Wow guys, 100 reviews! :D I am so flattered at your continued interest. As a thank you, I'm sending out a hundred zombies to hug each of you...or I'll just give you a new chapter early. Or both! Watch out for the zombies, people!

Dean wasn't sure which direction was up. He was certain that this was a bad sign, as he couldn't remember anyone but Alice feeling that way as she fell down the rabbit hole.

…Not that he had ever watched that movie…ever.

(Alright, fine, he had, but it was Sam's fault, the kid was ten and practically a girl and he had forced him to watch the damn thing, after all…)

Dean shook his head slightly, or at least imagined he did. He couldn't feel the floor, and he couldn't feel the wall, but he was willing to wager his lifesavings (meager as they were) that he wasn't floating, though he wouldn't have been surprised by that turn of events at this point in the game. 'Move over Swine Flu, Bird Flu, and West Nile Virus, the Floating Zombies are here to wreak havoc on mankind!' The idea was so ludicrous that he wanted to laugh, and he wanted to tell Sam so that Sam could laugh, or at least raise an eyebrow at him.

Except that he couldn't laugh, damn it. He could manage a moan, sure, and he could probably project it with gusto, but that didn't get him a laugh. It didn't get Sam to calm down, either, and that was what hurt the most. Sam was a bundle of fireworks about to explode, and for once in his life Dean didn't have a clue what to do. He couldn't talk. Talking was what he did best. Talking was what calmed Sam down. He could understand every word Sam said, but he couldn't utter any of his own.

It sucked.

SNSNSN

After all the things Brandon had experienced so far after teaming up with the Winchesters—a playlist that included zombies trying to eat him, a murderous voodoo bastard burning down his house, and getting shot by the murderous bastard—it stands to reason that something like making a phone call would be as easygoing as, say, watching a movie starring Adam Sandler. You know to expect a romantic comedy void of unexpected plot twists, and the ending is guaranteed to be the epitome of joy squeezed from the teardrops of angels. Anger is defeated, love is found, and it's not creepy at all that a young woman with severe brain damage goes on fifty first dates and ends up married to a man she won't remember in the morning. Waking up confused and pregnant is a glorious occurrence! Halleluiah!

This phone call wasn't like that. It was far, far worse. As Brandon hovered his pointer finger over the little green call light, it mocked him with a thousand jeers. Seconds ticked past, and he finally admitted to himself that he'd rather steal a bear cub from a den of ravenous mother grizzlies than call his brother.

His life was weird.

That said, he wasn't prepared when Sam—sensing that he was never going to follow through with the call—snaked his hand across Brandon's and pressed the dreaded button.

Brandon squeaked and, too late, pulled the phone away from Sam. "What did you—why—"

"Just talk to your brother," Sam said, scrutinizing Dean for any additional injuries, "He's not going to hate you, alright? You need him."

Brandon dropped the phone. It skidded across the hardwood floor and knocked against Sam's knee.

Sam frowned and dropped his hand from Dean's shoulder. "Really? What are you, five?" he said, picking up the phone. He put it to his ear.

"Don't!"

"Hi," Sam said, holding the phone out of Brandon's reach, "Yeah, sorry, I dropped the phone. Look, there's someone here that needs to talk to you," he said, and, without another word, handed the phone to Brandon.

Brandon pressed the phone to his ear. His throat felt swollen; he didn't think he could say anything even if he wanted to.

"Hello?" Chris said. He sounded angry and tired and frustrated.

Brandon didn't say anything. His throat tightened further.

There was a whoosh as Chris exhaled into the phone. "I don't have time for this," he said. His voice shook. "Tonight I lost…I lost…you know what, man? Fuck you. Waste your goddamn time pranking someone else, you bastard."

The words stung. "Wait!" Brandon ground out, his fingers tightening around the plastic, "Chris, wait. Don't go."

Silence. When Chris spoke again, his voice was barely audible. "Brandon?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, wincing as he applied too much pressure to his wound.

"You…you're…"

"I wasn't in the house," Brandon interrupted, trying to keep his voice normal and steady despite the pain, "I'm okay."

"You're okay?" Chris breathed out, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself of the fact, "They said you must've been inside, that the smoke must've killed you."

"It didn't," Brandon reassured him, "I wasn't there. I'm okay."

"Then why didn't you answer your phone?" Chris shot back, "Did you want me to have a heart attack worrying? Where are you?"

"I wrecked my phone. I'm sorry. It doesn't work," Brandon forced out, "And I'm at…I'm on…" he opened his mouth again but the words caught in his throat. "I…" he said, and stopped. His resolve hardened. "It doesn't matter where I am," he said, "I just called to tell you I'm okay."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Chris snapped, sounding more like himself, "That's a load of shit, man. You tell me where you are, I'm coming to get—"

"No," Brandon interrupted, "I'm sorry. I can't. I won't drag you down with me, not this time." He ended the call and dropped the phone like it was searing hot.

"Nice try," Sam said gently, in the process of dousing Dean's bite with holy water, "But that's not going to work. It'll only make him more upset. Dean would probably kill me if I pulled a stunt like that on him," he turned to Dean and spoke offhandedly, "You'd kill me, wouldn't you?"

Dean's lips twitched upward slightly and he squeezed Sam's arm really, really tightly.

Sam turned back to Brandon. "That's a yes."

Brandon scoffed. "He didn't say anything."

"He didn't need to. We've got ESP."

"That's a load of bull."

The phone rang. Brandon jumped at the sound.

"See?" Sam said.

Brandon glared at him and turned away from the phone. "I'm not answering it," he said desperately, "I don't want him involved."

The ringing stopped for a moment and then started anew, filling the hallway with the cheery tune.

"He's already involved," Sam said pointedly.

When the ringing sounded for the third time, Brandon couldn't stand it any longer. He snatched the phone up and took the call. "Chris?" he whispered.

"Don't ever do that again," Chris said, shaking, "You don't get to do that, not to me. I just spent the last three hours thinking you were dead. Do you know what that feels like?"

"I'm sorry," Brandon said, cradling the phone, "I just…you don't understand what I'm involved with. I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me? No, nuh-uh, you're the one that going to need protection if you don't tell me where the hell you are right now. Got it?"

Sam caught his gaze and motioned for him to hurry. Brandon looked at Dean. The man's eyes were still open, but it appeared that he was fighting to keep them that way. Sam's attempts to clean his shoulder were about as effective as cleaning the Black Pearl with a toothbrush.

"Brandon!"

"I'm here, sorry," he blinked hard. His vision spun a bit and then righted. "Chris, I've…I've been shot."

Seeing as he hadn't had the slightest inkling of warning, Chris didn't take the news very well. "You what?" he exploded, "Where?"

"You know how all those people have gone missing? Sam and I went after the man responsible, and we got him—"

"Explain the details later, damn it. Where were you shot?"

"Chest," Brandon admitted reluctantly, "Right side."

"Shit," Chris said, and there was a rustle of objects from the other end as he began gathering items, "Where are you? No bullshit this time."

"You'll need to bring all the medical equipment you have at home, and blood," Brandon said, "There are two other guys with me, and they're worse off than I am."

"For Christ's sake, man, how many times do I have to repeat the question? Are you deaf?" Chris said, exasperated, "Where. Are. You? Dónde freakin' estás?"

"Uh…I don't…it's on Clover Street, way out of town, but it's before you reach Rita's Pizza Place in Avella. I don't know the house number. Do you know Nick Deloro? He's middle aged, walks with a limp, works down at Mike's Garage on weekends. I'm at his house."

"He's helping you?"

"No…he's been killing everyone."

More swearing came through the receiver. "I don't know where he lives, we're not friends," he shot back, frustrated.

"It's an old house. Broken windows, ivy growing up the siding. Um…there should be a white van parked out front."

"It's 3 a.m., how am I supposed to see that?" Chris ranted, making more noise as he found other items to pack, "Can't you just go check the house number?"

Brandon glanced with dismay at the blood coating his shirt. Any contemplation of going downstairs was laughable. Sam looked half dead himself. Dean couldn't even communicate well, let alone stand. None of them were up to taking a stroll downstairs anytime soon. "I…" he said, "I don't know. It hurts, and I'm still bleeding, and…I think I might pass out if I try to stand. I'd have to go down the stairs to get outside—"

"Don't," Chris said, interrupting him, "Don't move. I'll find it, I swear to god I'll find it. You just hang on."

SNSNSN

Chris did find them, and in record time. It only took him fifteen minutes to locate the house, and he stayed on the phone with Brandon the entire time, keeping him awake with mindless chatter while blowing up the speed limit. Sam appreciated that, as it was tough enough prodding Dean every time his eyes started to drift shut. He didn't want to have to worry about Brandon too.

Brandon finally ended the call when Chris turned in the driveway. He turned to Sam, eyes filled with dread. "He's gonna freak."

Sam nodded. He listened as Chris made his way up the porch steps, through the front door, and to the dining room. The footsteps jerked to a stop.

"He found the ribcage," Brandon said ruefully.

"Yes he did," Sam agreed, scooting closer to his brother. He felt Dean gently squeeze his arm, and he tried to relax. It was difficult. He missed Dean's jokes when they got in tough situations. While it was a huge relief to know that Dean was still alive, the forced silence between them was painful.

The footsteps started up again, quicker. "Brandon?"

Brandon swallowed hard, cleared his throat. "Up here," he called out. His voice was strained.

Seconds later, Chris reached the top of the stairs. His shirt was disheveled and his skin was dusted with ash from the fire. It looked like he hadn't slept at all. "Oh god," he said, catching sight of Brandon. He sprinted forward, a huge bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hey," Brandon said weakly.

Chris heaved the bag down and knelt beside him, staring horrified at the hole in his chest. "Shit, Brandon…" he trailed off. His bloodshot eyes flicked toward his brother's pale face, took in his labored breathing. "Don't worry, I'll fix this, it's not that serious—"

"Chris, listen," Brandon interrupted in a rush, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it when I said I didn't want you at my house earlier. I only did it to get you to leave so that you'd be safe, because I didn't know if I was going to get killed tonight, and I always mess up your life, and I was planning on just running away but then you showed up and I didn't know how else to make you leave but it just made you mad, and if I die today I don't want you mad at me, please don't be mad—"

"Whoa, slow down," Chris interrupted.

"No, no, I don't want to," Brandon continued breathlessly, ignoring the throbbing pain in his chest, "Because as soon as you figure out what's really going on you're going to hate me and you'll never talk to me again."

Chris gaped at him, taken aback, "That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

Sam cleared his throat. "See?" he said gently to Brandon.

Chris' head snapped up at his voice, and he finally noticed Sam was in the room. His face darkened. "You," he said, pointing, "You're that guy."

Sam tilted his head in response, smiling apologetically. "I'm that guy."

"Sam's on our side," Brandon said quickly before Chris could jump to nasty conclusions, "Nick had his brother trapped in a cage, and I was helping to get him out. He's the reason I'm still alive. If he hadn't shot Nick when he did, I'd have two holes in my chest instead of one."

Chris looked at Sam guardedly. "And Nick…?"

"In the bathroom," Sam clarified, nodding to the door behind them with the bloody handprints, "I knocked him out." He paused, flashed his teeth, "He might be out for a while. I was…really, really pissed when I slugged him."

Chris inhaled sharply as he finally took notice of Dean, of his rotting flesh, white eyes, pieces of bone protruding from his unnaturally pale flesh. "What…" he babbled, unable to think of anything else to say, "What…?"

"He's my brother," Sam said, shifting slightly so he was subtly shielding Dean from view, "Don't worry about him; there's nothing you can do at this stage of infection. Take care of Brandon."

Chris shook his head, horrified, but began rummaging through his pack for the tools he needed. "What happened to him?"

"He's infected," Sam said darkly, "Nick created a virus…it's unique. Deadly."

Chris shook his head, "I've never seen anything like it," he said. He finished laying out some tools on his bag and then leaned toward his brother, hand stretched out, to get a closer look at his bullet wound.

"No!" Brandon shouted, suddenly animated, swatting his arm aside. "Don't touch it!"

"What?" Chris said, his fingers inches from the wound. "Brandon, calm down, it's just me. You know I wouldn't hurt you, I'll be careful—"

"Don't talk to me like an invalid," Brandon snapped, "I know it's you. That's why I don't want you touching it!"

Baffled, Chris shook his head. "Why?"

"Because I'm infected!" Brandon burst out, keeping himself pressed against the wall away from his brother. He breathed in slowly and averted his eyes, "I've got what Dean has, and I…I don't want you to end up with it too."

"We don't know he has it for sure," Sam broke in, seeing Chris' expression and trying to act as damage control.

Chris hadn't moved. Fear spread across his face. "You're infected?" he repeated. "Infected with…with what he has?" he finished, pointing at Dean.

"We don't know," Sam said again, emphasizing the words to try to stop Chris from panicking. He looked pointedly at Brandon for backup, "Right?"

Brandon swallowed hard. "Right," he echoed, squirming, "He's right, we don't know for sure."

Chris still didn't move.

Sam watched Brandon's blood continue to drip onto the floor. He needed to get things moving, and to do so he decided to play his ace. "Chris," Sam said slowly, "I know this is…a lot to take in at once, and we will explain everything. But you need to take care of Brandon now, alright? He's lost a lot of blood."

That did it. The words 'lost a lot of blood' seemed to snap Chris out of a trance. "Alright," he said.

Brandon swallowed hard. "Use gloves—"

"I said alright, you little prick. I've got it," he said, and reached for his gloves.

Brandon smiled.

SNSNSN

Dean felt bad for Brandon. He had obviously never been shot before, and was trying to act tough while his brother sewed him up. However, either the kid was making a lot of bizarre noises or an entire zoo had somehow gotten into the house. He wished for the latter; it sounded more fun. Lions, tigers, and bears ripping the flesh off of Nick and devouring him very slowly while he screams in agony, oh my!

Unfortunately, he knew better. Sam had been giving him a play-by-play throughout the mini-surgery, which he appreciated. (Anything that involved Sam talking to him and keeping him sane was appreciated.) He kept getting comments like "He's going to fish the bullet out now" and "I think Brandon's going to wake Nick if he keeps yelling like that" and, his personal favorite, "If clown zombies show up, I'm ditching you," which, of course, had nothing to do with Brandon and everything to do with making Dean smile.

When Sam wasn't talking, Dean used most of his meager energy levels fighting not to sleep. It was tough, even with Brandon sounding like Chewy attempting to sing karaoke in the Cantina.

Damn he could use a beer.

As Chris desperately tried to calm his brother—"Only three more stitches, man, then you're done," –Dean groaned and rested his head on Sam's shoulder.

Sam chuckled. "I know," he said quietly, "Imagine if it was this much of a crisis every time one of us got shot. We'd never have time to hunt anything."

Dean grunted and shut his eyes.

"Don't," Sam said, his voice dropping instantly.

Dean scowled. Of course he would use that tone, the little brother I'm so sad, you have to do what I say tone. He was probably using the look too, the one that got people to trust everything he said at the drop of a hat. Well it's not working. These eyes are staying shut. I'm resting them, that's all. Nothing dangerous. Hell, I don't even need eyes, can't see worth shit—

"Dean…come on," Sam said in the same tone, "Just…just stay awake."

Resist resist resist resist resist resist—

"Please?"

Damn it. Dean forced his eyes open and bleakly took in the lack of anything but dark shapes and blurs of color. Wonderful.

"Thanks," Sam said, relieved.

Dean twisted his neck a little, trying to get more comfortable on Sam's shoulder. "Bitch," he mumbled, except that it didn't come out a real word.

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