"Fine… just make sure… you kill these…fucking… things… first!" Dean got out, before adding, "Oh, shit, Sammy!" as Sam ripped his tee shirt and removed it.

"Dean?" Sam asked, getting his brother's attention again and moving the flashlight beam to get a better look at the bloody bite marks. "We need silver to kill these things… Does that mean… Shit. Dean? Do I need to worry about you turning into a Fooger? You know, like when someone gets bit by a werewolf?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so!" Sam balked, leaning down to look Dean in the eyes.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut tight. This was supposed to be an easy job. "Dad and I… we never found any… anything that changed. They always… kill."

Sam nodded mutely and refocused on Dean's shoulder. After casting the flashlight beam around the outside of the circle, checking for Foogers, he moved toward his duffel bag. Opening it up, he moved aside the guns and ammo and grabbed several flasks of holy water and other first aid supplies. He never faulted their dad for drilling into them the necessity of carrying first aid supplies wherever they went, even if said supplies included more than the usual bandages and antibiotics...

"I'm gonna douse these bites with holy water anyway," Sam told his brother, getting a nod in return.

He took a small dressing first, and wiped away the blood in and around the wound, wincing just as much as Dean did.

"Ready?" he asked, preparing Dean for what might be even more painful, if Fooger bites reacted the same way to holy water as werewolf bites did.

"Do it."

And Sam did, pouring the contents of one of the flasks over the bite marks. He was relieved when no steam came up, no burning of flesh happened, and therefore Dean only let out a slight hiss in reaction.

"Are you sighing… in relief as much as… me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied. He truly was relieved. Then he took a large trauma dressing and pressed it against the bite mark.

That got Dean squirming and cursing, "Fucking Foogers."

Sam taped the dressing down and moved back to look at Dean's leg and saw that it was bleeding through the too-quick bandage he'd already put on. But what also caught his eyes were the several pairs of glowing red ones surrounding them.

He quickly reached for a handgun, aimed it and the flashlight toward the beasts, and let loose a half dozen or so shots. He heard at least two screeches, so he'd made at least that many hits. He slowly circled around, gun and flashlight still pointing the way, and searched for more targets. He saw two dead Foogers about three feet from the salt circle, about five feet from where Dean lay. He circled again and when he saw no more of the things, returned his attention to his brother.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked, putting down his weapon and picking up another trauma dressing and another flask of holy water.

"Yeah. You get any?" Dean answered, dropping his head back down to the ground and relaxing the grip he'd had on his gun.

"Two," Sam answered. Looking down at Dean's leg, he winced and shook his head.

He adjusted the flashlight one more time and undid the messy bandage. He wiped away as much blood as he could and doused this wound with the second flask of holy water. Sam did what was needed next. He put the dressing over the wound and pressed down. Hard.

"Oh, fuck! Shit! Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, arching up off the ground. After a few minutes, after he'd gotten used to the pain and slowed down his breathing, he managed to add, "It's gonna be… a long…fuckin'…night…Sammy."

00000

Two hours later had Sam once again at his wits' end. He hadn't seen nor heard another Fooger nearby since he'd shot the two that were still lying just outside their salt circle. And those two were even worse smelling than the first two he and Dean had shot. But Sam didn't dare complain about the smell this time. He would put up with it. All night if he had to, which he did. He was still feeling guilty about asking Dean to move that other one. If only he hadn't been such a pain earlier, basically whining about the job if he were to admit it, Dean wouldn't have left the circle, wouldn't have moved that dead Fooger for him, wouldn't have been attacked.

"Not your fault, Sammy."

Damn. How the hell does he do that?

Dean had been lying quietly beside him, his lower right leg propped up on one of the duffel bags.

"Dean… If I-"

"Not your fault," Dean repeated. "And I know you're thinking that because I always know. Hell, Sammy, you'd hold the patent on guilt if it was possible."

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. Then he gently put his hand on Dean's arm, making contact. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine-"

"Dean-" Sam cut Dean off.

"Let me finish, Sam," Dean interrupted right back. "I'm fine, as long as I don't move."

Sam moved his hand to Dean's forehead. He was surprised that Dean didn't try to swat it away. "You really are hurting," he murmured. Dean felt a little warmer than he had an hour ago. "You're getting a fever," he said.

"Not surprising," Dean replied. "Who the hell knows what's in that fuckin' Fooger slime."

Sam heard the weariness in Dean's voice. He reached for a water bottle and helped him take a sip.

"So when was it that you and Dad first hunted these things?" he asked, making conversation now, keeping his brother awake, passing the time.

"About a year after you left. It was further north, closer to Canada, though."

Sam nodded, even though he knew Dean wouldn't see it. "You warm enough?" Earlier, he'd found a couple of emergency blankets – those thin metallic ones that folded up so small they'd fit in your hand – and covered Dean in them.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Sam nodded again. "Have another sip of water," he suggested.

A/N: Sorry this is so short, but I figure it's better than nothing at this point… Sorry it took so long to update, but that's life…