Thank you for checking out my story - I had fun writing this, although, I haven't written part two yet... *Innocent smile* Muaha.

"Am I awake,
Am I alive?"
Nine Lashes, You Are the Light

The sun burned his skin, soaking through the material of his hoodie. The place was a boneyard now, just a boneyard of metal skeletons, every car seeming to be in desperate need of repairs in some way or another. Dean had come down with a cold just a few days prior, and to say he was unpleasant company would have been an understatement. Sam had tried to make him feel better, but most of his attempts backfired or were countered with annoyed comments and miserable complaints. Not that the younger brother didn't understand the feeling, he'd had his fair share of sicknesses himself. Unlike John, who got over sickness with good doses of colloidal silver and gargling on hydrogen peroxide, Sam and Dean usually got hit hard. Sam was, as Dean put it, a 'puker'. Even a cold could leave him vomiting, at least until all of the mucus made its way out of his throat and lungs.

Now Dean was all-around miserable. He didn't throw up, usually, but he didn't sleep for nearly the whole time as the bug ran its course, and he lost his appetite, which was always a worrisome thing. For him, at least.

Sam glanced up at the sky, wondering why all sick-days fell on times when the weather was like this; partially cloudy and with immense heat. If there was ever a day that looked like that, someone was sure to come down with something. Still, on another note, their father had dropped them off at Bobby's while Dean got over this thing. Not to mention, John still had a hunt to finish. He hadn't wanted his sick kid slowing him down, the fifteen-year-old supposed with a bitter snort.

The teen deposited himself onto the hood of one of the destroyed vehicles, and it groaned in response, sounding like it would dump him on the ground if he were just one pound heavier. It was a bleak, boring, hot, cloudy, germ-infested day. He wasn't looking forward to getting sick; he would, of course, because his brother didn't care much about who else would get the bug when he himself was ill, and it wasn't as though Sam could simply wear gloves and a face-mask for the whole week. Although he was seriously starting to contemplate it – if he came down with this, than he would all-but puke his intestines up, he just knew it. That always happened, or it had become common place the past few years.

He let out a sigh. He had homework to catch up on, but the thought of it right now was less-than appealing. Well, it couldn't be worse than what he was doing right now – moping in the backyard. Might as well get out the confetti for the pity-party, he thought in mild amusement, and a sand cake with ant-sprinkles… The boy dropped his head into his hands. He didn't like thinking about himself, really thinking, because every time he did, he found a new reason to hate himself. He shouldn't fight with his father, John was doing the best he could. He shouldn't dread a cold, it was just a cold and he would be over it in a week. It wasn't as if he hadn't had worse. Dean would probably be teasing him by this point, he could already hear it, PMS jokes and all.

But then, his brother was sick, feverish and miserable on Bobby's couch.

Yeah.

Sometimes Sam wanted to sit his family down and apologize for being him. But usually his affection came out in shouts of anger and acts of rebellion. He snorted at the thought and ran a hand through his hair – hair that was starting to go from a golden brown colour to chestnut. He was becoming who he was meant to be, and if the past few months were anything to go by, that wasn't necessarily a good thing. Somedays he wished that he was more like Dean. Or John. Or Bobby. But he was him. And 'him' was angry, smart, and perhaps too emotional, and he hadn't found that those traits were mixing in the best way.

He sighed. To be perfectly honest he wanted to hit the road again, in the Impala with his brother and father, moving from state-to-state. Because this was killing him. The waiting was dreadful. The sickness was terrible. The whole situation was terrible, and he would actually rather be hunting with his family than this, whatever this was. Which was really saying something, considering.

A quiet rattling caught his attention, but as he strained to hear where it came from, the noise died down. He frowned and hopped nimbly off of the hood, spinning in a slow circle. Still nothing. He put his hands in his pockets and decided it was a fine time to go back to the house, and maybe purposefully catch the cold just to get it over with.

The sound came again and he turned, frowning. Something moved from the shade of the car he had been leaning against, slithering across the ground. He stepped back instinctually, his mouth suddenly dry. Familiar brown and tan scales came into view – he cursed under his breath. Where did Bobby even leave his shovels? He began to move away – the snake wasn't coiled, and it was too far away to strike him now. If he couldn't find a shovel, he would find a machete, certainly a hunter had plenty of those place strategically around the yard and house.

It was only too late by the time he heard the next rattle, because this rattle was right under where his foot was coming down – he already leaned his weight on that leg. There were two of them, he realized with a numb sort of shock running down his arms. He stepped down, but quickly shifted and jumped away, probably not his best idea, but not his worst, either. The creature coiled, its tail shaking. Sam's heart pounded in his ribcage and he stiffened, unmoving. The rattlesnake continued its warning, but it didn't strike – and the teen didn't move. Not a muscle, not a breath.

Until, that was, something started to push in his throat. It grew in his chest, his nose tickled – in that moment, he hated summer. He hated allergies, he hated pollen, and he hated snakes. The sneeze built in his chest, and he took shuddering breaths in a failing attempt to hold it down. No, no, God, he prayed, please no, don't let me, not now –nonono…

The sneeze broke free, and for a moment, that was all he knew. He jerked forward, a hand clamping over his mouth and nose. No, no, please no…

Pain shot up through his leg, his ankle burning. And why hadn't he chosen boots? Why had he decided to wear tennis shoes, today of all days? Why, why…

With a cry of pain he fell onto his backside, crawling backwards, goat-heads and gravel scratching his palms. His eyes watered, burning. That hurt. His leg felt like a dead weight, attached to his body on principle alone, and he dragged it along with him. The snake was no longer coiled, but it didn't seem interested in following him, either. Breathing was already becoming harder, strained – a stab of fear jolted through his chest. The world spun around him, colours exploding before him, the junkyard becoming a kaleidoscope. He wouldn't make it to the house.

"Dean!" His voice broke, betraying him. There was a good chance no one would hear him. He didn't want to die out here. The venom was working fast – how did it work so fast, he didn't think it would work so fast he couldn't feel his legs, God help him, he didn't want to go like this, please… "Bobby!"

But Bobby was out, wasn't he? Hadn't he been making a supply run?

"Dean!" The yell was held out, and broke off with a cry of pain. His arms shook, dropping his torso onto the gravel, rocks digging into his back. God, please let him hear, the teen prayed.

When he heard the door open, the familiar groan of rusty hinges, relief flooded his system. If only relief was an antivenom. Sam's chest felt tight… "Sam!" The voice sounded raw – Dean. He had a cold. He had been coughing. He sounded terrible, Sam mused numbly. Hands were suddenly grasping his shoulders, shaking him out of whatever haze he had fallen into. He groaned – the light was too bright, his eyes hurt. No, his whole body hurt.

"Sammy, what happened?" Dean's voice was commanding – ordering him to answer. He wanted to answer. His mouth felt full of cotton. Still, the words came,

"Snake. Gah," he hissed, every movement sluggish as though he was underwater, completely submerged. He forced his leg to move, dragging it towards his chest. The knee barely bent. He grasped at his ankle, tears running from his eyes – speaking of, his eyes felt like they were on fire... He heard Dean cursing.

"Hold on, I'm calling Paramedics. Sam? Hold on."

"D'n?" He must have swallowed mid-word, because the 'ea' was entirely absent. He frowned.

"Yeah, I gotcha, just hang in there. Damned rattlers. Guess this makes me Indian Joe, right?" A nervous laugh.

"Sam?" The single word sounded so unlike his brother, he found it odd, but he couldn't make himself respond. His mouth didn't listen to him, his body was refusing to move. Fear slid with him, following him down into the darkness that was threatening to overtake his mind. He couldn't keep fighting unconsciousness – its black tendrils leeched onto him, tugging him away from what was reality.

"…Sam!"

Hope you all liked it. *Hides evil laughter*