A/N: Another drabble. This one about.. Well. Cold rain. Mundane, I know, but sometimes that's just what comes out. Also, sometimes a girl just needs to write shameless schmoop.

This one is less thoroughly read through than my regular work, so I apologise in advance for any typos or errors. :)

Best out of five.

It was with a certain amount of anger that Dean slipped the Impala into a tight parking spot at the gravel parking lot set up to accommodate families with kids who wanted to go for wholesome family walks in the fucking woods.

Not because the Impala had done anything wrong. Baby was awesome. And the area around was grey with rain, yet it wasn't raining. Just.. Threatening to start. Again.

Which wasn't great, but not enough to get him in a real mood.

His boots hit the gravel somewhat harder than normal, but he wasn't stomping his feet like a toddler or anything, and no one would have seen anyway, because the passenger seat was empty. Just an empty drinks container and an old receipt joined the mud left on the floor of the car.

Actually, that just made him angrier. He couldn't say who the junk belonged to, but he was sure it was Sam. Any other time he'd be reasonable enough to admit to his share of the crap left in the car, but..

Anger bubbled in his chest, the sting of unfairness burning at his veins and making the muscles in his fists twitch weakly.

He swallowed it down at the sight of the group of people waiting at the end of the parking lot.

"Mr. Young? With the Wildlife Service?"

The lady standing before him was wearing hiking clothes, and a practical, yet neat and decidedly office-looking cap over a pastel ensemble. He hated her at hello.

There must have been something lacking in his normal grin, because she didn't look charmed. Her friends, the town cops and a few nobodies Dean didn't give a crap about apart from keeping them alive didn't look altogether convinced, either.

Two hours later, Dean wasn't so sure he'd convinced himself, even. The air was cold and wet, branches and ground heavy with rain, and while he felt warm on the inside the air felt cool against his skin. Freezing cold, joints stiffening up and nose dripping. His feet slid around in thin cotton socks inside the new boots he'd had to buy after the last hunt. After effectively chafing through skin and meat they were working away on bone. There were at least two blisters down there already.

Anger and self pity still bubbled in him, making him cough and sniffle with extra vigor, as if to convince himself of the severity of the situation Sam had put him in.

"Best out of five."

"No way, man. I won. Fair and square."

He wasn't a sore loser, but his feet were. They'd reached the site of the murders an hour and a half ago, and while the sun was threatening to penetrate the layer of clouds up ahead, it hadn't quite yet. And anyway, it wouldn't make it through the trees down to where he was standing, shivering uncontrollably.

Really, it had just started up as regular goosebumbs. The kind you get when you get out of the shower and you're not warm all the way through yet, or when you're tired and can't go to sleep. Light shivers that you could feel, but would go away after applying a warm sweater or an extra pair of socks.

Then it had morphed into the kind that makes you feel like every hair on your body is standing on end, pretending to be warm animal fur yet doing nothing at all to keep you warm.

And right now, he can't keep the muscles in his arms still enough to hold the camera for the sheriff. He takes snapshot after snapshot while the men hold back branches and tries to clear the area for long enough to get a photo, but his arms are shaking so bad the images all turn out blurry.

He feels the gazes of the men on him, calculating and quicker than he prefers, lingering on the leather coat and jeans. Watches suspicion grow. Knows he needs to get away before calls are made.

"Hafta take a leak" he says shortly, winces at his own stupidity. If he just disappears he can be sure they'll search for him, and call for a search party soon enough.

Nothing for it now, he marches through the undergrowth on legs that shiver so badly they're just about cramping.

An hour later, he's wondering if anyone ever did teach him to figure out what's north without a compass, or if he's made it all up for his own entertainment. He'd normally swear he can make his way to Baby blindfolded and backwards on a horse, but right now.. Right now he's not so sure.

Anger pools in the pit of his stomach again, sends fire that does nothing to warm him up through his veins as his legs drop underneath him and he just needs to rest for a moment. Just a moment.

His cell phone rings.

It's Sam.

He nearly hangs up, but doesn't. Picks up, hears the tinny voice from somewhere around the hand resting on his thigh, and lifts the thing to his ear.

"Yah."

"Dean? Dean, are you all right? You were meant to be back ages ago."

The fur on his jaw stands on end, the tips of his fingers are burning painfully. Like the nails got too big, and he had too much ice cream and took a cold dip in a mountain lake all at once.

Be back ages ago? Time doesn't seem to have passed, like it's a never ending session of cold rain and numb limbs.

"Uh. Got.. Got held up. Listen. I know your ass is all comfy, but.."

"I'll be there in five."

Sam hangs up, and Dean stares at the receiver before stuffing it painfully into the pocket of his cotton shirt. He's not sure where he'll be in five minutes, but he's betting it wont be by the car.

He's not sure how much later he stumbles out of the woods and find Sam waiting by the car, but it's been long enough that even the tumble out of the forest hasn't warmed him up. He's still shaking, his feet feeling swollen and painful inside his boots. They burn when they slip over the sole, even though he's certain it doesn't chafe under his feet. His hands, too, burn when they touch fabric. Like they've forgotten the difference between cold and warm, and everything just fucking burns and aches and throbs, and when Sam curls a hand around his bicep, it's with a certain amount of relief and fury mixed together in an odd sort of blend.

"Fuck off" he mumbles, feeling betrayed and sore, and Sam looks all kinds of guilty.

"Man, I'm sorry. Look, if you'd just put on your.."

"If you say winter coat I'll hit you."

It's not very inventive, sure, but his head is so slow with the slapstick right now. Sam rolls his eyes at his brother's dramatic flair.

"All right. I wont say it. Let's get you back, huh?"

To Sam's credit, Dean is a sore loser. Sore as hell. He lost fair and square, even though Sam can figure out his move before Dean knows what he's going to pick. Once you figure him out, Dean Winchester has the worst poker face in the history of hustling.

And really, Sam was hustling Dean by the time he was ten. Puppy dog eyes and never letting on still works, and he still gets away with the last of the cereal or the bed with the fewest bad springs.

..all right, so maybe it wasn't entirely fair.

But to be a bit fair anyway, he did do the dirty work last time. With a ghoul. That lived in a toilet. He feels like that should buy him one day less of hiking through a rainy forest in March.

He pours Dean into the car, because Dean seems to have decided that it's easier at this point to focus on being thoroughly miserable and dramatic rather than be angry with Sam, and Sam isn't about to argue. He kicks the ancient heater in the Impala up to max, throws a look at the wet, pale skin on Dean's face and notes the lack of red cheeks from having spent an entire day outside. The car slides into gear, and he sets off for the motel. Dean will have warmed up by then, surely.

Only.. When they get to the motel, Dean doesn't seem to be more comfortable. His feet are jiggling, his thighs tapping a frenetic beat only he seems to hear, and his fingers are slow to respond when he tries to open the door.

Sam doesn't touch him, but watches him stagger the way from the parking lot to the room.

Dean is 27 years old. He can take a shower on his own.

Sam hangs out on his laptop. Considers replying to an e-mail from a friend at Stanford. Considers doing research for their new case. Considers calling Bobby. Ends up reading jokes.

He watches Dean stumble from the bathroom to the bed in what can only be described as Sam's sweats. Sam's sweats and Sam's fleece hoodie with arms so long they touch the tips of Dean's fingers and should probably be folded up, and pants that pool around his ankles. The bottom of the sweater reaches to mid thigh, and Sam smiles vaguely, because his big brother looks like he's playing dress up.

He stops smiling quickly when Dean gathers up the covers from both beds and crawl under them, body stiff when he lays down, groan escaping him as he exhales.

A moment.

"Dean? You ok?"

"Myah. Fine, Sammy."

"You sure, man?"

Something tugs at his chest as he sits down and puts a hand to Dean's forehead and feels the unnatural cold seep from him.

"You're still cold, huh?"

He doesn't want Dean to be sick. Doesn't like it. Sam is allowed to get sick, and Dean is allowed to care for him, but the other way around feels wrong and Sam doesn't like it.

So it might be with exaggerated moves that he goes to put warm water in an empty water bottle, hopefully hiding the fact that his body is screaming uncomfortable from every pore, but the point is that he does it. He gets the warm bottle, and he hands it to Dean who hugs it to his stomach as quickly as he can, grunting at the burning warmth spreading out.

"Did you take a warm shower?"

"Tried. Cold. Hurts." Dean grunts out, and Sam frowns. Sticks a hand down the fleece hoodie, frowns harder.

"Do you need a doctor?"

Dean shakes his head, breath hitching as he shivers. Something in Sam snaps, like caring for Dean is really all about doing the right things and making the right choices and. Shit. He's the younger brother. Always the last in line to make these calls.

How do you recognize a situation that calls for the ER again?

Does Dean not responding when he slaps his cheeks and rub his sternum count?

Sam thinks it does, and he's glad they're about 30 seconds out when Dean's lips start turning blue, breath sounding like it's only taking place in the upper parts of his respiratory system, rattling along with the ancient car heater.

And because it's the way Sam handles things he's convinced himself he's overreacted by the time the nurse lets him in to see Dean. He's convinced he'll find his brother bouncing on an exam table, shouting about his leather jacket.

Dean is also convinced Sam has overreacted. And so has the nurse and the doctor and everyone has gone mad. He's just cold, not even all that bad.

"Dude."

He knows the image painted right in front of Sam right now isn't quite the one of health he normally tries to project, pale and shivering and hugging a hot water bottle with heated blankets and an oxygen mask and an IV, but instead of words only a huff of air escapes him.

"Dude, I'm so sorry. I just thought you needed space, man."

Dean shivers lightly. Goosebumps appear on his face again.

"Next time.. Just wear the goddamned coat, all right?"

"Next time.." Dean wheezes hollowly behind the mask. "I'm using rock."