Sam stared at his brother, heart rate exploding through the roof. "What?"

"I don't know," Dean repeated, baffled. "I…Sammy, I don't remember," he blinked hard, as though willing himself to wake up from a dream.

Sam's fingernails dug into his knee under the table. "Anything?" he said, unable to force his mind to form a sentence.

Dean sat up straighter, brow furrowed, "No, I…no."

Stay calm stay calm stay calm. "What's the last thing you do remember?"

Dean concentrated. "Uh…walking in. With the newspapers," he paused and looked at them, lying on the table. "Did I show them to you?"

"Yes," Sam said, watching Dean's face fall. "Uh…"

"And then what?" he asked, apprehensive, "What did I do after that?"

"Nothing. I told you the little that I'd found, and you…you put your head down, said you were tired," Sam said, and shook his head, "But you were responding to everything I said. You looked fine."

"Then why I am missing the last…how long was it? Since I walked in?"

"Twenty minutes."

"Shit," Dean muttered, standing up and pacing over to the door and back. "Guess the bite is doing something after all."

The fact that Dean admitted that he was in trouble made the current situation all too real for Sam. "We'll figure it out," he said, unable to keep the desperation from creeping into his voice. "Right?"

Dean looked at Sam's scared expression and cringed. Sorry Sammy. People that get bitten by zombies die or turn into zombies, usually both. And weird memory lapses? I'm screwed. "Yeah," he said out loud, "We always do."

"Yeah," Sam said, wanting to believe him. He bit his lip and leaned forward in his chair so that both elbows were propped on the table. "Dean…I'm in the dark here, man. I don't know what to do."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force himself to remember something. "Don't look at me, all I know is that to kill zombies you destroy the brain."

"No, I know that. We…we already discussed that part," Sam said.

"We did?" Dean said in dismay.

"Yeah. About The Crazies and Quarantine and us just finishing this ourselves by finding the missing civilians and taking out their brains."

"I cited movies?"

"You did," Sam said helplessly, "You were…you were you, Dean. You were even trying to distract me. Nothing was odd until you put your head down and said you were tired."

"That doesn't make sense, Sam. There had to be some kind of sign."

Sam shook his head. "We'll find the cure, Dean. And…save all the townspeople. And kill all the zombies. It's what we do."

"Piece of cake," Dean said, and collapsed.

Sam's startled brain took a few seconds to register what had happened, and then he leapt up and was at his brother's side in a moment, grabbing his arm and gently turning him so that his head lolled against his shoulder. "Dean? Dean!" His brother didn't move. He reached for his wrist and held his breath—

A heartbeat. It was there—faint—but there. Sam let out his breath in a whoosh. "Thank god…" He moved one hand from around his brother and gently undid the bandage on his shoulder. His face fell.

The bite had spread. It was wider now, and looked deeper. The black goop clung to the gauze in long strings and flecks of dead skin dropped to the carpet.

SNSNSN

Dean was unconscious for six hours. Six endless, tense hours. During that time nothing changed except the bite, which looked bigger. It might have just been Sam's imagination, though. He wanted it to just be his imagination.

He was about ready to give in and take his brother to the hospital when he looked up from spacing at his laptop and saw that Dean's eyes were open. He jumped up, banged his leg against the table, cursed, and rushed to the bed. "Dean?"

Dean blearily met his gaze. "What'd that table do to you?"

Sam resisted the urge to smother him with a hug and sat down on the bed instead. "You alright? Does anything hurt?"

Dean's eyes cleared a bit, enough for Sam to see the confusion in them. "What…what happened?"

"You passed out," Sam said, and then added, "Do you remember falling?"

Dean's forehead furrowed. "I remember…I think. You screamed."

Relieved that he remembered something, Sam grinned. "I don't scream."

"Like a girl. Called my name and everything."

Sam shook his head. Still Dean. "Do you need water? Pain pills?"

"Water," Dean said, "No pills."

Sam looked at him skeptically.

"Nothing hurts," he explained with a shrug, and accepted the cup of water that Sam handed out to him. "You okay?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "No, Dean. I was killed. Sitting in the room. With the door locked. I'm a ghost now."

"Wouldn't put it past you, little brother," Dean said, and looked at him questioningly, "Shouldn't you be wearing a sheet? I wouldn't trust the ones in this room, though. Who knows what people have done on them—"

Sam sighed. "Nope, don't need a sheet. Only you can see me."

"So this is hell," he said, nodding. "That explains the god-awful flowery wallpaper."

"No, this is the reality where the great Dean Winchester got himself bitten by a homeless guy."

"You mean a zombie," Dean said, emphasizing the word, "It's got a better ring to it."

"You mean it doesn't sound as pathetic?" Sam asked, and then laughed when Dean glared at him, "Fine, a homeless zombie, then."

"I'll accept that," Dean said, leaning back in the bed. "So…how am I doing, doc?"

Sam's smile faded as he was drawn back to reality. "Your shoulder…the bite's bigger. And the skin in and around it is dying." Dean moved to look at it but Sam put a hand on his arm. "Don't, I just wrapped it again. You can look in a couple hours."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Probably because it's dead skin."

"Great. Sounds awesome," Dean groaned, "And why did I do a swan dive?"

"I don't know. You were fine."

"That's what you said last time," Dean said, frowning.

"You were fine then too."

"Is this the Winchester definition of fine?"

"No, it's the 'you're you being an idiot so you're okay' definition of fine."

"I'm unfamiliar with that."

"That's because you're an idiot."

"So I'm fine, then?"

"Exactly."

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back on the bed. "Time?"

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Sam glanced at the clock on the nightstand before remembering that it was stuck on 2:16. He looked at his watch instead. "Almost six."

"We need to get going, then," Dean said, and swung his legs off the bed.

Sam snapped into full protective mode. He flung up a hand to stop him. "No," he said, "You aren't going anywhere. No," he stepped in front of his brother, trying to make himself into a wall. It wasn't hard.

Dean frowned up at him. "We need to kill the zombies, Sam. Before they make other zombies or reach the next town."

Sam didn't move. He crossed his arms in front of him, thoughts racing with every possible bad scenario that could happen if Dean left the room now. "What if we find a zombie and you faint again?"

"I don't faint," Dean said defensively.

"You just did."

"Sam—"

"Dude, you were out. I couldn't wake you. Anything could happen out there, how am I supposed to stop them from eating you if we get attacked and you do that again?" he said forcefully, "We have no idea what's wrong with you."

"Zombie bite."

"Don't be a smart ass," Sam spat, "You know what I mean. We don't know how your body is reacting to the bite or what's going to happen next. We don't have any ideas on how to cure you. We'd be going in to a hunt blind."

"Look, I'm not too excited about it either, okay? We don't have a choice. If we don't hunt tonight or at least scope out the area someone else is going to get bitten."

"We don't know that—"

"Do you want to chance it? I don't."

Sam growled deep in his throat. He looked down at Dean, checking him over for signs of injury, fatigue, anything. He looks fine, he's talking fine, and he's still being a complete stubborn jerk so he's coherent, and I won't be able to keep him here. He paused. "I don't like this."

"Sam—"

"I don't like this but we're going to have to do it anyway," Sam continued, talking over him, "So I'm calling the shots here. You stay with me at all times."

"I'll be super clingy," Dean said, seriously, "Just like that one girlfriend you had that called you twice a night."

Sam glared.

"Remember when Dad said he was gonna take the shotgun and go—"

"Next," Sam continued, "And I know this might be difficult, but don't do anything stupid."

"Define stupid?"

"You," Sam said with emphasis.

"Harsh, Sam."

"And if you start feeling weird, or even tired you damn well let me know or I will chain you down in this room and hunt down all the zombies by myself."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Now that sounds stupid."

"Yeah, well, don't force me," Sam said seriously. Because I will. And you can hate me all you want but I swear to god I'll do it.

Dean caught the look in Sam's eyes and softened instantly. "Okay Sammy," he said quietly.

Sam breathed out and dropped his offensive stance, allowing his shoulders to droop as they normally did as he turned away. "So…we need to find the zombies."

Dean nodded.

"I don't even know where to begin looking," Sam said bitterly. "This is going to take forever, and we don't have time."

Dean's face lit up. "I didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Dean jumped off the bed, deaf to Sam's shout to be careful, and rifled through the newspapers. He pulled out a particularly dog eared page and handed it to Sam. "See here? It says that a lot of the missing people were last seen hunting in this area of the woods. By the creek. There's even a picture."

Sam smiled grimly. "Well look at that," he muttered, "At least something's going our way."

Dean clapped him on the back. "Let's go find some zombies."

And the hunt begins. Review please!