"Thanks, but, it feels great." Sam moved his wrist out of Dean's hands, not noticing his brother's astonished stare as he flexed his completely unswollen wrist and fingers with no pain or restricted movement. Dean watched Sam smiling to himself as he turned to grab his shirt off the bed and finish dressing. None of the deep scratches or bruises that had covered his back from last night were to be seen. Not a mark on him, it was like it never happened.

Dean swallowed, suddenly feeling old. He knew it had happened he could feel every bruise, cut, and scrape from the intervention with the ghost at the hotel. He placed the ace wrap back in the case, (since Mr. All Healed Up didn't need it) along with the antiseptic, (since Mr. SuperManSam didn't need that either). He grimaced to himself as he straightened and turned away.

"Huh, well. Yeah, that's great, yeah."

Sam watched Dean heading towards the bathroom. Dean seemed, well, pissed. But, Sam felt fine. He wasn't having any problems from the head to head with the ghost last night.

"Something wrong?" he ventured.

The bathroom door slamming was all the answer he got. Sam sat down at the table, staring at the door. Dean seemed…off. Sam pursed his lips, confused. He felt fine, really. Dean shouldn't be worried about him. Shrugging, he got back on the laptop and started researching again. They only had a couple of hours before midnight. A couple of minutes later, he suddenly sat back in the chair, glancing at the door.

'Oh, right…' he thought, 'I remember.' Shaking his head, Sam kept one eye on the door and the other on his typing as he started a new search.

Dean leaned against the closed bathroom door. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the headache came back. How? How can Sam be fine? They'd slept less than fourteen hours. Sam'd been covered in more bruises than Dean last night, scratched worse, and almost had his wrist pulled out of joint. Now, less than one day later, he's fine? Not a mark on him. What the hell was that?

Dean stumbled over the ratty rug in the bathroom, glaring into the mirror. His ankle throbbed. He was chilled inside the tiny room, even in his extra Henley. 'Oh, fine.' He just knew from the soreness in his throat and the aching in his body that last night's rain to and from the house had given him a cold. 'Fuck' he thought. He straightened up, pulling the first aid kit closer, snapping shut the lid. Screw this, if Sam wasn't hurt or sick after last night, then neither was he.

"You're cranky."

Dean ignored the man who would be Sam Winchester. He pulled out his gun, prepping for the return to the house. He turned, only to run into Sam standing less than a foot from him. Dean stepped back, eyes narrowed.

"What is your problem, Sam?"

Sam gestured to his own chest, face totally innocent.

"Me? Nothing, no problem, but…, well, I did some research while you were in the bathroom. You're sick."

"You're crazy." Dean shot back. He jerked with a sudden shiver, but hid it as he slipped into his jacket.

"Uh, no, I'm not crazy." Sam leaned towards Dean, causing the older man to back up a step. "You need a soul to be crazy," he whispered. Dean frowned, taking another step back. "Anyway, I checked back through my memories. I know this, I know you." Sam smiled, pointing at Dean's chest. "You always get cranky, which, yeah, you really have that going on. Uh, plus, your cheeks are all red and you sound funny, like you're having trouble talking. That always means you're catching a cold." Sam crossed his arms, smiling, nodding his head.

Dean glared back, squinting as his head pounded.

"So, cause I'm not Super Sam the amazing healing man, I'm suddenly weak and worthless? You don't need me for this hunt?"

Sam's brow furrowed.

"Uh, well, I don't think that's what I…"

"Cause I'll have you know, I'm fine. I can out hund you eddy day." Dean would have continued, but, at that moment, he sneezed. A gut busting, lung dislodging sneeze that ratcheted his splitting headache to monumental proportions. The room began to spin. Ginormous hands suddenly seemed to be all over him, leading him over to the bed, setting him on the quilt.

"Uh, huh…UhChoonnntzzzghsssz."

"Oh, and you have a fever."