TITLE: Slide

AUTHOR: Obi the Kid

RATING: PG

SUMMARY: Dean POV as he deals with finding Sam on the floor burning with fever. Takes place during the scene of Sam's ice bath in 'The Great Escapist' (Season 8).

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Sam and Dean Winchester and the world of Supernatural do not belong to me, nor do I make any profit from this story. Any typos/errors are all mine!

"Sam? Sammy? SAM?!"

The phone dropped. I heard it hit the floor. Sam had been a bit off his rocker these last couple days and especially today, but so far he'd battled it out and remained conscious. But this time…this was different. Something was wrong.

I found him on the floor, out cold and on fire. I didn't need the thermometer to know this was life and death type crap, but I used it anyway. 107. I set my hands on his face, neck, arms, chest…everything was burning up. Human bodies weren't meant for that type of heat and I ran into the bathroom. A tub. Good. Ice. Needed ice. There was only one way to drop his temperature fast and as much as I hated to do it, it was either ice bath or dead brother.

Thankfully, Mr. Creepy Hotel Manager Guy, or as Sam called him not long ago, Mr. Scowly Scowl, was in the lobby and I at least got him to point me in the direction of the kitchen. Not that anyone ever ate here, there being no guests…ever…but they had to have ice, right? Several bags in the large freezer. I only needed one. If 10 lbs of ice didn't work fever magic, nothing would.

Sam was still prone in the same position on the floor when I got back. Rushing past him I dumped the ice, ran the tub water cold and went back for my brother. Other than pulling off boots and socks, I kept him clothed. Easier, less time consuming and let's face it, if Sam woke up to find himself in a tub full of ice cubes and in his birthday suit…yeah, well, let's just say it was a bad idea. Clothes stayed on.

Without his help, moving him was difficult. I was only a few inches shorter than Sam, but I didn't have the bulk he had. Crowley had nicknamed him perfectly with the handle of "Moose." And while I didn't have much experience transporting giant deer-like creatures from here to there, I did have experience moving my giant brother. Between the two of us, we spent far too much time unconscious, I think.

Despite that experience, I still struggled with him. Legs and arms tangled at one point, almost face-planting myself into the sink, and I barely managed his Gigantor lumbering body into the tub without slamming his head into the ceramic sides. I counted to three and pushed him under, hoping he'd remember to come up for air. He did. It was loud and dramatic – very un-Sam like – but with the shock of the sudden cold on a body at its heat accepting limit – the reaction was understandable. I stepped back briefly to give him a second of space as I reached for a towel and he stumbled out of the tub.

"Take it easy. I found you on the floor. Out cold. Temperature was 107. Had to force it down. Or you were toast."

"He's here Dean. Metatron is here. I can hear him. I know it…I'm connected to it somehow."

He went on and he looked horrible. Blood-red shadows around blood red eyes. Way too damn pale. A long sleep in a warm bed was what he needed, not a hunt for the Scribe of God? Word of God? Another damn angel? But I knew that look of determination on his face despite it being plastered with the appearance of a guy who'd been run over by an assembly line of Mack trucks. He'd been whacky since we'd gotten here, well, prior to that really, but it hadn't gotten better as I'd hoped. His physical and emotional stability were sliding as far away from functional as humanly possible. I grabbed another towel and eased him out of the bathroom; he staggered and reached for a support. The door frame. I grabbed his elbow and pointed him to the left.

"Go, sit. On the chair there, not on the bed." I dug into his duffel bag for dry clothes. Setting them on the bed, I took the wet towel from him and handed him a dry one, then

set a hand on his forehead. It was cool to the touch. Probably wouldn't last, but at this point, I'd any type of victory I could get. "You steady enough to get yourself changed?" I removed my hand from his head and set it on his shoulder. He'd gone from burning up to shivering, but it was worlds removed from almost dying and that I could deal with.

"Um, yeah. I think so. As long as I don't stand up."

It was painful to watch, Sam trying so hard not to ask for help to do something as simple as getting dressed. And I let him go for a time before I couldn't anymore. In any normal time, this might be funny, but his condition was anything but.

"Sammy, come on. You've been at it for ten minutes and you succeeded in getting two buttons undone and one leg out of the pants."

"It's cuz I'm freezin', Dean. You dumped me in friggin' ice water."

Hands shaking violently now as he kept trying for more shirt buttons, I lightly pushed them down and finished the job. "Saved your damn life, is what I did. Leave the buttons alone, Sam." He continued to pick at them with his unsteady fingers, "Sammy, stop!" Finally the hands went still, at least from their fidgeting if not their trembling. "Let me do this. I'll get you fixed up."

Looking up at me, there came a teeth-chattering response.

"T-t-thanks."

"For the buttons?"

"Fr'the ice bath."

I snorted. Never thought I'd hear anyone ever thank me for that one. I got his shirt off and replaced it with another, then had him stretch out his left leg so I could finish the rest. He had to stand and set a heavy hand on my back to get the jeans switched over but it worked, if awkwardly. Another dig through his bag, I found his hair brush and after I gave a thorough towel-dry to the thick mop on his head, I handed it to him.

"Here, Cinderella. If we're going hall-searching to find some Word-of-God angel, you'd better look the part, huh?"

Sam's face twitched as it looked for a smile and failed to find one. The tremors in his hands lessened some now that he was warming back up, but still evident as he ran the brush through his hair. And naturally, right after, he tried to stand and head for the door. Yeah. Right. Sure. So, not gonna happen.

"Don't think so, Sam. Sit for a few more minutes, man. I can't carry you down the hall, I need you vertical. Just…rest for a minute."

"Dean…" There came his weak-ass protest as slid back into the seat.

"No, damn it! And if you keep trying to get up, I will tie you to the friggin' chair! The world won't end if we take twenty minutes to sit here and stare at walls." And I thought I was the stubborn one of this pair. "How about…Okay. How about you tell me more of that story about farting mule, huh?"

"The what?"

I shook my head. It figured. Of course he wouldn't remember his yammering about flatulent donkeys from his loony-tune mind venture into delirium a couple of hours ago.

"Never mind. Just sit still for a few minutes. Please."

He did. Hands in his lap, concentrating hard on his breathing and harder to keep his eyes open. At one point, his chin fell forward to his chest and he zapped out on me for a few. I let him. He'd get angry with me for it, but whatever. It had been a lot easier taking care

of him when he was six years old, short, and weighed about 40 pounds. It was a lot easier taking care of him when he wasn't sliding away from me…when I didn't have this feeling in my gut that at the end of this thing, I might lose my little brother…again.

Hair was completely dry by the time he figured out he'd been sleeping and snapped his head up. "Hey," was the response he gave me, eyes working to find internal balance with his brain.

"Hey, yourself. Feel better?"

"You let me fall asleep."

"No, you let yourself fall asleep. I just didn't wake you up."

I got a glare for that one and he went to stand, immediately grabbing the back of the chair. I was there in a second and he moved the hand from the chair to my shoulder. I could feel the slight tremor of chill still there.

"I should get my jacket."

"Ten steps ahead of you, little brother. Here." The beige coat was in my other hand. "Turn around." Slowly, he managed and I got one arm into the jacket, then the other and pulled it around his shoulders. "Ready?"

I kept contact with him as he staggered to the door, one hand reaching out for wall support, the other pushing off my arm every few seconds.

"Should've taken you to the ER," I said as we opened the door to the hall.

"They can't do anything for me."

No, but they could've knocked you cold for about a week and let your body rest, you stubborn bastard. Damn it, little brothers!

No idea what to expect as we slowly made our way down the hall, traveling as close to the wall as possible and me waiting any second for Sam to fall on his face. Metatron was down there somewhere.

Sam was adamant.

Metatron was there.

No doubt.

He'd heard it.

Felt it.

I believed him, but hell if it didn't just make me worry more.

The End