Hoodietime tags challenge: prompt- fever

Clue number one: Dean's not eating. It's probably the only clue Sam's going to need, but occasionally his brother's tricky that way. "You feeling okay?"

Unsurprisingly, Dean answers in the affirmative. There's a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead though, and Sam's going to take that as clue number two. Risking life and limb, he reaches across the table. Dean doesn't move quickly enough, trapped in the booth the way he is, and Sam swipes the back of his hand across Dean's cheek.

"Dude, you're burning up!"

"Am not. You know I'm naturally a degree and a half above normal, Sam. I always feel hot to you."

Sam lets that one slide. "This is more than your normal hundred point one, Dean. Come on, drink your water and let's get out of here."

"Get out of here and do what? It's only seven o'clock, Sam. Got a few more hours until prime pool hustling time." Dean deliberately moves his water glass to Sam's side of the table and signals the waitress for another beer.

"Dude, no more alcohol."

"Come on, Temperance. I'm thirsty!"

Sam's mouth opens; closes again. Distraction attempt number one is not going to get off the ground. "You're thirsty because you're dehydrated, Dean. You're dehydrated because you have a fever. You have a fever because you're sick."

"I'm not sick, Sam."

"Yeah, you are. But I can't make you go back to the room if you're going to be a pigheaded idiot about it." Sam's using his "I'm talking to a four year old" tone, and Dean just smirks.

"Damn straight. You are not the boss of me."

Sam huffs, but really, there's nothing he can say to that. Short of physically dragging his brother out of the bar (and Dean doesn't seem to be nearly sick enough for that), he's come to a dead end. Dean doesn't respond well to threats, coercion or actual carrying. Sam's just got to wait him out.

Dean grins up at the waitress as she slides his beer onto the table. She smiles back, but not in the usual infatuated way waitresses, hell women in general, smile at Sam's brother. Dean's pale and his eyes are a little glassy. There's nothing but concern on her face as she asks "You feeling okay, hon?"

Dean's smile becomes strained and he glares at Sam; daring him to say anything. "I'm fine, sweetheart. Just keep 'em coming."

"You got it. You ready for me to take this?" she asks, reaching for Dean's mostly untouched plate.

Dean steals a quick glance at his brother. "Um, no. I'm still working on that." He picks up a french fry and chews on it with what he mistakenly thinks is enthusiasm.

As Dean raises his glass, Sam notices the liquid sloshing slightly as his brother's hand trembles. Dean apparently notices it too, and clamps his other hand around the glass to steady it. The beer disappears down Dean's gullet in a few long swallows and he belches in satisfaction as his increasingly unfocused eyes fix on Sam.

"Feel better?" Sam asks, and Dean's lips quirk at getting a sarcastic response from his brother.

"Nope. Because I didn't feel bad before. Can't feel better if you don't feel bad."

Sam just shakes his head. Dean can hold his liquor better than anyone Sam's ever met, and he's only drinking beer, but he's already starting to slur his words.

"Yeah, okay." Sam busies himself with the laptop and doesn't even look at his brother. The more he pressures Dean, the more Dean's going to drink and the longer it will take them to get back to the room. Dean's kind of a dick that way.

The next time Dean's attention is on the waitress Sam also catches her eye and gives his head a little shake. She still brings Dean his refill, but she takes her time about it. Sam's going to limit his brother's alcohol intake, whether Dean likes it or not. Dean's scowling into his glass, but Sam ignores him. Dean can suck it up, and Sam doesn't mean the beer.

Dean drinks and Sam researches until the area around the pool tables is crowded and money is exchanging hands. Sam packs up the laptop and throws some bills on the table as Dean slowly slides out of the booth and just stands for a moment, swaying gently as his hand grips the back of the seat. Sam stands too and blocks his brother's view.

"Come on, Dean. It's time to go. You're going to be flat on your face before you even get to the game."

Dean's beyond pale, edging toward green, but he takes a defiant step toward Sam. "Screw you, Sam. I could beat those patsies on my deathbed."

Sam freezes and his own face whitens, but he doesn't back down. "Oh, yeah? Maybe we should come back here in a few months and find out."

"Maybe we should." Dean's sick and drunk and maybe a tiny bit maudlin. "Least then I'd be sure to die doing something I liked. Don't want the hell hounds to get me when I'm reading a newspaper or something." He takes another step and starts to pitch forward, but Sam's been expecting it and catches him before he gets too far.

"Nope, wouldn't want you to go to hell on a boring note." His voice is bitter, but Dean's too far gone to notice. He's beginning to make choking noises and Sam hurries him out the door. They've barely cleared the concrete steps before Dean's on his knees, decorating the gravel parking lot with the return trip of every beer he's had in the last few hours, with a few bonus French fries added in. "Come on," he coaxes, trying to pull Dean to his feet, "I think even you have to admit that you're done for the night."

Dean gives a distressed gurgle and flops down into the puddle of vomit. Sam rolls him over to check his airway and once he's assured himself that his brother's still breathing, Sam heaves Dean up and drags him to the car. Sam wraps an arm around Dean's sopping waist and holds him while he grabs a blanket from the back seat and carefully spreads it over the front seat before settling Dean down onto it. Getting vomit on the upholstery is a hanging offense and if Sam lets Dean's puke onto the seats, he's the one who will be hanged.

The night's warm, but Dean's shivering and Sam wraps the blanket around his brother's wet clothes. It's not a long drive back to the motel, but Sam cranks the heat anyway as Dean shudders in his damp, smelly cocoon.

Once they're in the room, Dean tries to push himself away from Sam's support, but his brother's having none of it. Sam grips Dean tightly and weighs his options. He's not putting Dean on either bed; that's just not going to happen until he's way less disgusting. Finally he lowers his struggling brother into a chair and Dean sags weakly as he pulls the blanket closer around him.

"Cold, Sam," he mutters. "Turn the freakin' heat up, it's freezing in here."

It's not freezing, in fact Sam's already sweating, but he goes to the heater and turns it on high. Okay, he decides, first things first. "Gotta get you cleaned up, Dean. You stink and I'm not spending the night in this room with you smelling like that."

"So leave." Dean's voice is hoarse and barely audible and Sam snorts.

"Yeah, I don't think so. God only knows what shape you'd be in when I got back. Now give me the blanket."

Dean tries to grip his covering, but he's shaking so badly that Sam has no trouble prying it from his fingers and pulling it free. He drops it into a waiting trash bag and looks at Dean expectantly.

"The rest of your clothes, in there, now."

Dean manages a rasped "love it when you get all take charge, Sammy," but his heart's clearly not in it. "Give a guy some privacy would you?" As Sam's hand reaches for the hem of his t-shirt Dean weakly bats it away.

"You've really got nothing I haven't seen before, Dean. Now hold still."

Dean doesn't. He tries to push Sam away and stand at the same time and the exertion is too much as he flops, unconscious, back into the chair.

"Jerk," Sam mutters semi-affectionately as he kneels to untie Dean's boots before pulling them off and tossing them in a corner. His socks go next, dropped into the bag with the blanket and Sam grimaces as he begins to slide Dean's vomit spattered jeans over his hips. The rough denim seems to catch on something on Dean's inner thigh and Sam jerks hard, freeing the fabric. When he slides the jeans past the point they had been stuck Sam stops short. There are the remains of a few pieces of tape stuck to Dean's leg and a scrap of bandage hangs loosely, the wound it had been protecting red and angry looking.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam's livid, but he should have known. After they'd put down a black dog in Cheyenne, Dean had come back covered in blood, all of which, he had sworn, was the dog's. He'd let Sam have first shower and by the time Dean had finished, Sam had been out like a light. "Okay, asshole, you're not sick. You've got a fever because you've got an infected wound. Jackass."

Sam's more careful about sliding the pants the rest of the way down, but that's the only injury he sees, until he removes Dean's shirt and spies the red and yellow stained bandage across his abdomen. Sam swears, loud and long, as he slams Dean's clothes into the bag and hurls it against the door. He stands in front of his brother, chest heaving with rage but Dean's out cold, alabaster white and shivering, and Sam decides to be really pissed at Dean later and take care of his sorry ass now.

Sam sighs and strips to his boxers, then pulls Dean from the chair. Keeping his brother upright on the trek to the bathroom turns out to be impossible, so Sam heaves Dean into his arms and grunts as he struggles across the floor. He's a big guy, but Dean's no lightweight and Sam lets out a gasp of relief as he lowers Dean onto the toilet for a moment while he gets the shower running. Sam wants the water to be cool for Dean's overheated body; he'll worry about heat for the infected wounds after his brother's clean.

Sam stands under the shower's cooling spray, Dean lolling against his chest. He lets the bandage on Dean's stomach soak until it comes off easily and then grimaces at the pus that's gathered in the punctured flesh. He grabs a cloth and gently scrubs Dean until his skin is as clean as it's going to get, then levers his brother out of the tub. He dries Dean, then lugs him back into the bedroom and deposits him on the bed furthest from the door before grabbing two bowls from the kitchenette and heading back to the bathroom. Sam runs the hot tap in the tub until the water's steaming and the cold tap in the sink until the water's freezing, then fills both bowls, grabs a couple of clean towels and heads back to his brother.

Sam's muttering a constant stream of invective as he disinfects Dean's wounds, opening the holes wider to allow drainage and cutting away dead skin. When he's done as much as he can, he lays hot towels over the wounds to draw out more infection and moves on to wiping the rest of Dean down with the cold water.

Dean begins to stir as Sam cools his overheated body with smooth strokes and soon he's staring blearily at his brother. "What's wrong?" he murmurs.

"Well," Sam remains calm with an effort, "it looks like you had a couple of wounds from the black dog that were a little infected."

"I'm fine, Sam." Dean's barely audible, but it's enough to send Sam's blood pressure soaring.

"Well, obviously you're not. What the hell, Dean? Why didn't you tell me?"

Dean doesn't answer, but his eyes flicker down, and Sam knows anyway. Dean doesn't want to worry him, to scare him any more than he already is. Dean feels guilty enough about Sam's growing terror and doesn't want to add to it. Dean can take care of himself. Dean will be dead soon anyway. All these reasons are stuck in Dean's mind, Sam knows they are and he's not going to call him on them now. He goes to the med kit and pulls out antibiotics and aspirin and gets his brother to swallow them with some water. He threatens Dean with an I.V. if he doesn't drink and Dean manages to get a whole bottle down and keep it there.

Dean drifts off after that without another word, but there's misery and apology in his eyes before they slide closed. Sam sighs and continues to apply hot compresses and cool cloths and to formulate the conversation he's going to have with Dean in his head. It's got to be done and when his brother's back to one hundred point one, they're going to have this out. Dean's not dying and going to hell. Not now, not in two months, not ever if Sam has anything to say about it. And Sam's got something to say about everything. He'll figure this out. They'll figure this out. They have to.