Title: Kelpie
Author: Mad Server
A/N: Written for spn_hurtcomfort. Prompt: Dean wears Sam's hoodie. Seen here in all its unbeta'd glory. I stole at least one idea from Enkidu07.
Disclaimer: Boys = not mine.

No one has ever seen Mark Reed and his horse at the same time. That's their first clue.

"It's not his, exactly," the cashier qualifies as he hands Dean the change from his gas. "It's a wild horse. He just charms it, or something."

"Huh." Dean mashes the heel of his hand into his itchy eyes. "You know, I'm a bit of a nature fan myself. Think he'd show his horse to me?"

The kid looks at him like Dean's somebody's grandmother trying to work out how to use the internet and speaking into the mouse. "He only shows it to people he likes. Like Sasha, apparently," he adds on a grumble.

"Sasha?"

"My girlfriend." A self-conscious eyeroll. "He's gonna let her ride it tonight. First time."

The hairs on Dean's neck stand up. "Where does he live?"

Reed's not at home, so Sam and Dean pile back into the car and peel down to the lake. The night's as black as ink but they can see some splashing near the shore.

"Hey!" Dean shouts, slamming her into park and springing out. He and Sam both have their guns trained on the splashes, but there's nothing resembling a clear shot.

"Fuck it." Dean whips the knife out of his boot and charges into the water. It's late October, and they can see their breath.

"Dean!" Sam stares, torn; but the splashes are moving further out, and subsiding, and he can see Dean's not going to make it to them.

Five or six duck-dives and Dean comes to the same conclusion. The surface is flat now, except for Dean's splashes as he kicks back toward the shore.

He drags himself upright, staggers over to Sam under the weight of his drenched clothes, and just stands there, panting and shivering.

There's something on his shoulder, a lily pad or something. Sam peels it off, holds it dripping in the moonlight. It's a set of lungs.

Dean's bundled in Sam's hoodie, shaking in bed like an electric razor. His hands aren't working properly. It's hard to blow his nose.

The next day's quiet. They run errands: medicine for Dean, a cordless butane torch for the hunt. For a decent hardware store they have to drive to the next town over.

Dean hasn't taken off the hoodie yet. Mostly he just looks out the window at the grey sky and the leaf-stripped trees and snuffles.

Sam passes the blowtorch up and down the tip of the fireplace poker in a slow, steady rhythm. He's leaning out the driver's side door, parked back at the waterfront in the moonlight. Dean's dozing beside him in the passenger's seat, giving off a heat of his own. Sam's rigged up a barbecue not far off. He wonders if the smell of roasting chicken can really attract a horse.

Dean's still sleeping when it comes. Sam's out of the car and after it. He spears it with the red-hot poker just as its head starts to swivel toward him.

Red-faced and benevolent with fever, Dean watches Sam dig a grave for the kelpie. The barbecued chicken lies untouched in his lap.

Dean stifles a sneeze, then drags the hoodie's sleeve under his stinging nose. Metal-tasting thermometer, cold rain coming down out the motel window. He savors the hoodie's fleecy warmth. Deep sniffling, and he wipes his nose on his arm again.

"Dean?"

Dean looks his way, grunts.

"Just keep it, man."

end

A/N 2: If that made no sense... there's a particular legend about kelpies that I used as the basis for this... which I'm not sure if I'm allowed to post a link to or not... so I won't.