Dean gave neither help nor resistance. Sam's physical strength had taken a beating and was nearly at an end but he found enough to haul and heave and lift until Dean was once again slumped against the couch. He blinked blearily up at Sam as if he had no idea where he was or who Sam was.

"Hey." Sam greeted, squatting down in front on him and snapping his fingers in his brother's face. "You with me?"

"Tham?" he winced, wiggled, scowled and puckered up. "NO!" he moaned pitifully. "Go'way."

"How you feeling? Seeing anything? Birds maybe? Or smoke? Any feathers?"

Dean blinked and his eyes widened. He stared at Sam with a slack jaw. "Eh?" he managed, attention turning to his shoulder. "Ow." he raised his right hand to hold what gave him such pain, rocked to and fro several times then gave up and doubled over. "Sonofabitch."

"Yeah, it hurts, I know." Sam sighed, he packed the unused medical supplies back into the bag from which they'd come from then collected the trash which he threw into the fire. "HEY!" he slapped Dean's hand away from his shoulder. "You can hold, you can press against it, but don't you dare rub it! You ain't gonna undo all my hard work."

On his knees, chest to the floor with his torso twisted to keep his left shoulder elevated, Dean held his hands out for inspection. His grunt, Sam recognized, was not of pain. It was a question which required an answer from Sam.

"Now what?" Sam asked absently. "Yo, Bill. How's that coming?" he cast a look at his brother to see what the hell he was doing and, much to Sam's surprise, saw that he was counting. Counting his fingers. He was counting his fucking fingers. Sam seethed, throwing items about as he fought to control his temper. Dammit! Bleeding, suffering repeated bouts of unconsciousness, infected with a spiritual ailment and he was worried about the loss of a finger he still had!

"All ten." Sam gruffly assured him, gathering his fingers to squeeze – again – first on one hand, then the other. "You're good. Okay? Now stop."

The sounds of choking alerted Sam to the fact Billy had downed his mug of antidote and waited for him to bring Dean's over. He stood and stretched, cracking his knees and rolling the kinks out of his neck. One more scuffle with Dean and then they both should be able to relax and hopefully sleep the rest of the eighteen hours off.

"Roiling boil, right?" Sam accepted the mug from Billy. "Bill?"

"Yes." he was still pale and sweating noticeably. The drink had been even more vile tasting the second time around! "I…aah…..I'm….gonna….puke." and he fled the room, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

Dean was a bit befuddled, somewhat confused and perhaps more than a tad out of it but that smell…oh God, he definitely remembered that smell. He scrambled to get his feet under his ass, but pain, exhaustion, effects of the curse and Sam's arms rendered him immobile.

"Nooooo." he moaned, pushing weakly at Sam's hands when Sam finally gave up coaxing and pleading and cajoling and bargaining and held Dean's jaw in a gripping hold. "Tham…..no."

"Sorry." Sam said gently, his soft smile apologetic. "One small mug is all. See? It ain't a big one…..okay, ready?"

Dean coughed, he choked, he wheezed, he gagged, he spluttered and sputtered and spit. He winced, he whined, he moaned, he whimpered. He squirmed, he shifted, he pushed, he slapped, he kicked. His head tossed, it rolled, it bobbed and bobbled. And through it all, Sam patiently held him, alternating between force and a gentle touch until finally, Dean settled and drank and swallowed.

The mug finally empty, Sam left Dean hugging the couch, cheek to cushion and went to wet some towels, gather bottles of water, find a clean mug, and fill a pail with cold water and another with hot water. He then sat back down on the floor, pulled Dean away from the couch and into the comfort of his arms. Dean once again settled easily and without fuss, head resting against Sam's shoulder and didn't protest Sam's clumsy attempts to clean spit, drool, saliva and antidote from his face, chin and neck.

Billy emerged from the bathroom, avoided the brothers and put more water on to boil. The pounding came on the door, followed by bouts of cursing and yelling and demands for entry. So, the others were back.

"Can I let them in?" Billy asked when Sam didn't move or tell him it was okay to open the door. "Sam?"

"Make sure Ronnie is with them and says the spell." Sam felt Dean tense, felt his body go rigid, felt sweat soak his sleeve. "Take Craig to the bedroom. Nate can take care of him there." okay, so, the antidote was going to make a reappearance. Sam sighed, he'd thought as much, had expected it, had prepared for it.

***000***

Once let into the cabin, Luke made straight for Sam, all anger and violence, Sam greeted the threat with bared teeth and low-throated growl but didn't move Dean off his lap or rise to his feet. Both Billy and Ronnie stopped Luke's attack; convincing him to leave Sam alone and to help them with Craig in the other room.

"Jesus Christ Luke!" Sam heard Ronnie scolding the irate hunter from the safety of the bedroom. "You trying to get shot in the head? What? You think he's gonna sit there and let you come at him with Dean between you two?"

Sam was relieved, having no desire to engage in yet another fist-fight. This time though, he would have done his best to knock Luke into the next week. He was fairly sure he was capable of doing so and doubted the others would interfere. The only drawback would have been having Dean in the way.

Sam looked down when the subject of his thoughts stirred, hands grabbing for something to hold. They found Sam's bare skin and pinched hard but Sam didn't complain or attempt to break the hold. Dean didn't do it out of malicious intent or rebellion; he did it out of pain, discomfort and abject misery.

"Here we go." Sam murmured. "Ride it out Dean, you're okay."

Sam held Dean through the heaving and bouts of retching, gave him water, holding the cup when his brother's hands were too shaky to do so. He kept the fire burning hot to ward off the never-ending chills that resulted in constant shivering. When Dean wanted to lie on the floor, Sam allowed him to. When Dean writhed on the floor from cramps, Sam sat beside him and kept a comforting hand on his back. When Dean broke out in sweat and flushed red, Sam fanned him with a magazine. When Dean's teeth chattered, Sam wrapped him up in a blanket and held him close. When he babbled nonsense, Sam talked him through it.

And so it went on. Minutes passed, or maybe hours, Sam didn't know, he didn't care. His only concern was getting Dean through his fight against the effects of the curse, the resulting symptoms and the reaction to both the wound and the antidote. Dean would look at him, sometimes his eyes would focus but he didn't call Sam by name nor did he speak. On the times Dean flopped onto his belly, right arm flung above his head, left held tight to his side, Sam took the opportunity to check his handiwork on Dean's shoulder and look for signs something else wrong: red streaks or black marks or bruising or discolored skin or blisters…something, anything.

The wounds – claw marks – were deep but stitches hadn't been required. No, the danger was infection and/or phantom symptoms Sam could neither predict nor prevent. All he could do was keep his brother warm, comfortable and safe and if his near presence meant he sported a bruise or two from clutching fingers, he had no problem with it. So, he sat and held and patted and rubbed and fanned and offered cool water, dipping a cloth in the now cooled pail of warm water to wipe the sweat from Dean's forehead and cheeks.

Dean would live, Sam knew that, had seen to it hours ago, but that knowledge failed to make what he was watching Dean go through any easier.

***000***

Activity whirled within the cabin. The four men tending their fallen comrade made a steady parade from the bedroom to the kitchen and back to the bedroom. Orders were barked, some were obeyed, arguments raged, movements were frantic but no one came anywhere near Sam. No, no one offered to help Sam with Dean and no one came to ask Sam for help with Craig.

And while Sam didn't care about Craig's condition, or really, whether Craig lived or died, because as far as Sam was concerned, it was Craig's fault Dean had been struck and poisoned, when Ronnie crossed the room and stood awkwardly next to the couch, waiting for Sam to speak, eventually, Sam spoke.

"What?"

"Aah, how's he doing?" Ronnie asked, shifting his weight uneasily. Sam had heard them arguing in the bedroom, had heard his name a time or two and had come to the conclusion they were arguing whether or not to ask for his help.

"What do you want Ron?" Sam asked tiredly, tone hostile. "You don't care how Dean is, so just spit it out and go away."

"That's not fair Sam." Ronnie retorted, running a hand through his hair. "Craig has yet to regain consciousness and…."

"Any wounds on him?" Sam interjected. "Claw marks or bites? Anything like that?"

"Aah…."

"He was exposed to the weather…..weather not of this earth…you have to get him dry and warm, but he's gotta want to fight Ron."

"Like Dean's doing?" Ronnie questioned. "How?"

"Yeah." Sam jounced Dean's weight in his arms until Dean stirred, murmuring his displeasure and raising a hand in protest. "Like Dean. And I know he's fighting because I can make him respond to me."

Dean roused, head moving from a damp chest, to a damper shoulder. Instinct and habit told him to respond, to climb through the dark and muck and misery and open his eyes and seek confirmation Sam wanted something from him. So he did, blinking open bloodshot eyes that briefly focused on Sam's upside down face, and closed again when he received a reassuring lopsided smile.

"Just like that." Sam swallowed hard, emotion hitting him hard. Dean was still pale, and as he'd done countless times before, Sam counted freckles. "Gotta look for injuries Ron. Gotta treat any you find."

"Billy said to make Craig drink the antidote, but he's not awake and….."

"Then pour it down his throat and hope he chokes on it and you keep pouring until he swallows. Don't quit and don't let him give up."

"Nate didn't….."

Sam held a hand up. "Don't." he warned. "Just don't. He sent Billy and Craig up there knowing damn well there were burial grounds up there. Maybe he didn't expect anyone to try and dig up a grave, but knowing what he did, he should have been prepared it might happen. He should have been prepared for this."

***000***

Sam sat on the floor, back slumped against the couch, legs splayed helter-skelter. He was cold, he was cramped and he was uncomfortable; his clothes had dried stiff and muddy, he was hungry, he was tired, his ass was numb, his back ached, his leg had fallen asleep, his knee needed to crack, his calf had a charley-horse, his thigh had long ago failed to feel Dean's weight, both legs hurt, his ankle, turned for so long at an odd angle, wouldn't straighten out properly and oh yeah, he couldn't wiggle any of his toes, but Dean was apparently comfortable, because he was finally still and quiet, so Sam was reluctant to move and risk disturbing him.

No more shaking or panting or twitching. No more bouts of sudden sweat or sudden chills and violent shaking or fine trembling. No more vomiting or heaving. No more belly cramps, no more choking or gasping. No, Sam wasn't about to do anything that would disturb Dean who was sprawled on the floor between his legs, all draped over his right thigh, left shoulder elevated and his cheek on the bare floor, sleeping peacefully, because apparently – so-Dean-had-whined – it was the only comfortable position he could find that eased the ache in his shoulder.

All this after Dean had awakened on and off with bouts of coherency, fussing about his missing finger and every time Sam thought he had Dean finally convinced that; yes, he still had all ten fingers; yes, all ten attached fingers worked just fine; no, none were missing because Sam had taken care of everything – he was proven wrong when Dean woke up and started counting – again.

Dean woke up slowly. At first he didn't move because he didn't know where he was. He opened first one eye, then the other and allowed his senses to return. He was warm, if uncomfortable, his hip sore from lying on a wood floor. Oh sure, there was a hand-woven rug beneath him, but it offered little in the way of padding from the wood plank. Moving slightly, his body protested with aches and pains and tingling sensations from numb joints. Aah, well, what did he expect? He was getting too old to be sleeping on the floor.

Palms to the floor, he pushed his weight up, resting for a moment on his hip before turning around to sit on his ass. Okay, so, all in one piece. That was always good to know. Sam slept sprawled on his back in front of the couch, clothes wrinkled and muddy if mostly dry. At first, Dean thought he was asleep, but no, he should have known better – he did know better. Maybe Sam dozed or snoozed but if he had Dean on the floor, then his eyes would open and focus the moment Dean moved.

And they did.

"Hey." Sam laced his fingers behind his neck and cupped his head against the floor. "Finally awake, huh."

"Yeah." he stretched, wincing when his shoulder pulled tight. "So." he hissed, his skin stinging. "What hit me this time? Truck? Train?"

"Bird."

Dean didn't bat an eye, just sighed and reached for his shoulder then dropped his hand under Sam's disapproving look.

"Don't touch, huh?" Dean huffed. "Ow." he tried hunching, rolling, flexing, opted for relaxing his shoulder muscles as much as possible. "Stitches?"

"No." Sam sat up, fingers still interlocked and pointed towards the ceiling as he stretched, back cracking. "How you feeling? Ready to roll?"

"Can we?" there had to be some reason they were rusticating in a strange cabin. He heard voices. With strangers.

"By the time we're dressed and packed, yeah, we can roll." Sam pushed to his feet. "How's the shoulder feel?"

"Tight. Dunno why, but I kinda want a heating pad." he frowned. Huh, well, that was odd. "Tell me this fucking bird was the size of Pterodactyl or some such thing."

"Heat, huh?" Sam shrugged. "Thought you'd want ice."

"You'd think." Dean gave it some thought. Yes, he was sure he'd wanted ice before, but now…..no, not now. "Dunno."

"Eagle." Sam grinned. "Remember anything?"

"Coming back." he looked away. Way more than he wanted to remember was coming back! He gave the rug on the floor in front of the fire a dirty look. "Spiritual phantom then? Cudda been a Pterodactyl!"

"Yeah, well, that's what you get when poisoned by an ancient spell on cursed grounds." Sam pawed through a duffel bag, coming out with a package he used his teeth to tear open. He removed the contents, another package and squeezed the sides towards the middle. "Never know what you're gonna end up with."

"Fill me in on the way." Dean took the instant heat-pack. "What's his name?"

"Alive." Sam confirmed. "Dunno if he'll remain that way. They'll take him to a hospital."

"And you'll tell me why they couldn't before, right?"

"Yup." he reached to move Dean's hand to the back of his shoulder. "Don't press to hard. You'll burst those wounds open again."

"I have wounds?" more images and flashes of memories were assaulting him as he spoke. "Oh."

"Ready to get up?"

"Guess." but he didn't move. "You ever gonna tell me why the fuck we even came here?"

"This cabin?" Sam joked. "Well, see, you had to go and tackle this guy and…."

"Watch it." Dean accepted Sam's hand to gain his feet. "I ain't gonna feel like shit for long."

Thank God, Sam thought, looking around for Dean's boots. "Yeah, you don't play well with others, you know that?" he peeked out the window. Calm had descended on the cabin and all was quiet. "Okay, okay!" he held a hand up to ward off Dean's rising anger. "I'll tell you once we're in the car and I'm driving."

Dean had no problem with that. With the way his shoulder felt, he doubted he'd be able to shift the car into drive. No wait, wrong shoulder…..aww, hell! Fine, he doubted he'd be able to steer, how's that?"

"I need a drink." Dean muttered.

"No booze." Sam chided. "You'll have to make do with water. Here, can you get this shirt on?"

"Find me the sleeve." he accepted his fate with little show of irritation. Sam wanted him wearing a jacket, so wear a jacket he would.

***000***

Ronnie observed the brothers interactions from the doorway of the bedroom. They had minutes to go and then they could leave and take both Craig and Billy to the hospital. He didn't know if he'd ever cross paths with the Winchester brothers again, and he rather hoped he didn't but he knew several things for sure:

1. Sam was a man of his word. He had spoken the truth; he'd helped them rescue Craig but that was all he'd done.
2. Nothing and no one – for any reason – would ever come before his brother.
3. Dean would live. Sam had seen to that on the mountain by knowing what he hunted and where he was and what to do before he'd ever left on the hunt in case something like what had happened, happened.
4. Sam hadn't cared if Craig lived or died. His life or death had been in Nate's hands, not either of the Winchesters.
5. He never wanted to make an enemy of either brother.
6. He was done hunting with Nate and Luke.
7. Winchesters DID NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS!

Sam gathered their various bags, shouldered both his and Dean's backpacks, bundled his brother up and side-by-side, they left. Dean, a bit wobbly, accepted Sam's offer of support after a half-hearted slap-fest. Neither said a word to the other hunters, letting the door stand open as they exited the cabin and disappeared into the gloom, heading towards the trail that led to the cars.

"Ron? Time to go." Luke called once the backs of the brothers were no longer visible from the window. "Get Billy checked out at the ER while we see what they can do for Craig."

If anything, Ronnie thought. Whether Craig was going to live was still undetermined but Ronnie was damn sure Dean would be just fine. After all, he was Sam's brother.

***END***