It's a day like any other. Another nameless diner in one of those endless prairie states, another lunch surrounded by loud truckers and rowdy kids. Just another day.

They're in the middle of Nebraska, on their way to Colorado to investigate some rumors about the Abominable Snowman. Sam isn't expecting anything to come of it � probably just stranded mountain climbers' hallucinations � but it's something to do, since lately there has been a dry spell of actual leads to follow.

The waitress, who had earlier introduced herself as Katie, comes back to their table. She sets down the blue-plate special � meatloaf � in front of Sam, and a turkey club in front of Dean.

"Sorry, sir," says Katie to Dean. She's a little older, in her thirties maybe, and she's very pretty. A button pinned to her uniform reads Mora, Nebraska � You aren't in Kansas anymore, baby. "We ran out of our usual bread. This is from the bakery across the way. I really shouldn't be giving it to you; it's for the staff. But�" She trails off, smiling embarrassedly.

"I appreciate that," says Dean, putting on his 100-watt grin. "And call me Dean. You really didn't have to go to all that trouble."

Sam rolls his eyes.

"Oh no, not at all." Different expressions flicker across Katie's face � flustered, then annoyed, then finally settling on flustered again. Women usually have that reaction to Dean. They know he's using his smarmy charm on them, but they're still unable to resist it. "Just don't tell my boss."

"My lips are sealed," says Dean. He winks at her, and they smile at each other like idiots for a moment, before some other patron yells for his coffee and Katie scurries off.

"I don't get it." Sam shakes his head, cutting into his meatloaf.

Dean chomps on a potato chip. "What? I can't help it. I was cursed with this face, I tell you."

"I'm the cursed one - I'm the one that has to look at it every day," Sam says, deadpan. Dean throws a chip at him, and Sam ducks out of the way, snickering.

"Hey, she gave me an extra pickle. I don't see you getting any extra pickles." Dean picks up half of the sandwich and bites into it.

"Meatloaf doesn't come with pickles."

"If it did, you still wouldn't get any. So ha." Dean kicks at Sam's foot under the table, and ow, that fucking hurts because Dean is wearing his boots.

"What are we, four?" Sam kicks back. Of course, Dean kicks again. They keep going at it until an elderly woman with blue hair passes by their table and stares at them. They stop kicking, smiling at her until she shakes her head and walks away.

As soon as she's gone, Dean kicks Sam again.

Just another day.

* * *

Any semblance of a normal day ends when Sam wakes up from his nap and finds the car parked on the side of the road. The keys are gone and Dean is nowhere to be found.

It's early evening now, if the sun is any indication. They have been driving since lunch, straight west on I-76 into Colorado. Sam assumes they're well inside the state already because he can see the city lights of Denver, and beyond that, the Rockies � a misty blue mountain range at the limits of the western horizon.

Sam rubs his eyes and glances around. Nothing but a 360-degree panorama of grassy plains. The traffic on I-76 whizzes by, not paying any attention to the black Impala parked on the shoulder. He gets out and rounds the car, and he sees a dark shape huddled in the tall grass, out of sight of anyone on the highway.

Heart thumping in his throat, Sam runs over. "Dean? Dean!"

Sam makes it just in time to see Dean throw up in the grass. He's bent over, on his hands and knees, coughing.

"Jesus, Dean, you should've woken me up if you were feeling bad." Sam finds a paper napkin in his jacket pocket and hands it over.

"I didn't�" Dean breaks off, coughing. He straightens to a kneeling position, taking the napkin and wiping his mouth. "It was sudden. I was feeling fine, then bam, I had to hurl."

But something else is wrong. Dean's face is flushed, and he has dark circles under his eyes.

"What?" Dean demands when Sam crouches down and shoves a hand on Dean's forehead.

"Shit, you're burning up." Sam is alarmed at the feel of Dean's skin under his hand. Compared to Dean's forehead, Sam's hand feels like ice. Dean is like a furnace. In fact, now that Sam is crouching closer, he can practically feel heat waves coming off of Dean's body. "Way over 100, I think."

"It's just a cold or something, Sam." Dean struggles to a standing position, but Sam can see his brother teetering, swaying, even as he gets up on one knee. Sam gives him an arm up, and Dean bats it away. "Chill. We'll get some meds and we'll stay the night in Denver. I'll be fine in the morning."

"We should take you to a hospital," Sam insists, taking the car keys from Dean's hand. Dean doesn't get sick, not like this. Only once did Dean ever get a fever this high � the flu had been going around Dean's high school at the time. Most other times, Dean just gets colds and usually milks what little sickness he has for all it's worth � whining at Sam to fetch him car magazines and make him soup.

Dean looks like he wants to snatch the keys back. "Dude, I'm okay. I just need to sleep."

"I'm not going to do this again, Dean!" Sam snaps. The volume of his shout surprises them both.

Dean stares. "Come again?"

"I'm not going to sit by and watch you�" Sam rubs his eyes until multicolor spots wink in his vision. He doesn't even want to talk about it. All he can think of is the last time he saw Dean with those dark shadows under his eyes. "We're going. Even if it's just the flu, I don't care."

When Sam opens his eyes again, Dean's expression is carefully blank. He doesn't look at Sam, instead opting to stare at the cars driving past. "Okay. All right."

Sam guns it the rest of the way into Denver.

* * *

Since Dean walks into the emergency room and the only symptom he has so far is a high fever, they end up waiting for an hour or so before anyone sees him. Dean grumbles under his breath about what's the point of slow-ass ERs. Sam ignores him, biting his nails and glancing at his brother every so often under his bangs. Dean is getting paler by the second, but his cheeks are flushed to a bright pink color, and he looks exhausted.

Once a doctor comes to retrieve Dean, Sam settles back in his chair, trying to calm the fuck down, but a feeling in his gut keeps telling him something is wrong. There's this little voice, niggling at the back of his mind. Sam wishes that little voice would shut the hell up.

A nurse comes by with paperwork, and Sam is distracted from his worries for a while as he fills out the forms. He is just finishing when the doctor comes back.

Sam puts the clipboard aside and stands. "How is he, doc?"

The doctor is balding, with a bushy mustache and a big nose. He nods at Sam reassuringly. "He's fine. We think it's food poisoning."

"Food poisoning?" Sam repeats incredulously. "But he's � he's burning up."

"His fever is abnormally high, but we ran some tests and we can't find anything else. Not the flu, not pneumonia, not any other virus. From what he tells us, his discomfort first started with his stomach. And I don't believe it's an infection. For the fever, just give him acetaminophen or ibuprofen."

Sam can see the doctor pause, as if waiting for the question that he expects to follow. But Sam already knows � acetaminophen or ibuprofen: Tylenol or Advil. "Thanks, doc."

The doctor smiles, like Sam passed some test. He sees the clipboard on the chair, and picks it up. "I'll give this information to the nurse. Your partner�"

"Brother," Sam interjects absently. The assumption doesn't even faze him anymore. Once he hit puberty and he and Dean had started doing more jobs on their own, it became equally likely for people assume they're a couple as assume they're siblings. Sam's not really sure why this is, why he and Dean seem to ping people's gaydars even when they're nowhere near each other.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Your brother is free to go whenever he's ready. Usually, food poisoning resolves itself in a day or so. Let him take it easy for a while. If he's not feeling better in a couple of days, bring him back, all right son?"

"Sure. Thanks." Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, trying not to make it obvious that he sort of wants to see Dean. Like, now. It's reassuring to know the doctors don't think it's serious, but� again, that feeling in his gut. Sam just wants to make sure, to see Dean for himself.

The doctor seems to sense Sam's impatience. He grins, making his mustache wiggle. "Okay, I'm boring you. Go on."

* * *

Sam finds Dean sitting on an exam table, swinging his legs idly. He doesn't look much better � he's still deadly pale and those shadows under his eyes are still there, but the hot flush in his cheeks has gone down. They must have given him some medicine.

"Let's go," says Dean shortly, jumping down from the table before Sam can even get a word in.

They leave the hospital in silence.

Dean's mouth is set in this grim line that screams Shut up, I don't feel like talking, and besides that, he still looks worn out, like he hasn't slept in days. Sam doesn't really know what to say that won't irritate him � Dean gets bitchy when he's sick � so Sam opts to say nothing at all.

In complete silence, they stop at the drug store and Sam runs in to pick up the Advil and some soda and orange juice. He finds a motel on the western outskirts of Denver and checks in.

When Sam comes back to the car, room keys in hand, Dean is in the same position Sam left him in � slumping in his seat and resting his head against the window. Dean's eyes are bloodshot and bleary, reflecting the moonlight as he gazes out, blank and unseeing.

And Sam begins to worry, because that unhealthy flush is back in Dean's face. He can see it, even in the nighttime gloom of the car interior. Isn't medicine supposed to last longer than an hour?

Sam opens the driver's door and leans in to pop the trunk release. He glances across at his brother, and decides to break the silence. "Room 12. You� sure you're feeling okay? We can go back."

"Dammit, Sam," Dean croaks, voice hoarse. Sam reaches in the backseat and gives Dean a soda. Dean takes it, but even that simple movement seems hindered, like Dean is moving his arm through molasses. "Stop treating me like a freaking invalid," he rasps before he twists open the Coke and takes a swallow.

Sam resists the urge to throttle his brother. Dean could have a limb hacked off and he would still insist he's fine. He's a stubborn asshole that way.

"You got taken down by a turkey sandwich." It's not meant to be a jibe � this whole night has made Sam fucking tired and he's currently working on autopilot � but Sam supposes he shouldn't have let that sentence pop out of his mouth.

Dean stiffens. "Wanna come a little closer and say that again, Sammy?" growls Dean, eyes flashing.

Sam stares.

"What?" Dean snaps, still irritated.

"Nothing, I thought I saw�" Sam shakes his head. "Never mind. The doctor says take it easy for a day or so. If you don't get better, we have to go back."

Dean groans. He opens his door and gets slowly out. "I hate taking it easy," he grumbles.

Sam swallows. "I know."

Watching Dean move like this, like he's an old man, like he's only half himself, reminds Sam too much of muddy tents and heart diseases. Dean isn't supposed to walk like he's a hundred years old already. Dean should never walk like that, not until he actually is a hundred years old.

And you're going to make it there. I don't care how, but both of us, we are going to make it there.

Sam opens the trunk and pulls out Dean's duffel bag, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and nudges the trunk closed with his elbow.

He follows Dean to their room. Dean is walking slowly, like he's moving through a dream, and Sam lets him, staying a couple of paces behind. If he tries to help, it would only irritate Dean. Then, in front of their room, Dean stops suddenly. He leans forward, clapping one hand on his head and using the other to steady himself against the door.

"What's wrong?"

"I feel. Sort of." Dean collapses onto the floor.

"Dean!"

* * *

The worst night in Sam's life was the night he stayed up scanning the Internet for alternative healers, researching magical remedies, leaving message after message for his dad. It wasn't staying up all night that made it bad. It was the desperation, the hopelessness. That night, Sam stood on the brink, where all reason began to crumble away, because sanity doesn't seem so important when you have nothing left to live for. Looking back on that night, Sam knows that if he had found a reaper binding spell, he probably would've used it.

The second worst night in Sam's life was the night of the fire. Dean had shoved him in the backseat of the Impala and told him to stay put. Sam had stared out the car window, watching the apartment building blaze away until all there was left was smoking rubble. Sam had numbly let Dean answer the questions from the police and the firemen. Hell, Dean even talked to Jessica's friends for him. Sam had felt guilty, useless, and� angry.

The third worst night in Sam's life? This night.

Dean alternates between being freezing and being boiling hot. Not in body heat � the fever stays at an annoyingly constant high temperature � but in his reactions to the fever.

When Sam first put Dean in bed, under the covers, Dean had woken from unconsciousness, moaning and breaking out in a sweat. Sam finally had to pull Dean's shirt off and push the covers back before Dean stopped groaning. A couple of hours later, Dean woke up again, teeth chattering and shivering all over, even though his fever was the same as ever. Sam had to pull the covers back up, and even added himself as extra warmth when the shivers wouldn't stop.

Over and over. An endless cycle.

Sam can't sleep because he has to put an ice pack on Dean's head when the fever is at its worst, and then wrap himself around Dean to stop the chattering when the fever gives a little.

It's not like Sam is able to sleep anyway. Worry gnaws at him like a vicious worm, eating him alive, because� what the hell is this? If it's not the flu, if it's not pneumonia, what the hell is it?

Dean wavers in and out of consciousness. When he's awake, he's barely there, looking at Sam blankly but obediently swallowing the Advil that Sam gives him periodically. When he's asleep, he's totally out.

Then Sam is frightened out of his ever-loving mind when Dean starts talking and babbling in a fevered delirium. Dean looks like he's awake, but his eyes are not focusing on anything in the room. Sam is worried that the fever might be cooking Dean's brain.

"Shh�" Sam murmurs. He sits up from where he had been lying next to Dean, and runs a hand through Dean's sweaty hair. "It's okay."

"Moon's over Jupiter," says Dean hoarsely, because he's dehydrated and Sam can't get him to drink enough during his conscious periods.

"Right," says Sam. He puts his hands on Dean's hot cheeks, wishing desperately that he could somehow absorb some of Dean's fever through osmosis or something.

Shit, Sam is not equipped to deal with this. He can't. He's not supposed to. He's the younger one. Watching Dean falling apart like this is like finding out Superman isn't real. He can't� he can't.

The more Sam watches Dean like this, the more that little voice in the back of his mind whispers black thoughts and horrible possibilities. Things that frighten Sam more than anything else in the world. He doesn't want to listen to that awful voice, but as the night goes on, there's only him and his worries and that voice that suggests sickness and death and loneliness.

"You're not supposed to be human," whispers Sam. "You're Dean, remember?"

"Kryptonite is the poster child," says Dean, and Sam is too disturbed by everything else that's happened tonight to care that Dean seems to be channeling Sam's thoughts. They think alike. Apparently even in fits of delirium.

When Sam gets up to get another ice pack, Dean suddenly grabs Sam's hand tightly. "Don't leave me," he mumbles. "Don't go."

Sam swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "I'm not." He sits back down to reinforce the point. "I won't."

This seems to satisfy Dean, because his grip around Sam's wrist loosens and his eyes flutter closed again. Sam lies down facing Dean, watching him for any change. Sam checks the clock, and it's still a couple of hours yet before Dean needs any medicine. He needs to take Dean back to the hospital if the fever doesn't break soon. It's six in the morning now.

And maybe Sam is more tired than he thinks, because he falls asleep like that, holding Dean's hand, torso twisted around to look at the beside clock.

It's way past sunrise when Dean starts moaning and thrashing around. Sam blinks out of his dozing sleep and tries to pin down Dean's flailing arms.

"Dean! It's just a nightmare." Even as he's saying the words, Sam realizes the irony. With them, nothing is just anything. Not even nightmares. He pushes down with all his weight, holding Dean's arms with his hands and Dean's legs with his knees. "Come on."

"Sam!" Dean gasps and suddenly bolts upright, nearly knocking their heads together. Dean's eyes are blazing orange, glowing with an unnatural intensity.

Orange?!

And that's when the bedcovers catch on fire.

* * *

"Ohshitohshit!" is just about as much as Sam can get out as he leaps out of bed, throwing the covers on the floor. He pulls the blankets off the other bed in the room and smothers the burning ones. He stamps down on the covers, until he's pretty sure the fire is gone. The room smells like smoke.

"What� what the hell was that?" Dean scrubs a hand through his hair. He's breathing hard, and a sheen of sweat coats his body.

Sam stares. The feverish flush on Dean's face is gone.

"What?" Dean demands when Sam leaps back on the bed and shoves a hand against Dean's forehead. "What?" Dean repeats again when Sam collapses in front of him, rolling around, laughing helplessly.

"Your fever broke." Sam can't seem to stop laughing. He has to clutch at his stomach. This is what relief is � so stark and profound it could almost be happiness. "Oh God, your fever broke."

Dean stops looking irritated and smiles a little. "You were worried about me, hunh?"

Sam stops laughing then. He props himself up on one elbow and points a finger at his brother. "If you ever do that to me again, I will kill you myself. I swear."

"Now where have I heard that one before?" Dean says, amused. He reaches for Sam, pulling Sam closer, and then he does something he hasn't done since Sam was nine years old. Dean hugs him, folding his arms around Sam and holding so tight that Sam can't breathe. "Sorry, Sammy," he murmurs into Sam's ear.

Now Sam can't breathe and he can't see. He blinks furiously, trying to clear his vision. "You're sweaty," he finally says, clearing his throat.

Dean lets him go, sitting back. "What was that fire?" he asks, nodding to the pile of smoking blankets on the floor.

Sam grimaces. He doesn't know how Dean is going to take this. "You� uh. I think you did it."

The way Dean's voice drops makes the next word sound like a lead weight. "What."

"When you woke up just now, your eyes� they� your eyes were orange. And then the covers caught on fire." When Dean stares at him, his expression a cross between bewildered and alarmed, Sam rushes to say, "Your eyes aren't orange now, though. But I� I think you might be a firestarter."

"What?" Dean demands, and oh shit, his eyes are flashing again.

"If don't believe me, you're doing it again now!" Sam says, trying not to panic. "It looks like it's tied to your emotions. Just� just calm down." How many things in this room are going to catch on fire before Dean believes him?

"You calm down!" Again, that flicker of orange. If Sam hadn't been looking for it, he might've missed it. Just the briefest flash in which Dean's green irises blaze like fire.

Sam gets off the bed and opens the duffel. They have practically everything they could ever need in the duffel bag. He finds a half-used white wax candle in there. He sits back on Dean's bed.

"Hold that," says Sam, handing Dean the candle. "Focus on it. Think about the candle, no matter what."

"I don't see what you're trying to pro�" Dean is cut off when Sam punches him in the face. "What the fuck?" Dean snarls, whipping his head back around, eyes flashing, and the candle lights up in his hand.

Sam looks at Dean pointedly.

Dean stares at the candle. Its lone flame twinkles merrily. "Oh."

* * *

After that, Dean pinches the candle back out and he keeps making Sam hit him again and again. Each time, the candle sparks to life, as if by magic. Sam watches Dean's eyes, and he can see Dean's eyes light up, blazing, at the moment of each spark. After the fifth time, Sam says, "Dude. You're going to be black and blue if we keep going."

Dean blows the candle out once more. "Okay. Okay. I think� I've got it." He narrows his eyes and they flash orange. The candle blinks to life.

"Wow." Sam can't hide the fact that he's impressed. "What did you think of?"

Dean grins darkly. "The bastard that killed Mom."

It's early afternoon by the time Dean gets out of bed to shower. Sam lies down on his own bed � without any covers � and watches daytime soap operas, drifting in and out of sleep, until Dean's hand shakes his foot and Dean says, "Let's go, sunshine. I'm starving."

"Mmph." Sam rolls over and puts his head under his pillow.

"All right, all right. You want a burger?"

Sam raises his arm and gives his brother a thumbs-up sign without moving his head. He wishes he could sleep forever.

He's relieved that Dean is better � for the obvious reasons, and for the less obvious reasons, too. Sam's not equipped to handle being the one in charge, being the caretaker. Sam doesn't know if that's a trait of little siblings everywhere, or if it's just the result of growing up with Dean, who always did the caretaking even if he bitched and moaned about it. Dean is the one true constant in Sam's life, and when that constant is shaken� it's very� tiring.

Sam doesn't know how much time passes while he's asleep, but when he peeks his head out from under his pillow, Dean is sitting at the table in the corner of the room. He's leaning back in the chair, arms folded across his chest. It's nighttime, if the black sky outside is any indication. The candle is sitting on the table in front of Dean. Its flame winks in and out regularly, synchronized to the flashes in Dean's eyes.

"Dean?" Sam yawns.

"Burger's over there," Dean says, not looking up, and the rhythm of the blinking flame doesn't even waver. Sometime between this morning and now, Dean has learned how to put out a fire, as well as start it, with only his mind.

Sitting up the rest of the way, Sam reaches for the Styrofoam box on the nightstand between their beds. As he eats his lukewarm cheeseburger, Sam watches Dean practice.

Sam doesn't know if he's jealous or proud that Dean has mastered his ability so quickly, while Sam is still unable to lift a pencil with his own (much less bend a spoon). Then again, Dean has this iron bar of determination inside of him. It's what makes him a fast learner, a good soldier. It's also what makes Dean a somewhat compulsive perfectionist.

"Dean."

"Yeah?" Dean stops, finally looking up at Sam. Sam tries not to be disturbed at the final flash of fiery orange in Dean's eyes. He's going to have to get used to it.

"Take a break." Sam doesn't need to explain any further. I can't go through another night like that again.

Dean waves a hand at him, as if Sam just said something totally ridiculous. "If I don't learn how to control this, I could end up hurting you. It's not like your thing. Visions, telekinesis. Those can't do much just on their own. But this�" Dean rubs a hand over his face. "It's� just let me do this, okay?"

"Don't push yourself. You just got better."

"Or worse, depending on how you look at it," Dean mutters.

Only through the shapeshifter's weird ability to download Dean's memories did Sam learn about Dean's insecurities. Otherwise, Sam probably would've never known. Dean keeps himself to himself.

�I'm a freak� sooner or later everyone's going to leave me�

The last thing Dean needs is something to make him feel more alienated, more out of the realm of normal. Sam doesn't know how to reassure Dean about this, because what can he say that won't sound banal or false?

Sam puts his burger aside. "Do we need to talk about this?"

"No." Dean gets up and flops down on his own bed. He stares up at the ceiling. "Fucking doctors. I don't know about you, but this sure as hell isn't the result of food poisoning. I want my money back."

"You didn't pay anything. I used a fake insurance card," Sam says absently. He's thinking. The words "food poisoning" seem to ring alarm bells in Sam's mind. Why�?

"It's the principle of the thing," Dean says, waving an arm.

"Oh shit," Sam breathes, finally remembering. He scrambles off his bed and gets out the laptop, jamming in the modem cord to the wall.

Dean cocks his head up. "What?"

Why didn�t Sam think of it before? He had been too busy panicking about Dean's fever before, and even after, he had been too tired to think clearly. But now� Sam clicks through Google, then looks in Wikipedia. Sam grimaces when he finally finds a webpage to confirm his suspicions. "I think your� ability. It came from our lunch."

"Uh. Sorry, you've gotta give me a little more than that. Remember you're talking to a townie here, college boy." Dean sits up the rest of the way, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"The last thing you ate before you got your so-called food poisoning was that sandwich. Food poisoning, then fever. And now� this fire thing." Sam clicks on a link and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"So. You're saying a sandwich made me a firestarter?" Dean snorts. "No offense, but you're crazy. And is it really that hard to believe that I can do this, just because? I mean, look at what you can do. You're just jealous that you're not the only special psychic kid in town anymore."

Sam ignores that last bit. Besides being untrue, sort of, he also knows it's just Dean baiting him, trying to get a rise out of him. "Look, Dean. Remember what that waitress said? That bread was just for the staff."

"So? They have good bread that they don't want to share with just anyone. No big deal."

"No. That town where we ate lunch. Mora, Nebraska. Do you know what it's famous for?"

"A town with a population under 1,500? Inbreeding and really good apple pie?" Dean pauses, considering. "Those two usually go together. Why is that?"

"Crop circles, Dean." Sam turns the laptop so his brother can see the website. It's one of those sites maintained by people who investigate and photograph crop circles. There's a whole page filled with photos from one tiny township in western Nebraska. Sam knows he's heard that name before � Mora. One of the towns in America with the highest occurrence of crop circles. "Crop circles in their wheat fields."

"Huh," Dean says, tone carefully neutral. "Guess we're going back to Nebraska, then."