Thanks for the comments and reviews everyone! Sorry for the wait but I've been on vacation for a week. It wasn't really planned. But now I'm back...from outer space... :) I know, I'm lame. Just read.

Sam took one lingering glance of disgust at Nick's crumpled form before dragging his own broken body out into the hallway. Upon inspection, he found that Dean was still mimicking a corpse—he's not dead, damn it, he'll be okay—and Brandon was slumped against the wall beside him. His eyes were closed, and blood had begun to soak through his shirt. "Hey," Sam said, snapping his fingers in front of Brandon's face, "No siestas, gunslinger. You stay awake."

Brandon opened his eyes a crack and peered up. He kept a palm pressed against his chest, but the blood seeped through regardless. "I'm up," he said, "Resting my eyes."

"Rest them when you're on vacation," Sam said, "Right now you keep them wide open—don't even blink—and you keep that hand stemming all that blood. You're not dying today."

"I know," Brandon said, smiling thinly. "It's just a flesh wound."

"Funny," Sam said simply, looking into the next room. It was a small bathroom; blood crusted the claw foot tub and splattered up the pineapple pattered shower curtain. He pulled back in disgust. "Have you seen any rope?"

"What?"

"Rope. We have to tie up the bastard," he clarified.

Brandon shrugged. "I don't remember."

Frustrated, Sam's eyes strayed to Dean. His skin was chalk, dark smudges etched under his closed eyes. He was breathing shallowly, but that didn't mean squat. Zombies breathed. Sam wanted to check for a pulse but…what if…? He can't be dead. Not Dean. He was fighting it, he was…

Underneath all thoughts, Nick's voice echoed in his head, unbidden: Coward…coward…coward…coward—

"Why…why didn't you kill him?" Brandon asked softly.

Sam tore his gaze from Dean. "What?"

"Nick. Why didn't you blast him?"

Sam tightened his grip on the doorknob. "He claims there's a cure. Says he has it."

Brandon shifted his weight weakly, stretching out his legs in front of him. "What do you think?"

"He's telling the truth," Sam said, his face rearranging itself into a ruin of fury and hatred, "He'd better be."

Brandon flinched, looked away. Time to change the subject… "Does the bathroom lock from inside?"

Sam's cigarette eyes burned into him.

Brandon shivered. "Don't…don't look at me like that," he said, "I'm not Nick, okay? Save the eyes of damnation for him. What I'm saying…what I mean…ah hell just look at something else, would you? Look out the damn window. You're creeping me out."

"Sorry," Sam muttered. "It's just…Dean…"

Brandon leaned back. "Yeah. I know," He applied more pressure to his wound, relieved that the blood appeared to be nearly stemmed, "Listen. If the door doesn't lock from inside, we can toss the bastard in. Keep him there. He can't kill us if he's unarmed, right?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"Right?" Brandon prodded, voice edged with desperation.

Sam shrugged. He wasn't sure how to keep a voodoo freak like Nick locked up, especially since he controlled all the zombies. On the other hand, Sam recognized that his actions so far were a waste of time; he needed to be helping Dean, not touring the cabin. He checked the lock and found that there wasn't one. Good enough. Without a word he strode across the hall and back into the bedroom. He searched Nick for weapons and pocketed a few blades haphazardly concealed in his clothing. Then, making sure to knock his head hard against the doorframe, Sam dragged Nick out by the ankles. His stump of a hand left a streak of gore on the carpet. Sam dumped the voodooist into the ruined tub and slammed the door to the hellish bathroom. Bloody handprints spotted the white paint around the handle. They appeared to have been made by children. Sam's gut churned.

He limped to Dean's side, feeling helpless in the wake of his brother's situation. Reluctantly, he ran his fingertips gently through his older brother's hair. His fingers came away wet with sweat and blood. He wiped them on his jeans. His hands shook.

"Sam…" Brandon said cautiously.

Sam shot him a glance. He raised his eyebrows and urgently tilted his head in Dean's direction. "Look," he mouthed.

Dean's eyes were open.

Sam nearly choked. His heart pounded faster, pumping him full to the brim with fear. "Dean?"

Slowly, Dean's glazed pupils swiveled toward him. They swept back and forth, never quite focusing on anything. His face was slack, his mouth slightly open.

"Dean?" Sam said again, terrified. He gripped Dean's good arm so tightly that his fingers whitened under the strain. "Hey. It's…it's Sammy. I'm here."

Dean's eyes narrowed slightly. He exhaled, and a soft moan rattled his throat.

Brandon kept his distance. "Sam…is he…?"

"No," Sam shot back, his tight throat constricting the words, "Don't you say that. It's not too late. It's not. He's going to be fine."

Brandon nodded vigorously. "Right," he said. He didn't move any closer.

"Dean," Sam said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He grabbed both sides of his brother's face so that his wandering eyes were forced to look at him."You're…you're scaring me. Really really bad. Can you drop the 'I'm dead' act? You're not…you're not fooling anyone. I know you're still…I know you're not…damn it Dean, if you're still in there you give me something, okay? Anything. I can't take this."

Dean drew a few more shallow breaths. His eyes danced over objects, unable to focus or still for very long. Finally, Dean's hand lifted and, shaking badly, managed to latch onto Sam's wrist. His skin was like lava to the touch, but his grip was solid.

"Careful," Brandon warned.

Sam ignored him. For the first time in days, he felt the beginnings of hope stir inside him. "Squeeze my arm," he said. He waited.

Nothing happened.

Half a minute ticked by. Brandon watched Sam's face fall. He looked away. "I'm…I'm so sorry," he said.

All at once, Dean's fingers tightened on Sam's wrist, squeezing until it was painful. Sam let out his breath in a whoosh. "Dean?" he whispered.

Dean's grip loosened and then tightened again, though not as painfully this time.

Sam could have cried. Instead, he smiled, feeling the grin rush across his face. "If you can understand me," he said, "Squeeze my wrist five times."

Dean dutifully delivered five consecutive squeezes.

Sam exhaled slowly and allowed his head to fall forward until it rested lightly against Dean's chest. "Oh my god," he said quietly, gripping his brother's arm. "My god. I thought…I thought..."

Dean's chin lowered to rest on Sam's head. His hand released Sam's wrist and slowly snaked around his back where it gripped Sam's jacket comfortingly. The message was obvious. I'm still here.

Sam breathed freely. He relaxed against his brother, allowing himself a moment of peace.

Brandon wasn't as easily comforted. After minutes of worrying ticked past, he timidly broke the silence. "Sam…we need to go to a hospital," he said quietly, "We're all hurt bad, and who knows when Nick's gonna wake and cough up the cure."

Sam didn't move from his brother's embrace. "Yeah," he said.

"How's his fever?"

"He's a furnace," Sam said, the tendrils of worry slowly creeping back to their usual place, "But…no hospitals."

"Sam…"

"We can't. Dean and I are probably wanted for murder by now in town. If we go there we'll end up on death row."

"Dean needs medical attention. You both do, and I…I don't feel very good. Kinda loopy and lightheaded."

"You need a blood transfusion," Sam said automatically, "And the bullet's still inside you. We need to get it out, stitch you up."

"You're way too calm about this stuff, you know that?" Brandon said, gritting his teeth, "C'mon, get him up."

"No," Sam said, "Even if I thought it was a good idea, none of us are fit to drive. No hospitals."

"Damn it, aren't you listening—"

"We need a doctor, Brandon," Sam said, reluctantly lifting himself away from his brother and looking the accountant straight in the eye, "We need a doctor that has equipment and experience and isn't going to rat us out."

Brandon's blood ran cold. "No," he said.

Sam sighed. He shifted so that he still had contact with Dean. "Brandon. We need him."

"No," Brandon repeated, struggling to sit up, "No. Absolutely not. Didn't you hear what I said yesterday? I'm not dragging Chris into this, not this time, not…there are zombies upstairs. We're attempting to keep a psychotic voodoo freak trapped in a tub! You shot off his fingers! And…and…No."

"I'm sorry, okay? I don't want him involved either, but we can't go to a hospital and Bobby's not answering his phone. I don't know any other doctors here—"

"God damn it, I said No!" he shouted, and gasped when the motion sent pain shooting through his chest. "Shit! Ow," he curled in on himself, loosening his hold on his wound. Blood spurted out anew, unhindered.

Sam leaned forward to apply more pressure to the hole, but stopped en-route. Froze. "Oh no," he said quietly.

Still breathing heavily through the pain, Brandon locked on to Sam's change of tone. His nerves spiked. "What?" he said, "'Oh no?' What do you mean 'oh no?'"

"That's an open wound," Sam said, staring at the hole in Brandon's chest like it had started spewing ectoplasm instead of blood.

"Yeah. So?"

"Your hands are covered in—don't touch it!"

Brandon flinched, pulled his hands back from the wound. "What? Why?"

"Your hands are covered in that slop from upstairs and…and you've been supporting Dean, holding him up."

"So?"

"So Dean's infected, Brandon. All those people upstairs are infected."

It clicked. Brandon's breathing sped up, and he held his hands as far away from his torso as he could reach. "You mean I'm…" he began, and stopped, "I'm gonna turn out like Dean? Like…like all the soulless people trapped in those cages? Oh hell. Oh no. Shit."

"No!" Sam said quickly, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder before he could move and injure himself further, "No, we don't…we don't know that. You're fine. And no one's going to put you in a cage, just…" Sam trailed off, clenching his jaw. He took another look at Brandon's blood drenched shirt. "Hang on," he said.

He slowly stood and made his way back into the bedroom. He came out with a pillowcase, balled it up and tossed it at Brandon. "Keep this on the wound," he said.

"Okay," Brandon said, sounding small, "Okay." He pressed the cloth to the hole, hissing at the wave of pain that shot through his torso. He blinked hard, breathing faster. "Am I going to die?"

Sam's fingers tightened into fists. "You're calling your brother."

"No—"

"Yes. You. Are," Sam said. His voice sliced through the air, beating the individual words into Brandon's brain, "He's your brother, damn it. He deserves to know."

"But he…he's normal and I'm…not. I don't want him to know about the visions. And he already thinks I'm dead, my house…Nick burned my house down."

Sam's mind stopped and replayed the sentence. He came up with the initial result and pushed onward. "He did what?"

"He said he…when we were…and I missed all those phone calls from Chris…twelve of them…I don't know," Brandon said, leaning his head back against the wall. "I'm so tired."

"Eyes open, don't you dare sleep. Where's your phone?"

"Dropped it upstairs."

"Here," Sam said. He thrust his cell into Brandon's bloody hand, "Call your brother. Now."

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