Title: Season 7, Time for a Bullet

Summary: Season 7. Dean gets shot with a cube-shaped bullet that has unusual side effects.

"Sam."

"Right here, Dean. Don't move, okay? Just, let me get the first aid kit from the trunk."

"Sam…"

One hand white knuckled on the steering wheel, the other reaching out for his brother's flannel shirt, Dean's eyes were big and telling. Sam grabbed his flailing hand and pushed it back to Dean's chest.

"Just a minute, Dean. You're bleeding."

Dean fought for control of his hand and reached out again for the other. "Sammy. Don't feel so good."

"I know, I know. What the hell did they shoot you with?"

"Oh, I don't know, a bullet maybe?"

"No…sounded different. Sounded ah…squishier."

"That's not a word, man. Feels like a bullet. Bleeds like one. Sam…"

Sam ran to the trunk and back with the large square box they used for first aid. Inside was a little of everything. Hands full, he rushed back to his brother who sat hunched over, alternating his right hand between the wound and clinging to the steering wheel. Sam pushed him back slightly.

"Sam…"

"You've got on too many damn shirts, Dean. Come on. I can't get to the wound. Move your hand. Put it back on the wheel."

With a carefulness that few doctors could claim, Sam lifted Dean's three layers of clothes out of the way to check out the abdomen area just above his belt line.

"There's a hole there, but it's square. What the hell? Keep still, Dean."

"Can't, man. Feels like fire. It's burning! Am I on fire?"

"You're not on fire. Stop moving. Stop. Please. Can I scoot you onto the ground? Hard to get a good angle here. The car is just an obstacle."

"Don't talk about my car…Sam…ahhhh, damn it!" Dean began rocking back and forth, his head lowered and butting over and over into his brother's chest. "Sammy, please!"

For a short moment, Sam stopped trying to treat the wound and instead grabbed onto Dean's neck to stop him from rocking. He held his head to him and kept his voice as calm as possible. "Dean. Try and keep still, okay? Let me know if it stops burning."

Dean shook his head against Sam's chest. "Not stoppin' man. This sucks. This really really sucks. God! Sam, help me." Strong hands now clutched Sam's shirt. They held a death grip. Sam's hand tightened on the back of his brother's neck.

"I don't know what this is, Dean. I need to try and clean the wound and see what we're dealing with. Can you stop rocking and let me do that?"

"Okay. All right. Okay." He lifted his head. "Hurry though, okay? Okay?"

"I promise. Sit back." A hand again grasped the steering wheel, the other alternated between the back of the Impala's bench seat and Sam's shoulder.

Leaning towards his brother, Sam worked quickly, if awkwardly, to treat the strange wound. With his aged and experienced pen knife, he dug into the flesh. The wound was shallower than expected, and he managed to fish out the odd bullet-like projectile and the fabric that it had pushed inward. The entire process, from incision to sterilization took about twenty minutes. Sam deemed it a success, but it did nothing to ease the fiery sensation gutting through Dean's abdomen and into his stomach. He did his best not to jostle Sam as his brother finished the bandaging.

"Okay, Dean, all done. Any better?"

"Still burning," an exhausted Dean said from his now horizontal position on the front seat. "What the hell is that thing?"

"No idea. Those guys were human though, so either they're working for someone supernatural or they've figured out how to build themselves a new type of bullet. Huh. Looks like a tiny green Rubik's cube."

"Great. You're thinkin' about puzzle games from the 80's while my stomach bursts into flames here!"

"Can you sit up again?"

"No hospital."

"Hotel - for now. Gotta get you settled and call Bobby, see if he's heard of anything like this before. And no you're not driving."

"S'okay. Just slide me over."

It was an idea that sounded simple enough. Dean's scream of bloody murder as it happened made it seem like not such a good idea after all. In the end, he did manage to survive the movement as he was pulled upright and then set his head against the passenger side window. Sam drove through his brother's moans of burning pain – moans that became increasingly worse the closer they got to the hotel.

"Almost there, Dean. Hang on."

It was a quiet and dark parking lot that met them as the black car pulled up. Sam set Dean down on his bed and pulled off his jacket and buttoned shirt, leaving his blue tee shirt to keep the bandage covered.

"S'my?"

"Right here, Dean. Still feel fire?"

"Hot."

Sam felt the now sweaty forehead. "That's an understatement. You're burning up, man."

"Tld y'so."

"Yeah, you were right as usual. How's your stomach?"

"B'rns."

The brief slurred answers were an immediate concern. It was so not Dean and it told Sam that his brother was not just in pain, but was suffering.

"Sam…"

"Right here, man. You feel my hand?"

"Huh?"

"Can you squeeze my hand, Dean?"

"Swweez?"

"Squeeze my hand."

There came a very light tug of fingers against Sam's hand. It wasn't much, but enough that at least Dean was still conscious to questions and sensation.

"S'm, gonbezik."

Sam knew the slur and dove into and out of the bathroom with the small plastic trash can in his hand. His timing perfect as Dean hurled off the side of the bed and into the can. Several more bouts came and went before Sam was able to make a quick rinse. And when Dean found a few settled minutes, it allowed Sam the opportunity to ice down a few wash cloths and start them on his brother's forehead. Dean flinched at the intrusive cold and pulled his head back into the pillow to try and escape it.

"Sorry, man. Gotta try and cool you down some. It's cold, but it'll help."

"Hay'thscrp."

"You'd better hate it. There's not much to like about it. Just keep still and tell me if you've gotta puke again, okay?"

"M'kay. S'my?"

"Yeah."

"Y'kay?"

"I'm okay. They didn't hit me with anything. I'm gonna call Bobby here as soon as you're steady for a few."

"B'by'llno."

"I hope so. Otherwise, we're on our own. You good for a minute?"

Dean reached an arm out and draped it over Sam's knee preventing his brother from leaving his spot on the side of the bed.

"Not leavin'. I've got my cell right here."

"Caln' B'by?"

"Yeah, hang on a sec."

Bobby'd never heard of a square green bullet that caused burning before but he'd already started his research it before he was off the phone. The best he could do was help from a distance. Sam and Dean were in Pennsylvania; much too far for a quick road trip. But from where he was, he'd do everything in his power to help his boys.

Turning back to the prone form on the bed, Sam grasped both hands around Dean's clutched arm.

"Bobby's gonna look into it and get back to me."

"S'm?"

"Right here."

"Sam!"

"Dean, I'm right here."

"S'my, please!"

Tightening one hand on Dean's arm, Sam reached for the cool rag and touched it to Dean's forehead. The small shock was enough to jolt him back from the fever dream he was slipping into, looking for Sam when Sam was already there.

"Sam."

"I told you I was right here, man. You're floating around in that head of yours. Stay with me, Dean."

"Call B'by. No. Alredid."

"Waiting for a call back. How's your stomach?"

"Sick."

"I can drown you in Pepto. Think you can keep that down?"

"Pinstuf?"

"Yeah, the pink stuff."

"Nah."

"Why, nah?"

The question was answered in the next second when Dean retched into the plastic can once more.

"Thaswhy."

The cell phone rang. Sam kept one hand on his brother and punched Bobby onto speakerphone.

"Bobby, anything?"

Dean chimed in between bouts of puking into the can. "Hey B'by."

"Dean, stop talking and aim for the bucket. Why the hell is it blue?"

The gruff voice on the other end replied, "Sam, did you say blue?"

"Yeah. Dean's throwing up blue bile or something. That's not right. That can't be right. Bobby?"

"Damn it. Hold on, boy."

Sam did, setting another cool rag onto Dean's forehead while keeping his head tucked over the side of the bed.

"S'm?" Dean's head lulled back onto the pillow, wanting desperately to get off his side.

"No, Dean. Stay right here next to me. You'll choke if you lie down."

The older brother fought him and briefly pulled an arm away to push back toward the pillow.

"Enough, Dean." Sam pulled him back onto this side just as more blue bile came bubbling out. "See? Told you so."

"Ugh, d'mit. Yer susha smrass somemines."

"I've earned the right to be a smart ass thanks to you, now stay still." Movement on the other end of the phone then. "Bobby?"

"It's a poison. I think. Although I've never heard it administered through a gun shot. What he's bringing up, is it a dark blue mix of slime and foam?"

"Yeah, that's it."

Dean chimed in again. "Disguzzin' B'by. Nah pookin boo."

"Shut up, Dean. What else, Bobby? Is it deadly?"

"Not usually. Mostly, it makes him feel like absolute crap for several days. You'd be best to get him to a hospital, boy."

Again Dean spoke up, "No ospal, no. Jus…no. S'm?"

"You need to stop vomiting, Dean. If we can't get that stopped then you're going. Normal people don't puke the color blue."

"Nah no'ml."

"You can say that again."

As Bobby suggested, Dean vomited through the night. Most of the time, there were only a few strands of blue slime that came out, dribbling down his face and onto Sam's jeans. Sam was still in the same position as he'd been since they'd gotten to the hotel. On the edge of the mattress with Dean practically curled over his bent knee – the best position for the pinpoint puking angles.

Around 6AM, after another round of hacking, Dean groaned to a stop. Back aching, neck sore, he pleaded with Sam to let him lie flat, if only for a minute. And Sam relented, but only because he could hear the agony in Dean's pleading voice. He allowed him to lie back, propping a pillow under his head.

Eyes closed, mouth partially open for breathing purposes, Dean rested under the watchful eye of little brother. It didn't qualify as sleep, but perhaps the worst had passed.

Taking quick advantage of the momentary quiet, Sam grabbed two water bottles from the cooler and poured some into one of the motel's cheap plastic cups. Dean was dehydrated for certain, and if there wasn't to be a hospital and IV's involved, he'd have to keep something down.

Back on the edge of the bed, Dean felt the returning weight on the mattress and flayed out a hand to set again on Sam's knee. "Sam."

"Dean, you need to try and drink. I've got water. Here." The cup was lifted to his mouth. The cool felt good on his lips, sliding down his throat. His right hand moved to grab the cup, but Sam maintained control. "Slow. You'll puke it up again. And as it is, I think I'm gonna have to ditch the trashcan in the dumpster out back. It's stained blue and smells like…"

"Shuddup, S'm. M'I gonna die?"

"Doesn't look like it, if Bobby's right. Here, take another drink."

"Whatta way t'go, huh? D'th by puzzle g'm." Another drink, then… "Ah, d'mit. S'm!" Blue-stained trashcan appeared and Dean released a stream of colored puke down and in.

"That's nasty, Dean."

"Try it f'm this end."

Two days went by and slowly the poison relented from Dean's system. At least he'd stopped vomiting blue chunks and foam. The hunter lay in bed early AM on the third morning, head propped up and TV remote in one hand aimlessly flipping past channel after channel, eventually stopping on something about home improvement and whatever the hell 'curb appeal' was, Dean thought. He stole an occasional glance to his left. Sam, sound asleep on the next bed.

A few minutes passed and Dean tossed a pillow at his brother. "Sammy. Wake up."

Sam bolted upright. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, man. You're snoring."

"Wha…I was not."

"You were and it's time wake up anyway. Any leads on who shot me with the poisoned Rubik's Cube?"

"No." Sam turned his legs over the side of the bed and pulled hands through his tangle of hair. "Nothing. But…"

"You've been a bit preoccupied dodging rainbow chunks. I get it. Well," Dean said, pulling his own legs over the edge of his bed and checking the stomach wound. All patched up. Stitched and cleaned. Better than any run of the mill clinic could do. "I'm good. We should move. Maybe Bobby's got something."

"Talked to him last night. He's got nothin'. You even get a glimpse of who shot you?"

"Other than white and male, nope. Hell if we even know if this was targeted or random."

"Random? In our line of work?"

Shaking his head, Dean was up gingerly, popping a quick double of Tylenol, and heading toward the bathroom. With a lift of the shirt, he double checked again the wound, pulling the heavy gauze back and approving of his little brother's work. "Nice work on the patch up, Sammy. I'm a shower, a shave and then we're out. You good?"

Sam nodded, still trying to curb the hair as he loaded the car and sat driver's side to wait for his brother.

"You are so not driving my car, Sam. Move over." Dean was sore, but clean from remaining blue stains and smelled ten times better than bucket puke, but Sam wasn't budging. "Sam, seriously. I'm awake, sober and ready to kick some game-cube ass. You look like hell, move over."

Sam budged. It was a weak battle and he knew it, but a glance in the rearview mirror verified Dean's assessment of his appearance. He did look like hell. Felt a bit like it too. He could use the shuteye on the trip to wherever they were going. Large frame moving from driver to passenger, he handed the keys to his brother.

Dean slid gingerly behind the wheel, careful of his healing wound. "See, Sammy? You got nothin' left. Go ahead and crash, I got this."

Slouch position wasn't the easiest thing when you were tall and stuck on a bench seat in a car from 1967, but he'd made due a thousand times in the past. He'd make due now. "You stop for lunch, get me a salad."

"Rabbit food, man, you see? You need energy. Protein. I'll get you a burger."

"Dean."

"With cheese."

"Salad, Dean."

"Burger, Sam. I need to make up for lost time and things that came flying out of my stomach at warp speed and as fifty shades of blue. We are so having burgers for lunch and dinner and breakfast."

"Whatever," Sam surrendered again. "Just don't overstress the wound, okay?"

Reaching over to clap a hand on Sam's knee, Dean jerked a smile. "Yeah. Couldn't do it without ya, Sammy. Thanks for saving my ass and letting me puke blue slime all over you."

"I suppose it's what little brothers are for, right?"

"Well, yeah, but you're worth a bit more than just an average puke sponge."

"Nice. Thank you for that. Just don't get shot again, okay?" Sam said. His comment, unspoken for, 'you scared the hell outta me and I thought you were gonna die painfully in a cheap-ass hotel bed covered in blue vomit.'

"For you, little brother? Anything. Now, sleep before I knock your ass out."

"You're all about the love, Dean. Don't let anyone every tell you different."

"I try."

Sam closed his dyes and Dean stole another look in that direction. The snarky face melting info affection for the giant moose-sized, pain-in-the-ass little brother to his right.

He really was all about the love…at least when it came to his only family. He just wasn't about to admit it to that same moose-sized, pain-in-the-ass little brother.

They were Winchesters after all.

Stubborn to the bone and irrationally devoted to their own.

Slimy blue puke and all.

The End