And now a guilty, porny, not-very-thoroughly-thought-out but h/c-tastic fantasy. This is a missing scene for 5.08 ("Changing Channels") so SPOILER WARNING. I don't have a challenge to blame this one on. Please don't laugh. Aghghhh.

Thank you to sidjack for the thumbs-up that led us here, and to Enkidu07 for existing.

Cold blue tingles, the joybuzz of being zapped through TV Land. Then Sam's on a doorstep, in a blizzard, with Dean's arm draped over his shoulder, Dean's weight leaning into him.

"Dean?"

Sam's cold, but Dean's teeth are chattering, his lips a doubtful purple. His face is white, his nose is red. He meets Sam's eyes and shakes his head once. Then his expression changes and he's snapping forward, sneezing into a massive ski glove.

"Gesundheit." Sam casts a quick look around, makes out mountains through the falling snow. "Are you OK?"

Just then the front door opens, and a rosy looking woman in curlers and an apron smiles out at them. She spots Dean and her manner flips to concern.

"What are you doing out in this? What happened to Dale?"

Sam turns to "Dale," waits for the damage report. All he gets is two more sneezes.

"I don't like the sounds of that. Get in here where I can see you."

Sam helps Dean in over the threshold, feels the limp in his step. Shivers flare up as they hit the warm atmosphere and Dean shakes hard against him.

"Hih-hih-hihhh... huh-TCHHH!" Dean almost faceplants but Sam's got him firmly around the waist.

"Dale! Poor thing." She's fussing with the zipper on his massive winter jacket, trading worried looks with Sam. Whoever she is.

Dean's definitely a bit out of it and he pushes at her hands, sniffling. "Sa... haaa... haAAA-TCHH!" The back of his mitt takes the spray.

Puddles are forming around their feet. Dean sneezes twice more, dislodging wet chunks of snow from his jacket and sending them splattering to the ground.

"It's OK... Dale," Sam says. "Our stuff's wet. We need to change."

The householder shimmies Dean out of his ski pants and snowboots and coaxes him, small and wobbly in his long underwear, over to the couch. Sam watches warily, shucking off his own gear.

"Stay put," she tells Dean. "What you boys need is some hot cocoa."

Sam sits next to Dean on the couch, lets Dean teeter and sink into him, still trembling violently. "Hey, whoa, you OK? What's going on?"

"Hrrr-RRRSH! KUSSHH-uh! EHHSSHSHH!"

"Got a cold, right? You mess up your ankle or something?" Sam peers down at Dean's feet, spots the damp streaks on the floor. "Were your boots wet? Crap... crap, Dean, you need dry socks."

Dean snuffles blearily at him. "H-h-huh... HUTCHH!"

"Aw, dude. You've got something..."

The rosy woman reappears with a tissue box. "Need these?"

"Thank you," Sam says, "yes, and you know what else we need is to get... Dale's feet dry." Sam's plucking out kleenex as he speaks, pressing them into Dean's icy hand.

"Oh, darn it!"

She's off down the hall in a half-panic. Dean's fingers are slack, thick snot trailing toward his lip.

"Ugh. C'mon, man." Sam gingerly takes back the tissues and wipes Dean's red nose, holds it to his nostrils. "OK... blow."

Dean shoots him an incredulous look over top of the kleenex, but then his eyes screw shut and he pitches forward again, convulses with sneezes. "HIHH-tchh! Hih-ITCHCHH! PFFFKGH! AA-TCHHHCH!"

Dean squints at Sam and Sam stares at Dean and they don't speak. Finally Sam looks away, gently smudges Dean's nose, drops the wad onto the end table. "Right."

Their host reappears with a towel over her shoulder and a steaming basin of water.

"Feet up, Dale." Dean's half dozing against the back of the couch so Sam bodily lifts his legs, waits for the container to settle and immerses his feet in the warm water.

With a congested gasp Dean jerks upright and scowls at his feet, at his benefactor. He tries to lift them out and Sam tests the water, then holds him still. "It's not too hot. You need this."

Dean blinks watery eyes at him, snuffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve, leaving shiny streaks on the waffly material.

"Who is she," Dean croaks, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

"I don't know, man, but it looks like she wants to take care of us. Maybe that's our roles in this one."

Dean sneezes wetly and shakes his head as if to clear it. "Cad't thigk, Sab. Sud of a bitch."

"Just take it easy, OK? I've got your back."

Dean's eyes drift shut and he slips to the side, his head finding Sam's shoulder. It's warm, Sam realizes, cupping a palm over his forehead. Warmer than Sam wants it to be.

"Here's that cocoa," the woman in the apron says, reappearing with two sturdy mugs. "And a compress for you know who." She leans in close, slips the damp cloth onto Dean's forehead.

"How'd you know he...?"

"Dale never does anything by halves," she says. Suddenly Sam wishes she weren't part of TV Land, weren't part of a game designed to mess with them, because he kind of likes her.

"You got that right."

Tingling. Static. Fuzz.

Here we go...