Hello again! Thanks a billion brains for the reviews, every one of them makes my day. :) Annnnnd…here's the next chapter! (Oh, and I mention a certain drug as the cure. I didn't make it up, it really exists.) Enjoy.

The awkward silence stretched across the basement. It filled every dusty nook and shelf and nestled on every spider webbed beam like a grinning cat.

Sam had gone silent a few minutes ago. He was breathing evenly, his head buried in Dean's good shoulder.

Chris was staring at Brandon.

Brandon knew this, and had resigned himself to stare, mesmerized, at the ceiling. (Such wonderfully dusty wooden beams. Such stunning architecture. Stop looking at me, damn it! Stop. Looking.)

He was currently counting backward from one-hundred in his mind. When he was done with that, he planned on doing the same thing in Spanish, and then he imagined that he might count in tens until he reached a million, order the names of all the stars he knew in alphabetical order, and then sing a random Aerosmith song silently, adding in some air-guitar when needed. When he had finished, then—perhaps—he would contemplate contemplating trying to explain this mess to his brother.

It was hot. Beads of sweat had collected at his shoulder blades and soaked through his cotton shirt. Brandon rolled his sleeves a bit.

"You're sweating," Nick said.

Brandon abandoned his avoidance plan and glared at the older man. He had climbed up onto a crate in order to reach some bottles on the top shelf. "So? It's hot."

"Noooo," Nick said. He picked up one of the bottles and took a sip, made a face. He dropped the bottle, and it hit the floor and spewed glass shards. "It's air conditioned down here, kid. It has to be cause of all my lovelies. The liquids don't do well when they're too hot, and then freeze when they get too cold. It's a healthy 75 degrees."

Brandon rolled his eyes. "I suppose your lovelies are in trouble then," he said, "It's an oven down here."

"Fever," Nick said.

"What?"

"One of the first signs of it."

"It…?" Brandon said, and trailed off, teeth clenched as it clicked. Oh. "I don't have a fever."

"Sure you don't. Your wound is just really close to your heart, which is pumping blood to the rest of your body, which is just becoming a zombie."

"I'm not becoming a zombie!"

Nick laughed, throwing a few more bottles to the floor. The contents made a sizzling sound as they smashed open and mixed with the others.

Brandon took a step back from the growing puddle. The mixture was collecting over the drain, but it seemed to be clogged. A bead of sweat dripped from his hairline down his cheek. He reached up to wipe it away just as something grabbed his shoulder. He panicked. "Don't—"

"It's me, you idiot," Chris said sternly, tightening his grip.

Brandon briefly wished it had been zombies.

"Come here," Chris said, tugging him back over to the corner. There was another crack as Nick dropped another vial.

Brandon flinched back as Chris's hand touched his forehead. "What're you doing?"

"Stop moving," he said, grabbing Brandon's head with his other hand so that he couldn't move. He hissed through his teeth. "You're hot."

"Thanks," Brandon said, without thinking.

Chris's hands stilled.

Brandon felt sick at his slip of normality. It was such a routine thing to say. He was pretty sure the exchange had happened sometime before, possibly on a poker night. He would have said it with a grin and a swig of beer, and Chris would have punched him in the arm and reminded him that that was not what he meant, loser, and when was the last time he had even had a date, anyway? And Brandon would tell him about the smoking hot redhead he had met at the bar just last weekend, and about all her smoking hot brunette friends—

Brandon's thoughts ground to a halt when he realized Chris still hadn't spoken. "Sorry. Slipped out," he said. There was a pause and he suddenly found himself pinned up against the wall.

"Look at me," Chris demanded, hands nearly cutting off the circulation to Brandon's arms.

Brandon did look at him then, more out of surprise than anything else. While he had expected to see rejection, all he saw in his brother's gaze was annoyance and worry and…fear? Fear of what?

"You have a fever," Chris said. His voice was tight.

"So it's not hot down here?"

"No. It's…it's cold, actually."

Well. That was it then. He smirked, badly. "Menopause?" he said, swiveling his eyes back to the floor.

Chris managed to tighten his grip. "Stop doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"You know!"

"No I—"

"Stop acting like I'm going to yell at you."

"You are yelling at me—"

"No. This, this isn't yelling. This is normal."

"Like you normally yell at me?"

"Of course I normally yell at you; you're an idiot, Brandon. You think driving the car down a hill in the dark without headlights on is a good idea!"

"Hey, I only did that once."

"Twice—"

"The second time was a dare, and it's not my fault the deer had to walk out on the road just then."

"You totaled the car!"

"It was on its last leg anyway—"

"Stop it! Just…stop it, okay? You're missing the point. I'm not going to start yelling at you, or…or run out. Yes, I'm freaked, and confused, and I don't know what's up with you or what the hell is going on, but you seem to have gotten it in your head that I hate you—STOP MOVING!"

"What?" Brandon asked weakly.

"Not you, him," Chris said, his gun drawn and pointed at Nick, who had been creeping toward the stairs.

Nick eyed the gun distastefully. "Damn. You two were such a good distraction."

"Find the potion."

"It's an antidote—"

"Find the damn antidote, then, you piece of shit!"

"Yes, your majesty," Nick said graciously, bowing. "Your kingship, mighty Caesar, oh majestic one, Princess Buttercup…"

His words droned on. Chris shoved his gun through his belt just so he wouldn't be driven to shoot the man. He watched him shove the bottles around on shelves for a few moments, and then turned back to Brandon. "I do not hate you," he said, over emphasizing the words. "You got that?"

Brandon breathed out heavily. "You don't?"

"When I thought you died…in the fire…" he said, and swallowed hard, unable to finish. "The last conversation we had was an argument. A stupid argument over a guy I didn't even know. And now you're alive, and you have this whole secret life I know nothing about."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," Chris said, "I'm just glad you're alive."

"Awwwww…" Nick crooned, from the other corner of the room, "You two! I'm gonna start crying over here."

"Shut up!" Chris and Brandon shouted.

"And IiiiiiIIIII will all-ways love yoOOOOoooouuUu."

"Has he found the antidote yet?" Brandon said over Nick's obnoxious singing.

"No."

"Can't kill him then," he said

"Nope."

Brandon nodded. His head spun. Wincing, he ran a hand over his forehead. He was hot. And shaky. Shit.

Chris noticed. "You're going to be okay," he said. Paused. "Right?"

"Yeah," Brandon said, looking away from his brother's desperation. Maybe.

"You better be…you owe me one hell of an explanation for everything once we get out of this."

SNSNSN

The dream collapsed.

Sam bolted upright; shadows of zombies receded to the corners of his mind and were replaced with rows of shelves, dim lighting and a dying older brother. Groaning, he reached up and wiped the cobwebs from his eyes.

Dean stiffened beside him.

"Sam?"

Sam looked. Brandon stood in front of him. "You okay?"

While debating whether to grace that comment with an answer, Sam assessed Dean's condition. His eyes were half open, with white irises peeking through. His body trembled. Breathing was all but nonexistent.

"Sam?" Brandon said again.

The younger man stood before him, arm extended. Sam hesitated, then gripped his hand and allowed Brandon to help him to his feet. He frowned. "You—"

"I know," Brandon said, "Fever. It's not…it's not bad."

Sam felt all four bullet wounds then; he felt them throbbing as one almighty stab. He was tired, and he felt old. "Nick. Now."

Nick appeared beside him, teeth gleaming in the smirk that Sam hated. "Winchester," he said, "Nice of you to wake."

Chris had his gun aimed at the back of his head.

Sam eyed the vials of clear liquid clenched in Nick's fist. "Is that it?"

Nick held one up to the meager light. "Mmm…delicious," he said, twisting it, "Science has its perks."

"I thought you made everything," Sam said distrustfully, "Voodoo potions and such."

"Nope, not this lovely serum," he said, "Got this from Todd Rider. Nice man, brilliant scientist, but fucking stupid when it comes to choosing lovers. All it took was a pretty brainwashed girl with exceptionally perky boobs and long dark hair. He took her into his lab. Into. His. Lab. I mean, does it get any easier?"

"What is it?" Sam asked, still watching the vial.

He shrugged. "It's an experimental drug."

"What?" Sam said angrily.

"It's called DRACO...don't know what it stands for. Don't care. What I know is that it's already killed fifteen viruses in tests on lab rats. It's supposed to be the new cure for everything, including epidemics."

"Have you tried it?"

"Haven't been bit," Nick said, oozing with confidence, "Unlike you guys, I mind control the hell out of those freaks. They do what I tell them. I only picked up this lovely as a bit of insurance."

"You better pray it works," Sam said, holding out his hand.

Nick handed him all five vials. His skin was rough. "Have to say, it's most effective in the early stages of infection."

"It will work," Sam said forcefully.

"Experimental," Nick prodded gleefully.

"Do you want me to shoot you?"

"No, Sammy, I'm going to shoot you, remember?"

Sam remembered. "Not likely," he said. "Now where are your syringes?"

"Which disease would you like?" Nick said playfully, "I've got a box of used—"

Chris punched him in the head. The connection made a hollow thunking sound.

Nick stumbled forward. "Oohohoh, Christopher Robin, that's not what friends do."

"Shut it," Chris said, lowering his gun. He walked to his bag, started rummaging through it, "I've got a few."

"Good," Sam said, reaching his hand out.

"I'll do it," Chris said. "I'm the doctor."

"Gloves…"

Chris glanced at Brandon. Grinned. "You and your damn gloves."

Brandon shrugged, watching until Chris dutifully pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Sam looked between the two for a moment. The tension was still there, but it was buried and wasn't threatening to explode anymore; they must've talked. He thanked god for small mercies and handed Chris the vials.

Chris pulled the cap off the first syringe and tossed the plastic piece to the floor. He plunged the needle into the first vial and held it upside down, ready. "Dose?"

Nick shrugged. "What? It's been used on rats. I don't know."

Exasperated, Chris raised his eyebrows. "You can't seriously expect me to fabricate a dosage. That could be fatal in itself."

Nick's eyes lit up. "Tick tick tick tick…"

Chris looked to Sam for help.

Sam saw the uncertainty in his expression and bit his lip. He didn't need these kinds of complications now. "I don't know," he said, "Just…pretend it's a flu vaccine or something. Can't you estimate?"

Grumbling, Chris turned his attention back to the syringe. He pulled back the plunger, pulling a dose into the barrel. "Is that…does that work?"

"That's fine," Brandon said, trying to give him some kind of assurance.

Chris glared at him. "You don't know!"

"Well neither does he," Brandon said defensively. "Just…do it already. This gives us a better chance than not taking it at all."

Chris's brow twitched. He thought for a moment, then pulled the needle from the vial and squirted the air out. "Here," he said, holding the syringe out to Brandon, "Hold this. Don't touch the needle."

"Got it. Not touching the needle," he said, holding it away from himself.

As Chris filled the second syringe, Sam crouched beside Dean. He tentatively ran his fingers up and down his good arm, careful not to use too much pressure. "Dean?"

Dean coughed. His expressionless eyes rolled to Sam's vicinity and he grunted something.

"Yeah, we got the antidote," Sam said, trying not to concentrate on the temperature of his brother's skin, "It'll work. It will. You'll be fine in no time."

Chris crouched beside Sam, syringe ready. He looked to him for conformation.

Sam nodded.

"Okay Dean," Chris said, leaning in toward Dean's arm. He cleaned the area with a cotton swab and got the needle ready, "You know the drill. Small pinch. Probably won't even feel it over everything else, tough guy."

Sam kept his grip on Dean's arm as Chris plunged the drug into his brother's system. Chris had been right, Dean didn't even flinch. Sam wasn't sure he felt good about that, though.

A single drop of blood worked its way to the surface; Chris took another cotton ball and held it to the stick. "All done," he said to Sam, "Here, just keep pressure on it for a minute."

Sam nodded and took over, watching Chris stand and walk to Brandon.

Brandon grinned. "Alright doctor," he said, trying to grin, "Do your worst."

Chris shook his head. "Not funny."

"Just make it quick, I hate shots."

"I know you do," Chris said, cleaning the area, "Cried like a baby when you had to get a tetanus shot."

"Did not."

"Did too," Chris said, leaning in.

"Did—ouch! Damnit, man, give me warning!"

"I'm standing here holding the syringe, Brand. That's warning."

"Well your warnings suck," Brandon said sulkily. He shivered.

Nick walked to Sam. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet. His hand was still bleeding; it left splotches of red in dust on the floor. "Sammy."

Sam glared. "Sam," he said testily, "It's Sam."

"I know," he said, tilting his head to the side, "You're Sammy. You're Dean's Sammy, soon to become my Sammy. My Sammy will do whatever I want him to do. Sweet little Sammy."

Sam watched his brother's breathing hitch. He wondered how much Dean understood of what was happening. "You haven't won yet," he said.

"You and me, in the forest," Nick said, suddenly forceful, "I delivered. I gave you the vials, and now it's time for you to do the same."

Dean's short breaths sped up. His left hand reached for Sam's arm, tugged weakly at his shirt. Sam frowned, trying to block out Dean's wheezing gasps as he recognized that, for better or worse, Dean understood most everything that was going on. That would make this harder. "I know," he said, "And I'm keeping up my end."

Dean growled deep in his throat. It was a sound that Dean had made before, usually when Sam was about to do something he didn't approve of, and Sam was unsettled by how normal it sounded. "Chris," he called out, "Get Nick a shotgun. Four shells. Don't give it to him yet, wait till I'm out of here."

Chris stood there, conflicted, but finally acquiesced. "Hope you know what you're doing," he muttered, loading the weapon.

Dean's grip had become an iron shackle around Sam's wrist.

"Dean," Sam said, turning his full attention to his distraught brother, "Trust me."

Dean said something then, distorted and unintelligible, but angry. The anger was the clearest, piercing through the nonsense words.

"I'm not going to apologize," Sam said, "Because I'm not sorry. We needed that drug, and we got it. Now I'm going to leave for a bit, and I need you to stay alive for me and get better, because I'm going to kick Nick's ass, and I'm going to enjoy it far too much, and I need you to be waiting for me when I come back. Got it?"

Dean didn't move.

Sam waited for a moment, tense. Finally, Dean let out his breath slowly and released his wrist. Sam smiled. "Thanks," he said, and leaned closer, "And Dean…I'll be back," he said, in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation. He was pleased to see Dean's lips turn up slightly at the corners.

He stood up then, slowly, and pushed away all thoughts of pain and sleep. "Gun," he said.

Brandon handed him a shotgun. Sam checked it—four bullets. Satisfied, he stood in front of Nick, waiting. "Well?"

Nick nodded toward the door. "Go," he said, "You get a five minute head start, Sammy dear."

Sam nodded, and made his way up the stairs and into the morning air without glancing back.

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