Siren's Song

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, I'm just playing.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews. This story has been a joy to write and it's nice to know that people are enjoying reading it too.

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Sam woke up at 7:30, which was down right sleeping in, for him. He stretched, thanking whatever god he believed in at the moment that he hadn't had yet another nightmare. Looking over at his brother, he smiled a bit and sat up. Dean had fallen asleep sitting up, the magazine still open on his legs. Sam reached over and carefully folded it up, then placed the back of his hand against Dean's forehead. He swore under his breath. "Jeez Dean, you're burning up."

"The hell are you touching me?" The question was slurred badly, and so congested that Sam hardly understood him. Dean opened red, watery eyes and looked at Sam, mutely demanding an answer.

"You're warm, Dean. Really warm. I just don't think this is the best idea you've ever had, you know."

Dean sat forward and coughed deeply, making Sam wince for him. When he'd finally caught his breath, he shook his head a bit. "I'll live, Sammy. I just wanna get this over with so I can enjoy my bad health without having chores hanging over my head. When this is done, I swear, I'm gonna hold up in a motel room for a few days at least and just veg." Actually, he doubted very much that he would have the time to do any such thing, but hell, a man can dream, can't he? "Maybe catch a Lakers game."

Sam snorted. "You hate basketball. You hate sports in general."

"The hell I do. What do you call what we do? Hunting is a very useful and honorable sport."

"Most hunters don't get hunted back. Besides, shouldn't you be more into the Outdoors chan…" He cut himself off as Dean started to cough badly. "Damn, where'd you put that Dayquil, Dean?" He stood up and found the bottle, then handed it out to his brother expectantly, only to have it brushed aside. "The hell's wrong with you?"

"You..." after a deep, shaky breath, Dean went on, "you know I can't right now. I'm not taking anything until we're done. You can hand me the Kleenex, though." He grabbed a handful and sneezed several times into them, then groaned as he rested his throbbing head against the headboard. "Goddammit."

Sam shook his head. "Bless you, I guess. This is crazy, you know that, right? Like, not even normal Dean type crazy, like... like Dad crazy."

Dean bristled a bit at the mention of their father, a touchy subject at the best of times. "Then I guess he taught me something right. Anything to get the job done."

"Anything including risking your health? That's not even normal, you know it and I know it."

"And since when did any of us have the pleasure of being normal? Hell, I bet you didn't even feel normal at that college of yours, did you?"

"We are not starting this up again, not now." Sam turned away, pissed off. "'I'm taking a shower, you should to."

"I will when you're done." He reached for his magazine then set it down, not really interested right then.

Sam came out a good twenty minutes later, the warm shower seeming to have restored his good humor. At least, it was restored unless Dean wanted to start something again.

Surprisingly, Dean just got to his feet and went toward the bathroom, a smile playing on his pale lips. "God Cinderella, did you leave any hot water for us common folk?"

Sam laughed and gave him the finger. "In case you haven't noticed, I have at least twice as much hair as you do."

"And yet, I still manage to be the good looking one."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Just get in there. And dry your hair off really well, God knows I don't need to risking yourself more by going out there with wet hair."

"You really buy into those old wives tales, don't you?" He closed the door and turned the shower on, as hot as he could stand it.

When the nice, warm shower had given out to lukewarm, the down right chilling streams of water, Dean left the bathroom, wrapping a towel around his trim waist. He dug through his not so tidy pile of clothes, then looked at his brother. "Hey Sam, you seen my sweatshirt?"

"What one?" Sam didn't look up from his laptop.

""The one I always wear when it's freezing... this one. Why the hell was it on your bed?"

"That's not you're sweatshirt, it's my sweatshirt."

"Dude, you're full of it. I've had this thing for months."

"You mean you stole it from my stuff the day after we left Stanford. It doesn't even fit you, it's too big."

"I happen to like my shirts a little on the big side, easier to work in."

"Yeah, me too. It's a little big for me, Dean." To prove his point, Sam snatched it out of Dean's hand and held it up against himself. "See."

Dean grabbed it back. "Sorry, you haven't convinced me. Maybe next time you should sew your name on the tag, like Dad used to have to do when we were younger and you started getting freakishly tall." He took his clothes back into the bathroom and got dressed, shivering as the cool air bit into his damp skin.

Sam turned back to his laptop, a small smile playing on his lips. The smile turned into a grin when Dean came out dressed in what was an undeniablely too big for him sweatshirt. The sleeves were rolled up and still went passed his wrists. The smile faded when he saw that Dean was shivering, in spite of the added layers. "You know, if you're sure you feel up to this, we should head out here pretty quick."

Dean coughed violently and sank down on the bed, his hands draped listlessly between his knees. "Sure, we'll go in a few." He sounded worn out.

"I wanna take your temp before we leave. You look like hell."

Dean shook his head in a tired way. "It won't make a difference. I'm doing this anyway and knowing what it is will only make it worse."

"You're freakin' impossible, you know that?" Sam sounded mild to moderately pissed off. "Last night you were all for making yourself feel worse."

"Oh for the love of... give it here, will you?" A hand reached out for the thermometer, which was handed to him with a smirk.

After the never-ending minute, Sam pulled the instrument from Dean's lips. "Damn, Dude, you're really warm."

"How warm is really warm?"

"103.3." Sam sat down next to Dean and looked at him hard.

Dean swore under his breath. "Yeah, that's pretty warm alright. My evil plan worked. Maybe a little too well. Well, I'm not getting anything done just sitting here. Let's head out." He moved to get to his feet, trying to look as if he didn't really care about the fact that he should be at the doctor, at least, trying to get himself better, rather than going out on a cold lake in early spring, trying to make himself worse.

Sam stood up first and offered Dean his hand. "Yeah, let's go." He didn't exactly expect Dean to take the hand, but he was going to make the gesture all the same.

True to form, Dean pushed the hand away. "I have a cold, I'm not a cripple."

"Okay, okay, you're not a cripple." Sam smothered a grin and followed him out to the car.