort.

As he dried himself and got dressed in something that didn't smell like torched worm, Dean tried to remember what kinds of juice and sports drinks they'd had at the minuscule market, maybe something that would tempt Sam more than ginger ale.

He stepped out of the bathroom, deciding that he'd take a quick drive out to the store only once Sam was sleeping hard enough that he wouldn't wake from Dean leaving.

Except Sam wasn't sleeping at all. Instead, he was sitting up on the bed with the book An Exploration of Monstra Ignis open on his lap. When they'd last stopped for ammo from a known hunting supplier, Sam had talked Dean into buying the book. They'd owned a different copy once upon a time, but Dean had no idea where it had ended up.

The sight of Sam studying said book about supernatural creatures who employed (or were made of) fire with just as much fervency as Dad had when he'd first found his copy made Dean's stomach churn like he was the one who was sick.

Did he want Sam back at his side and hunting with him? Yes. But not ever at the expense of his happiness. And, with apologies to the man that Dean both loved and revered, he never wanted Sam to turn into another John Winchester.

"Dammit, you're supposed to be resting," Dean snapped with more vitriol than he'd intended.

Sam flinched. His face was pinched with more than just discomfort, and instinct told Dean it was his arm rather than his stomach this time. It was a catch-22. The pain would keep his stomach upset, but he wouldn't be able to keep any pain meds down.

"Can't," Sam admitted. The pained honesty instead of the petulance Dean had expected cooled his anger.

"I bet," Dean answered, thinking. "I have an idea. Give me...five minutes."

"Whatever," Sam muttered like he was still a sullen teenager. But his expression was a mixture of wary little brother who'd been dragged along on a lot of hare-brained schemes initiated with the words I have an idea and sick little brother hopeful that big bro could make things better.

Both made Dean happy. Hell, even the brattiness made him happy, because they were all part of Sam being there with him, even if he was sick and the hunt had been disgusting.

Dean shoved his feet into his boots and hustled to the motel office. Kyle emerged from a door at the back as Dean walked in, and he briefly wondered if anyone else ever actually manned the desk. Like, what about when the kid was in school?

"Coupla questions for you. First, is that dirt bike out back yours? Second, think you can get away from the office for a few? Third, you wanna make some money?"

In no time at all, Dean was opening the room door again and the bip-bip-bip of Kyle's dirt bike was disappearing in the direction of the market.

Sam was still trying to read his esoteric book. Dean caught a glimpse of the pain on Sam's face before he could cover it and raise a questioning eyebrow at Dean's armful.

Dean set the pile of towels and bucket of ice on the little table. "Lie down," he ordered, carrying the hot water bottle into the bathroom. When Sam just frowned at him, Dean detoured to the bed to steal the old book away. "Lie down," he repeated, and was gratified when Sam did.

"I'm not going to sleep," Sam insisted while Dean was filling the bottle from the tap, which fortunately got nice and hot.

"I don't care, as long as you rest," Dean answered, exactly as he'd answered similar complaints from Sam about naps many years before. He wrapped the bottle in a thin towel and handed it to Sam, who wordlessly settled it on his stomach. It was a tried-and-true Winchester method to relax an uneasy gut.

Dean returned to the bathroom with the bucket, which he put cold water into. As Sam watched, Dean dragged a chair over to the side of the bed and set the bucket on the floor. He returned with the rest of the towels and gently settled Sam's bad arm on top of a stack of most of them.

"Trust me?" Dean asked lightly, sitting down.

"Of course." Sam rolled his eyes again. It had to be a reflex by now.

Acting like the words didn't make bubbles of happiness fizz inside his chest, Dean dipped a little hand towel in the bucket, rang it out, and laid it with exquisite care over the worst of Sam's burns. Sam hissed a little but didn't move.

"Give it a sec," Dean encouraged, watching Sam closely. After only about 30 seconds, Sam relaxed. "One more," Dean warned. A second towel covered the rest of the affected area. Dean dropped two more cloths into the icy water to be ready for when the first ones grew warm. The cold should help deaden the pain, given a little time.

Dean stood and snagged the blanket from the other bed and laid it over Sam, dodging a swipe from Sam's good arm and making sure not to let the coarse fabric touch the other arm.

"For Pete's sake, Dean," complained Sam. "I told you – I'm not a toddler!"

"That's what reminded me that I know exactly what to do when you're fighting your nap," Dean snarked back with a little grin. "And I figure why mess with what always worked? Now shut up or I won't read you a story."

"Dean!"

The exasperation probably shouldn't amuse Dean so much, but he couldn't help it. He pulled shut the meager curtains, pleased when they did a decent job of cutting down on the sun that made its way inside. "Kyle is picking up that tea you drank" after Jess' funeral "when you were hung over, and some more smoothie stuff, so you can try one of those when you're feeling better. Or we've got ginger ale and crackers, too."

While he spoke, Dean found The Bone Collector.

"Will you stop it, Dean? I'm fine –"

"Close your eyes and shut up." Dean checked the temperature of the makeshift compresses. Finding them still sufficiently cold, he sat down, opened the book to the receipt from some place called Foo's, and began to read aloud.

Sam stared at Dean for so long it made Dean's skin itch. Then, finally, Sam relaxed back and threw his uninjured forearm across his eyes. His "Thanks, Dean" was barely audible. Dean smiled and kept reading.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam and Dean stayed out their entire week.

Sam complained but it felt like he was just going through the motions. He met Kyle and gave him a few books he'd finished reading. He made friends with Kyle's grandfather and mom and charmed the latter, scoring them some fried bread that was so wonderful that Dean almost cried over it. He began to eat (starting with his clementines) and stopped looking like he belonged in Night of the Living Dead. He even came close to sleeping through the night a few times. He studied his stupid lore book, but not obsessively.

Dean gave Kyle an ancient mix tape that was heavy on Limp Bizkit, thinking it was something the kid might enjoy. He fixed Kyle's family's truck, which was so old that he honestly expected it to have Flintstone-style holes in the floor. He visited the pretty girl at the market twice more, but didn't get any farther than flirting due to the hovering of her grandmother and Dean's reluctance to leave Sam too long until he was completely better.

It was pretty nice. Like anything, it didn't last. By the time it was their last day, Sam was antsy and anxious to get back to the hunt, though whether he meant hunt for monsters or hunt for Dad, Dean wasn't sure.

Dean was ready to go, too. He never was comfortable staying in one place so long that people began to recognize his patterns and preferences. A part of him was afraid that he'd start to really like it and he'd somehow wind up stuck.

Then came the moment that Dean loved. The moment when the bags were in loaded up and Sam was waiting in the passenger seat and Baby started up like she was fresh off the line. He thought, as he often did, about a quote from The Hobbit (though he'd never admit that he'd read it, much less loved it): "You step onto the road, and...there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Kyle came hurrying out waving a package wrapped in butcher paper. When Dean opened his window, the boy called out, "Hang on. Shimá made you more bread."

"Oh, sweet!" Dean exclaimed, taking it reverently. "Tell her thanks for us." He wondered, not for the first time, if the family had an idea of why they'd come and what they'd been up to out in the wilderness. "You're not so bad, kid."

Kyle rolled his eyes, but a bit of a smile escaped his practiced sullenness, and he even gave a small wave.

Dean didn't bother to roll up his window as he pulled out onto the road and headed out of "town," if Toadlena even warranted the appellation.

He pushed in a tape and turned Sabbath Bloody Sabbath up so he could hear it over the wind noise. He couldn't help but smile at Sam, who was tapping his foot along with the music.

"On the road again, eh, Sammy?"

Sam quirked a little smile, turned the music up and nodded.

* * *

AN: Well, that ended up a LOT longer than I anticipated!

I forgot to say it, but Toadlena is a real place, chosen by me purely for its fabulous name.

sylvia37: I know -- so gross! I'm glad the little cliffie didn't bother you. It started out as a single chapter but just got too long.