A/N: Once again apologies for the delay – and this was a long one! You'd think after all this time I'd have more than 3 pages of stuff… but that's the life and death of a muse for you. Thanks go out to November's Guest for the beta reading and drool-worthy pics of Dean she sends me for inspiration.

Sam pressed a button on the side of his watch, illuminating the dial, and checked the time. It was only 2:14. They still had hours to go before sunrise and he was beginning to really worry about Dean. While the wounds had stopped bleeding, whatever was in the Foogers' slime seemed to have given his brother an instant infection. Within only an hour or two, Dean had developed a fever – and as the night progressed, he had become less and less coherent.

Sam smiled sadly. At first, it had been kind of funny. When Dean was telling him about his and their dad's first encounter with the Foogers, he'd let slip some other details of the trip. He still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Dean and their father stopping at the State Fair, in Syracuse, even if it was mainly to see a Journey concert, after the Fooger hunt was over. And something about a butter sculpture…?

"You still with me, big brother?" he asked Dean. A tired sounding grumble was what he got in reply. "How about some more water?" It was said as more of a suggestion than a question as he opened a bottle of water. He received another grumble and a headshake. "Tough," Sam replied, gently putting his hand under Dean's head, lifting him up just enough and putting the water bottle to Dean's parched mouth.

Dean managed a few swallows before turning his head away, whispering, "Enough."

Sam nodded and eased Dean back down.

"Where are they?" Dean asked.

Sam lifted the flashlight off the ground and turned it on. He aimed the beam toward the woods around them, turning it in a full circle. He sighed.

"I don't know," he said, turning off the flashlight and putting it back down. "I haven't seen any for a half hour or so. And then, they didn't come close enough to shoot. I don't know if they're waiting to see if we leave the circle or are trying to figure a way to get to in."

"Mm," Dean responded. "Keep… keep..." He swallowed roughly, trying to get the words out.

Sam heard Dean struggling to talk, his words interrupted by short gasps and swallows. "Dean?" he called, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He quickly turned the flashlight back on – just in time to see his brother's head tip back and his mouth open in time with the spasms that traveled from Dean's stomach to his throat. "Oh, shit, Dean…" he swore as he hurriedly rolled his brother onto his side, just in time to prevent him from choking on the vomit that had already started coming up.

Sam did his best to get Dean onto his hands and knees, hands supporting his abdomen and head, and kept him out of the growing puddle below. "Easy, easy," Sam soothed, as the sounds and smells assaulted his senses, threatening to make him throw up, too.

Sam was also aware of just how close they were to the edge of the salt circle, and how close the puddle was getting to it, threatening a break in their line of protection.

As Dean's body calmed down, his stomach only capable of producing weak dry heaves now, Sam took his hand away from Dean's forehead. Gently rubbing his brother's shoulder first, he then began tossing dirt on the puddle, stopping its progress toward the salt.

"Son of a bitch," Dean swore quietly, his voice rough. Then he cursed again as he collapsed back down onto his side, Sam barely catching him as he fell, and fiery pain shot from his wounds.

Sam gathered Dean up and away from the mess he'd made and held his brother up against his chest as he sat back down.

"Check-" Dean got out between clenched teeth, reaching for the flashlight.

"I got it," Sam said, grabbing the flashlight and doing a sweep of the salt circle first, making sure it was intact. Then, he shone the beam around again, stopping when it caught a flash of red. "There's one," he said, and then continued the sweep, checking for others. He found no more eyes watching, and moved the light back to where he'd seen the Fooger. It was still there, still waiting. "No good shot," he told Dean, apologetically, who then dropped his head back against Sam's shoulder, dejected, tired.

Next, Sam shone the flashlight down on his brother, making sure the bandages were still intact, still working. He apologized quietly when he moved Dean forward a bit, to check his shoulder, Dean letting out a short cry of pain.

When Dean began to shiver, Sam grabbed up the emergency blankets that had come off while Dean was throwing up, wrapped them around his brother once again, and held him close.

"A few more hours, Dean. A few more hours," he murmured over the top of Dean's head.

00000

The Fooger Sam had spotted after Dean had gotten sick a little over an hour ago hadn't moved. It still watched them, still stared at them, never moving closer or changing its position. Sam almost wished it would come closer, his need to kill the thing getting stronger as the night progressed.

He shifted position again, trying to stretch out his back as he sat there holding Dean, his arms around his brother, flashlight in one hand, Glock in the other. He'd already tried to maneuver their duffel bags so that he could lean back against them, but they weren't big enough, or sturdy enough to support him – let alone he and Dean together. But he wouldn't let go of Dean – not now. He didn't dare lie down to get comfortable; didn't dare let his guard down. He needed to maintain their meager defense, be ready to shoot any fucking booger, Fooger, who came close, who tried to hurt his brother again.

The fever and wounds were continuing to take their toll on the older Winchester. Sam could feel the tremors wracking Dean, his brother unable to maintain body heat. That was another reason he didn't dare move, or lay Dean down to ease the pain and tension in his own back. He was the only thing keeping Dean from going hypothermic. Sam shook his head. He never understood how someone with a high fever could possibly be cold…

"Sam…"

Sam heard the tone of Dean's voice, his name a simple plea. And a warning: Dean was going to be sick again. Sam quickly pulled back the emergency blanket and rolled the two of them to the side, just in time for Dean's rebellious stomach to take control of his body.

When it was over, and Dean's dry heaves subsided, Sam took a moment to stretch more fully, cracking his back, neck and shoulders. Then he pulled Dean's boneless form back against his chest and wrapped the blankets around them once again.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he whispered. "I should have taken this more seriously. I'm sorry."

Dean didn't reply.