Archive of Our Own

-o-

It was in the news all week, anticipation growing heavy like the moisture in the air. Every day, the forecast got worse. Five inches of snow and a winter storm. A foot of snow and a blizzard.

By the week’s end, they were calling it the storm of the century, which Logan thought was a bit dramatic, but he could feel it in the air, the same as everyone else.

It felt like snow. It smelled like snow.

It was snow.

It was Coach Jensen who addressed it first, sighing heavily at Thursday’s practice. “I’m canceling practice tomorrow night.”

The team tittered in anticipation.

“I don’t make that decision lightly,” he said sternly. “But I think in the name of safety, we should be careful.”

He turned strict eyes at them each in turn. “I don’t want to lose any of my team to a natural disaster,” he said flatly. “Do you know how humiliating it will be to replace my starting line due to stupidity?”

-o-

“Coach is right,” Garrett said on the way home.

Dean yawned, wrinkling his nose at the scratchy feeling in his throat. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, wondering if he’d overdid it in practice.

“What, you’re not going to make us practice anyway?” Logan snarked.

Tucker’s eyes widened. “We could make a skating rink in the yard!” he exclaimed. “My papa used to do that, just fill it with water–”

Garrett sighed, as if dealing with children. “We can condition inside,” he said. “But preparation is necessary.”

Dean stifled a yawn, massaging his temples. “You act like we haven’t grown up in the northeast,” he muttered. “We know what a blizzard is.”

“Yeah, but we’re on our own in the off campus house,” Garrett pointed out. “How we make it through, that’s on us.”

Dean had plenty of memories of shoveling and snow prep. He used to help his mom make French toast every time she was snowed in from work, even while his dad took video calls from his office. Nick complained that Dean never did the work, when Dean was the one who did the driveway, the walk, and the stoop while Nick supervised and Summer made snow angels.

“We need to get supplies, do house prep,” Garrett said.

“I can hit the store tomorrow after my classes,” Tucker offered. “I’m done early.”

“And I’ll bring home a generator from the shop,” Logan offered. “Along with enough gasoline to run it.”

“Good,” Garrett said. “I can start on weatherproofing the upstairs windows, and Dean–”

Oh, shit. He’d dozed off.

He snorted himself awake.

Garrett sighed. “Are you taking this seriously?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Does Dean ever take things seriously?”

Dean flounced. “Supplies. Generator, Weatherproofing,” he muttered, clearing his throat with force. “I got it.”

“Sure, that’s what we’re doing,” Logan said. “What is your lazy ass going to contribute?”

Dean groaned. “I’ll shovel, okay? When the snow starts, I’ll shovel.”

“Yeah, sure,” Logan said. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Dean hummed his response, settling back against the seat with his eyes closed, lingering just long enough to give his friends the finger.

He was more than ready for a blizzard.

But for his friends being assholes?

Dean had no patience at all.

-o-

The next day, the weather started to get cold. The snap in the air was real, and Logan had to beg to take the generator home with him – and he all but stole the gas needed to run the thing. Lugging it back home was tedious, especially as the first flakes began to fall.

He unloaded it, putting it on the back porch, pulling his coat on tighter even as he walked inside.

Tucker was in the kitchen – stress cooking, it seemed. “I want to make sure we have plenty of food,” he explained.

“It’s not like we’ll be stranded for a week,” Logan said, even as he helped himself to a slice of bread. “But I mean, with this spread – I wouldn’t mind.”

Tucker offered him a bite of mac and cheese casserole. “I thought some hearty foods, the kind that warm the soul.”

Logan took a bite. “That’s really good, man–”

Tucker brightened. “I know hot food doesn’t completely change the body temperature, but I figure it can’t hurt–”

“Everything helps, Tuck,” Garrett said, coming inside the room with an armful of supplies. “I got candles, lighters, and flashlights with extra batteries. Did you get the generator?”

“And the fuel,” Logan confirmed. “On the back porch.”

“Awesome,” Garrett said. “I picked up salt and an extra shovel.”

“Shouldn’t Dean be doing that?” Logan asked. “Shoveling is his domain.”

“Well, I want to be sure it’s done,” Garrett said – and it was a joke – and not.

Logan grunted. “Do we ever want to hold his freeloading ass responsible?”

“He does some stuff,” Tucker offered. “And he’s really good on the back ice.”

Logan glared at him. “I’m not saying he’s a useless human being,” he said. “I’m just saying – he can be entitled.”

“We’ll get him to work when he gets home,” Garrett assured him. “This is all hands on deck.”

Dean’s entitled nature was annoying, it was true.

But Garrett’s need to micromanage wasn’t much better.

One friend who wanted to do everything; the other who refused to do anything.

It was maddening that this was his life.

“Now, come on,” Garrett said, before he could dwell. “I want to get started on some weatherproofing.”

Logan forced a smile, snagging another piece of bread. “Great,” he said. “I can hardly wait.”

-o-

It was a shitty day.

Like, a really shitty day.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, there was a blizzard coming. Snow and cold and wind and all that shit.

But damn.

His body felt like it was in full-on rebellion. The ache in his muscles was deeper, with a nagging feeling in his throat. His sinuses felt irritated, and there was a heaviness every time he breathed. It was a struggle staying awake in class, and making it back off campus through the snow was easier said than done.

By the time he got home, the snow was falling in earnest – and the wind was picking up as the temperatures started to drop.

He clomped inside with a sigh of total relief.

“Hey!” Tucker yelled. “Boots off before you come inside!”

“And close the damn door!” Garrett said.

Dean rolled his eyes, forcing the door shut behind him and wrenching his boots off. “Gee, so good to be home.”

“There’s a storm,” Logan told him.

As if Dean wasn’t wet with snow and freezing. “Huh. I hadn’t noticed.”

He took off his coat, shaking it out in the entryway while it dripped.

“Use the mudroom, bro,” Tucker muttered, taking his coat from him.

Dean shook the snow out of his hair as Tucker took his coat to the back entryway, where they stored the messy stuff. “It’s getting crazy out there,” he said, coming inside.

“We’re getting the windows sealed,” Logan said, throwing the film at him.

Dean caught it with a face. “I literally just got home.”

“And we’ve been at it all afternoon,” Garrett said.

“And I was in a three hour pre law seminar,” Dean said.

“Cry me a river, bro,” Logan said. “And get to work.”

He was tired.

Like really.

Classes and hockey and girls.

And the weather just made it all the more exhausting.

“I’ll get there,” he said, flopping on the couch as he let the film drop. “Just give me a sec.”

“No,” Logan said, shaking his head. “You do not get a sec. None of us had a sec.”

“I was at class!” Dean moaned, throwing a hand over his face. “I wasn’t at the damn spa!”

“And this is a blizzard,” Garrett said, stopping in front of him and kicking his foot. “So buck up.”

Dean glared at him, lifting his arm reluctantly.

Dean had spent his whole life in the northeast. He knew how it went.

Summers were hot and fleeting. Autumns were spectacular. Spring was vibrant. And winter?

Was it’s own kind of hell frozen over. It got dark early, and the temperatures got icy. It snowed and snowed and snowed.

As a kid, he’d loved it. The old sledding hill on the estate, and his parents had a horse drawn sleigh because yeah. Of course they did. Hot chocolate made from scratch on the stove and a crackling fire, wearing sweaters knitted by his crazy aunt.

As an adult, he loved it less.

Because driving took forever, and sludging through the slush was easier said than done.

But it was doable. Dean was a practical guy; he could do this shit.

“We’re all from this area,” he reminded them. “Why are you acting like we all forgot how to do winter?”

“We remember,” Logan said. “You don’t.”

“It takes work, bro,” Garrett told him.

Dean drew a breath, letting it sit in his heavy lungs. He wrinkled his nose, clearing his throat as he reluctantly pushed himself up. “You guys are so dumb.”

“Better dumb – than unprepared,” Garrett said, handing him the film again.

“Better dumb – than lazy,” Logan said, slapping him upside the back so hard that Dean winced.

He hid it quickly; no one noticed.

Because Dean knew how winters worked, sure.

And he knew how life with the guys worked, too.

He had to play the part; he had to be the guy.

Because that was just the way it had to be.

-o-

They prepped late – at least most of them did. Dean petered off sometime earlier than the rest of them, saying he just needed to lay down.

And when Logan checked on him next, he was snoring.

Loudly, like a damn chainsaw.

It was too much work to wake up, and all of them were due for bed, too. The snow was falling when they went to bed.

By morning, the blizzard had started – full on.

Classes were canceled; all activities were postponed. It was a snow emergency across campus and the city. Logan would have thought that was that – but no. Garrett had a full list of chores.

“Dude,” Logan said. “You do realize that none of this will change the outcome.”

“Are you Dean now?” Garrett quipped.

“Okay, rude,” Logan said.

“Speaking of,” Tucker yawned. “Is he up?”

First to bed, last to rise.

Dean.

“I’ll get him,” Logan sighed. “He needs to start shoveling.”

Grumbling, he made his way back upstairs, the chill in the air stronger with every step thanks to the old house they lived in. At Dean’s door, he knocked – but let himself in.

Not surprised to find the blonde where he left him last night.

Passed out, sound asleep.

“Dean,” Logan said. “Hey, Dean. It’s time to wake up.”

Dean made a sound, something mumbled and unintelligible, shifting – but not getting up.

“For real,” Logan said, more than a touch exasperated now. “We’ve got a whole list of chores.”

Dean pushed himself over with some obvious effort, squinting his eyes open. “Chores?” he croaked. “For a snow day?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Like you ever did a chore willingly on a non-snow day.”

Dean made a face, closing his eyes and throwing an arm over his face. “I do lots of shit.”

“None of which is useful to us,” Logan reminded him.

Dean lifted his arm to glare at him. “That hurts, man.”

“So does picking up after you, cooking for you, doing your laundry—”

“I do my own laundry,” Dean protested.

“You start your laundry,” Logan agreed. “But then you leave it in the washing machine until one of us moves it over for you.”

Dean hummed, letting his arm rest over his face again. “I’m getting to it.”

“Every time?” Logan asked skeptically. He slapped Dean’s foot. “But seriously. The storm is coming. We have to get to work.”

Dean shook his head, making a mewling sound. “I don’t feel well, man.”

It was more than a little exasperating. “Maybe because you drank too much. Or stayed up too late. Or ate like shit for five days in a row.”

“Nope,” Dean said, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes. “That’s not it.”

Logan groaned. “For all that you like to play the manly guy, you really do act like a princess,” he said, and he yanked at the covers.

Dean yelped, scrambling to grab it.

Logan realized – too late – that he was naked. “Oh, come on, Dean,” he said.

Dean put his arm down and glared. “I was too hot last night!”

“So you thought you’d cool of -- that,” he said, nodding at Dean’s now-exposed midsection.

“Honestly I wasn’t thinking much,” Dean admitted. “But I’m telling you. I really don’t feel well.”

Logan threw the blanket at his face. “And I’m telling you, I don’t care,” he said. “Be downstairs in five minutes, or we’re listing your room for rent.”

“I’m not making it up,” Dean whined, pulling the blanket off his face. “I’m sick, Logan.”

Logan crossed his arms over his chest. “Not too sick to complain.”

“I didn’t sleep at all,” Dean said. “And my throat is scratchy and my head is killing me.”

“Sounds like a hangover, man,” Logan said.

“It’s not,” Dean said, voice pitching a little too much. “I need to rest, man, not to storm prep.”

“Yeah, you told us yesterday how you feel about storm prep,” Logan said, unconvinced. “And now, surprise, surprise, you’re fresh up with excuses to not help.”

Dean groaned, flopping over on his stomach once more. “While I do think you are all too overzealous about snow, this isn’t about that.”

Tucker poked his head in. “Kind of seems like it’s about that, bro!”

Dean lifted his head wearily, propping himself up on his elbows. “I feel like shit, man.”

Logan narrowed his gaze. Dean was pale. His coloring was a little off, and the bags under his eyes were pronounced. And his voice sounded scratchy.

And yet, this was Dean.

Dean who stayed up too late, drank too much, and kissed way too many girls.

“None of us want to do this, man,” he said. “But it’s called being an adult.”

Dean made a face, flopping back on the bed. “Adults get sick days,” he whined.

“Not in my world, D,” Logan said. “If you’re not up in five minutes, I will drag you outside in your underwear.”

“Asshole!” Dean croaked after him.

“You want to risk frostbite to your most sensitive regions, that’s on you,” Logan said, moving from the door.

Dean groaned, something garbled and miserable. “I hate you!”

“It’s life in the northeast, Dean,” Logan called back to him. “You should be used to it by now!”

-o-

Contrary to popular belief, Dean didn’t try to be difficult.

No, he tried to be a decent, productive, normal human being. He grew up doing chores, just like everyone else. Yeah, sure, he got more perks out of it. But Dean understood the nature of hard work. He wasn’t, by nature, lazy.

He just had a refined sense of what was necessary.

And, frankly, what wasn’t.

Too many people made life so hard. All their worrying and fussing. When none of it changed anything. If you weren’t living your life, then what were you doing?

Tucker freaked out about what was for dinner. Garrett thought self discipline was the key to all success. Logan had a control freak obsession. Dean?

Dean just wanted to enjoy college.

Sure, he’d eat some vegetables. Yes, he kept up with training. He was always up on rent, and he did his chores.

So, he wasn’t sure what the big deal was?

This was just a snowstorm.

And honest to God, Dean felt terrible.

Positively horrific.

He hadn’t slept; his body was sore. His throat was a mess, and his sinuses were full of gunk. He couldn’t clear his throat, and breathing felt suspiciously weird. His head hurt in a way that made a hangover look like nothing, and yeah.

Dean really didn’t feel well.

“Dude, take some Tylenol,” Garrett said when he saw him. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

Dean gave him a hard look and sneezed.

Garrett made a face. “Yeah, keep that away from me.”

“Oh, man,” Tucker said, bustling into the kitchen where Dean was barely upright, trying to pour himself some coffee. “You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” Dean said, slightly mollified.

Tucker looked marginally sympathetic. “Too much to drink last night?”

And Dean sneezed on him, too, for good measure.

It was Logan, however, who prodded him outside.

“I think this is a bad idea,” Dean groaned as he tried to pull on his boots over his thermal pants.

“Yeah, I’m sure anything requiring actual work feels like a bad idea to you,” Logan smirked, getting his hat adjusted on his head. “But mommy and daddy aren’t here to pay for snow service.”

“It’s going to snow for another 10 hours,” Dean reminded him. “So why are we—”

“Because it’s going to snow for another 10 hours,” Logan said with exasperation. “Do you want to shovel two feet of snow?”

Dean didn’t want to shovel any amount of snow right now.

Logan slapped him on the back. “I know this is a foreign concept, but sometimes you do work now – so you do less work later.”

Dean gave him an incredulous stare. “You do know that I have a 3.9 GPA and scored a 1400 on my SATS.”

“Sure,” Logan said. “With a private tutor and no need to hold down a job—”

Dean made a face. “Really, dude? You think that little of me?”

Logan rolled his eyes, grabbing his shovel to tromp outside. “Stop complaining and shovel,” he said. “And then we’ll talk about your work ethic.”

Dean would have sneezed on him, too, but instead he coughed – and coughed some more. He coughed until he gagged, wheezing badly while the room spun precariously. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through it.

Then, he pulled on his boots stubbornly, frowned deeply, and trudged behind Logan to get the job done.

-o-

It wasn’t that Logan thought Dean was a bad guy. In truth, he liked Dean. Dean was fun at practices, and he was the best at parties. If Logan needed a wingman, Dean was always there to support him. Dean would study with him; Dean would pick up girls with him. Dean would buy him beer when he was strapped for cash. Dean was a good guy.

That didn’t mean he was the easiest guy.

Dean was whiny. He was entitled, and he didn’t even realize just how entitled he was. The way he never had to work for anything. The way money was never a question. Success was there for the taking, and Dean just had to ask what he really wanted – and voilà, it was his.

Failure wasn’t something Dean understood. Life had never had stakes for him.

Win, lose, or draw – Dean always had something – everything – to fall back on.

So, yeah, he liked Dean a lot.

But sometimes, Dean needed to be put in his place.

And it was 5 degrees outside with six inches of snow and counting.

There was no way in hell Dean was wiggling his way out of this one.

Whether or not he had a cold. He had cleared a path on the board, shoveling the inches off the welcome mat and off the sides to prevent too much weight. He had made it down the steps to the walk when Dean finally came outside.

“About time!” Logan called back. The storm had lulled, but only slightly. The wind wasn’t gusting as much as it had been, but the steady flurry of snow had only marginally abated. “We only have about 45 minutes before this picks up again.”

Dean made a face, pulling his scarf up over his flushed cheeks. “Dude, maybe we really should leave it,” he said. “This really isn’t to get us anything.”

Logan shoveled some of it off the edge of the walk. “It’s maintenance,” he said, looking back as his breath puffed out in the swirling snow. “I got the walk and the apron. The driveway is yours.”

Dean adjusted his hat, clomping down the steps in his boots.

Expensive boots, Logan had to add. Logan’s were used and duct taped.

Dean’s looked brand new.

“I don’t know if I can,” Dean admitted. “I feel like shit.”

For good measure, Dean coughed – and sneezed, his whole body rocky.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Nice try, D,” he said, pushing the shovel forward. “But I’m not some hot chick you can work over to get what you want.”

“For the record, I give them as much as they want, too,” Dean protested.

Logan snorted, continuing to shovel a path down to the walk. “You should have asked one of them to stay over so they could shovel for you!”

“I would never ask a date to do that!” Dean called after him.

“All the more reason to shut up,” Logan said, smirking at him. “And do it yourself!”

Dean sneezed.

And coughed.

And finally – with an overly dramatic flair – started shoveling.

-o-

Dean knew that shoveling was no big deal.

Like, he did.

He knew what his workout routine was. With what he could bench? Snow didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.

But–

But--

It was really hard today.

Like, too hard.

Every movement was met with undue resistance. He could feel the strain, deep in his muscles – and worse, every breath pulled at his lungs. It was hard to tell if his vision was spotty or if the weather was just that bad.

He supposed the effect was the same.

Every few paces, he had to pause and steady himself. Forcing air through his congested airways before he could start moving again.

The mere act of lifting the snow to clear it was entirely too much after two passes at the top of the drive. He settled for pushing it off the edge and hoping like hell it was enough.

It was hard to tell. What with the snow. And Dean’s intermittent vision.

And the pounding headache.

And the way he had to stop every few steps to cough, sneeze, cough, gag, and finally – spit in utter misery.

Plus, it didn’t help that it was so cold outside.

While still being so hot.

His fingers barely worked, but his chest felt flushed. He took his scarf off in a fit of confusion, pausing to balance himself on the shovel, and breathe–

“Dude, how are you not done?”

Dean squinted up, just to find Logan close by. The smaller man was flushed, but in the normal way. The way one was supposed to be after shoveling. There were white flecks of snow on his brown locks; it was so cold that they weren’t melting, but his scarf was iced on the edges with condensation.

“Seriousy,” Logan said, giving him a look.

Dean looked at the driveway.

He had made it almost halfway.

A little less.

Then, he looked at the walk – completely cleared, despite the fresh layer coming down.

Even the apron, including the gunk from the first pass of the snow plow, had been handled.

Dean frowned, looking back at his progress.

How long had they been out here?

What the hell had he even been doing?

And how the hell was he going to stay upright when his body wanted to shut down.

Now.

“Well,” Logan said, trudging past him to the house. “Try not to take too long. We don’t need you getting frostbite.”

Dean blinked stupidly at his friend, who was halfway up the walk before he realized what was going on.

“Wait,” he said, voice scratchy and garbled. “Do you think you can help?”

Logan scoffed. “I already did more than my share,” he protested, nodding back out. “And I’m cold, dude. Pull your weight, man. For real.”

Dean wasn’t too proud to beg.

He wasn’t. “Seriously, man,” he said. “I don’t think I can do much more of this.”

“Well, maybe if you spent your time working, and not complaining—” Logan started.

Dean made a face, letting out a pathetic whine. “Dude, I don’t feel well, I keep telling you.”

Logan shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do about it. “We’re a team,” he said. “Whether you feel well or not. You got to pull your weight.”

Dean stared after him, too tired – too stupid – to protest. He watched as Logan disappeared inside, and then he looked back out at the snow.

Half a driveway, he told himself with as much conviction as his inner monologue could muster. “I can do that.”

He started to move, turning to shovel the next line of snow.

Gritting his teeth.

Flexing his muscles.

And pushing through the agony and exhaustion as best he could.

-o-

The warm air from the house hit Logan in the face, his skin burning and chapped from the cold outside. His fingers were a little numb as he took off his wet gloves, and he threw his damp scarf and hat on the rug in the mudroom before shaking the snow off his hair and coat. His boots were soaked, and he removed his half-wet socks, too, wincing at the returning sensation in his extremities.

It had been colder than he realized.

He peeled off his jacket, making a face.

And wetter.

He carried the wet outer clothes to the first floor bathroom, throwing them on the tile before finally coming into the living room where Garrett was fiddling with some items on the coffee table. “You get the drive done?” he asked without looking up.

Logan heaved himself into a chair with a sigh. “I did the walk. Dean’s still doing the drive.”

They both lifted their heads to look out the window, where Dean was slowly moving up and down the cement.

“He looks slow,” Garrett said with a little frown.

Logan smirked. “You know Dean. Still complaining about a cold.”

Garrett tipped his head a little. “He did look under the weather–”

Logan shook his head. “No, you cannot give into him,” he insisted. “Dean will take a mile if you give him an inch, and we all have work to do for this storm.”

Garrett accepted that answer, looking back at the items on the table. “I’ve been making sure we’re stocked in case the electricity goes out. Portable battery chargers, candles, flashlights,” he said. He nodded over to the kitchen. “We have gas for the generator, but the scope of that thing is minimal. We’ll be able to heat one room.”

“It’s about five degrees out there now,” Logan said. “It’s just going to get colder as the storm worsens, so we’ll need something.”

“We have blankets and stuff, too,” Garrett said.

“And food!” Tucker chirped from the kitchen. He stuck his head out. “Bottled water and nonperishable items, just in case. I’ve been making these homemade power bars – they have all the nutrients we need without any of the additives–”

“That’s great, Tuck,” Garrett said, clearly cutting him off before they got a long-winded list of the ingredients and the relative properties of each one. “Once we get the shoveling done, I think we’re pretty good to go.”

“So?” Logan said, shrugging. “What, then?”

“Well, we hunker down and stay warm,” Garrett said easily. “All the hard work upfront. The rest should be fun – barring disaster.”

Tucker made a noise as he went back into the kitchen. “You’re going to jinx it, bro!”

-o-

Dean wasn’t sure if he was hot or cold anymore.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure of anything.

He seemed to be upright, but the throbbing in his head made everything feel distorted, and the swirling snow added to his sense of disorientation. After awhile, all he could do was keep his head down and shovel.

Just keep shoveling, he told himself. Just keep shoveling.

When he was done, he’d get to go inside. He’d get to curl up in bed and pull the blankets tight. He could sleep.

Shit, he really wanted to sleep.

He wanted to close his eyes and drift away, let the blackness take him. He just–

Startled.

He blinked, pulling his head back up.

He couldn’t sleep here.

Not outside.

Not in the snow.

He staggered back into action, moving the snow down the driveway. His coordination was lacking, though, and he found himself too exhausted to push it clear anymore. Miserably, he looked back at his progress – and found that he couldn’t see the edges of the driveway at all anymore. Frowning, he wasn’t sure he could even tell which way the house was.

Whatever, he told himself.

He just had to shovel.

The snow.

For the storm.

The guys said.

He frowned as he tried to push another shovelful.

Where were the guys?

And – the storm?

It was snowing a lot.

He tried to take a breath, rubbing his hand over his face in a desperate bid to clear his head. He was so hot.

With shaking fingers, he took his hat off, throwing it on the ground. He fumbled with his jacket, but when he couldn’t make that work, he threw his gloves off, too. Grappling with his zipper, he muttered a curse.

Wasn’t he cold?

The confusion shook him, and he let out a little cry of dismay when he realized he couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t tell if he was hot or cold. He didn’t know why it was snowing.

He just. He had to shovel.

He struggled, the shovel scraping against the pavement. The motion shook his whole body, as he pushed it forward.

A little more, he coaxed himself. Just a little more.

But his ears roared, and his heart slammed against his rib cage. Something churned uncomfortably in his stomach, and the whole world tilted violently.

Shit, shit shit, he thought as he gasped for air, too weak to cough. He shuddered, the world going dark at the edges. He really wanted to sleep.

He faltered, his limbs heavy as the shovel slipped from his hands. He took a step, stunted and unsure, a wheeze racking his body.

Maybe he could sleep here, he thought dimly, as his eyes rolled up and he crashed down to the ground.

-o-

Logan went upstairs to change into something dryer – and warmer, choosing sweatpants and slipper socks, and a fleece sweatshirt that was way too big. The upstairs rooms were like ice, though, and he was quick to make his way back down to the main room.

Tucker and Garrett were arguing in the kitchen.

“I’m pretty sure these old houses have to be brought up to code,” Garrett was saying. “They’ve probably updated the insulation.”

“Insulation – maybe,” Tucker said. “But what about the pipes? My nana lived in an old home, and every winter, without fail, her pipes froze, and we always got a call to come pick her up so she could stay with us, and every time, I asked her why she didn’t just upgrade her plumbing, and she said – very seriously – that the cost of new PVC plumbing wasn’t worth it, and she liked staying with us anyway – but, plumbing is expensive.”

Garrett did not look impressed by this story.

Logan raised his eyebrows as he came into the kitchen. “Storm prep controversy?”

“I was just worried about the plumbing,” Tucker said with a shrug. “Also, I made hot chocolate!”

Logan took the proffered cup with an interested look.

“Stovetop – not the store-bought garbage,” Tucker said.

“We can’t do anything about the plumbing anyway,” Garrett said, his own cup noticeably untouched on the island. “Is Dean done yet?”

Logan looked over his shoulder. “He’s not in yet?”

Tucker’s brows furrowed. “His hot chocolate will get cold–”

Logan turned back around, moving toward the front. The driveway, he noticed, was still only half shoveled – the fresh layer continuing to fall. “His half isn’t done yet–”

Garrett joined him, peering out the window. “That’s weird–”

Tucker was there, too. “It’s really picking up, man.”

“But where is he?” Garrett muttered. “If he found a girl out there while shoveling–”

But there was no girl. There was just the snow and the driveway and–

A figure, sprawled on the ground. Large and bulky, face down – with snow in the wet, blonde locks.

Dean.

“Oh, shit–” Logan said, his heart dropping in his gut. “Dean!”

He ran without thinking, without explaining. His boots were still wet, but he pulled them on anyway, not bothering with his coat and hat this time. Behind him, he heard Garrett curse. Tucker made a little sound.

“Is he–”

“Come on!” Garrett yelled.

Logan was the first one out, crashing across the porch, and taking the stairs as fast as he dared. The bitter wind was sharp on his skin, sneaking through the fabric of his fleece as he moved faster.

“Dean!” he called, holding his hand up to see through the snow. “Hey, Dean!”

The weather had gotten worse – a lot worse. The temperature had clearly dropped, and the sky had grown bleaker with a fresh onslaught of snow. The idea of shoveling did seem superfluous now as Logan crunched through the fresh later.

“Dean–”

He saw him, unmoving by the edge of the drive. His shovel had fallen nearby – half buried in the snow and abandoned. The coat of snow on Dean’s back only made Logan's stomach churn anxiously.

“No, no, no–”

He crashed to his knees, the snow cold and wet through his sweats.

“Dean?”

He shook the larger man.

“Dean, come on–”

The others were behind him now, and Garrett went to the ground on the other side while Tucker lingered above them.

“Is he okay?” Tucker asked.

“Shit,” Garrett said, shaking Dean as well. “D?”

Logan gritted his teeth, taking the blonde by the shoulder and rolling him over toward himself. Dean’s body shifted, falling heavily with one hand on his stomach and the other upturned on the snow. His head lolled, eyes closed and face all wrong. Pale – and flushed. His lips almost blue against the white.

“Dean?” Logan said, tapping his cheek. “Hey, Dean!”

There was a small groan – a small shift of movement. Dean’s eyes moved beneath his lids, chest hitching beneath his layers.

Tucker anxiously collected his hat and gloves. “He took them off?” Why would he–”

Garrett shook his head, face taut. “He needs to get out of the snow,” he muttered. “Now.”

Logan’s chest clenched.

Dean had told him he didn’t feel well. Dean had asked him to help.

Logan had told him no. Logan had left him out here.

And when Dean had gone down, he’d been alone.

Because of Logan.

Garrett ran a hand over Dean’s face, his frown deepening. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get him warm.”

Garrett didn’t wait, taking one of Dean’s arms and hefting him up. Logan helped, bracing Dean’s limp body from the other side until the blonde was in a seated position. His head lolled, falling back before Garrett pulled him closer, tucking the blonde’s body against his–

And hoisting him up.

It was a feat Logan knew he couldn’t pull off. He was too small, and he could build muscle mass, but he would never be able to grow taller. Genetics – just another blessing Dean had that Logan didn’t.

Though, he couldn’t be jealous of him now.

Dean’s mouth fell open a little as Garrett maneuvered him, grunting as he bore Dean’s weight with one arm behind his back and the other beneath his knees. The bridal carry looked awkward – and heavy as hell – but Garrett pursed his lips and nodded.

“Go open the door,” he said, adjusting his grip and letting Dean’s head fall into the crook of his shoulder. “And we need blankets and dry clothes–”

Tucker was already moving, running back inside, and Logan lingered close, just to make sure that Garrett’s balance was good on the wet ground. He moved slowly and carefully, face strained as he carried Dean, step by step into the house.

“Get the door,” Garrett muttered, fingers tightening around Dean’s body as his arm swung down loosely. “Get the door!”

Logan swallowed hard, trying not to look at the way Dean looked more dead than alive – and he sprinted up the stairs instead, flinging the door open and holding it wide. Garrett was just a little ways behind, carefully lifting Dean’s substantial weight up the stairs. As they got to the threshold, Garrett turned, pulling Dean a little closer as he edged them through.

Logan came in behind them, heart thrumming wildly as the fear sparked adrenaline through his system.

“I got clothes and towels!” Tucker yelled, storming back down the stairs. “And I’ll get the space heater going!”

Logan watched, face tense as Garrett pulled Dean all the way inside, and Logan closed the door hastily behind them – leaving the snow and the cold outside as he locked it.

But turning around, there was no comfort to be had. Garrett didn’t bother taking off his boots, tracking mush and wet all across the floors as he hefted Dean the final distance to the couch. His jaw was tight as he lowered him, muscles tense as he sat Dean down first before cradling the back of his neck to lower him carefully to the couch cushions. He didn’t bother adjusting Dean to be more comfortable, leaving his legs half off the couch and one arm dangling free, as he lifted his hands to Dean’s face.

“D,” he said, sharp and crisp. It was the voice he used on the ice; his captain’s voice. “D, hey, look at me.”

Dean’s chest visibly hitched, mouth gaping open a little more. Inside, it was easy to see how wrong his coloring was. He’d been pale before – but his complexion had a gray hue now. And the flush on his cheeks had deepened with his hair plastered to his forehead – from the snow, from sweat – at this point, Logan didn’t know

Garrett shook his head, face terse. “He’s hot and cold,” he said, swiping his hand over Dean’s forehead. “What the hell?”

Tucker came back, putting his pile of things down. “How long was he outside?”

“30 minutes – max,” Logan said, fumbling to recount the time. “We were just shoveling–”

“No, Dean was passed out on the ground,” Garrett snapped, moving his hands down to undo the zipper on Dean’s coat. “He’s soaked.”

“I didn’t know,” Logan said, too numb to help as Garrett lifted Dean up again. Tucker helped maneuver his arms free, and they pulled the soiled garment off him – throwing it to the ground and leaving Dean’s chest exposed. “He was just whining. You know how Dean is.”

Garrett laid Dean back down, his palm to Dean’s forehead once more. “He’s definitely got a fever.”

Tucker’s face was pinched. “And his breathing, it’s all off,” he said. “Listen.”

They grew silent, the hum of the space heater offering a soft backdrop to the strained sound of Dean’s lungs

“This is more than a cold,” Garrett muttered.

“I didn’t know,” Logan said. “And neither of you did, either. You told us to get the walk shoveled, no exceptions.”

Garrett pressed his lips down, glancing from Logan to Dean. “Yeah, I didn’t think he was serious either.”

“It’s Dean,” Tucker added softly. “He complains about a lot of shit.”

The justification didn’t make it better, though. The reason didn’t make it okay.

Just because they’d all missed it didn’t change the fact that Dean was suffering for it.

The reality that Dean was their teammate – their brother – and they had just assumed–

Well, that was on them.

“Okay,” Garrett said with a long, slow breath as he looked at Dean. “Let’s get him out of these wet clothes and warmed up.”

“I can get soup and water,” Tucker volunteered.

“Thermometer and tylenol, too,” Garrett said as Tucker scampered off. He looked to Logan. “Help me?”

Logan gathered the clothes Tucker got before helping Garrett pull Dean’s pants free – throwing his dirty boots on the floor in a puddle. His underwear was damp, but they weren’t that ambitious. Garrett reached for the pants.

“Just help me–”

They got Dean’s feet through the bottom, working together to shimmy them up Dean’s legs. Logan lifted Dean’s feet a little, giving Garrett leverage to pull the pants on over Dean’s hips, before Logan sat his limbs back down again – arranging them more comfortably this time.

On the couch, Dean’s face wrinkled slightly. He made a small whimpering noise, which cut off with a garbled cough. He shuddered, lips smacking absently as he struggled – and failed – to come to consciousness.

“Come on,” Garrett said, grabbing for some blankets to swaddle Dean. “Dry his hair.”

Logan grabbed a towel, trying not to notice how badly his hands were shaking as he went to Dean’s head. He kneeled, rubbing the towel through Dean’s damp hair.

How long had he been unconscious? How long had Logan just left him there?

All the ways Logan knew this wasn’t his fault–

It still sort of felt like his fault.

If he had listened.

If he had cared.

If he had tried.

Shit, he thought as he rubbed Dean’s hair again. What he wouldn’t give for one of Dean’s smart-ass complaints now.

-o-

Dean came to with the uncanny realization that he wasn’t supposed to be asleep.

He couldn’t quite remember why, of course.

But why had never been the most important distinction in Dean’s life. His was a life of expectations and obligations, fulfillments and requirements. Everyone thought he was a hedonistic fool, but really – he just knew to pick his moment.

He asked himself what he wanted – and took it.

For all the times he was told to sit straight, smile politely, and make the small talk. Get the grades. Do the activities. Internships, volunteer hours, social commitments. Dean had guardrails on who he was supposed to be, and so when he got the chance? When it was his to choose?

God help him, he chose.

Without hesitation. Without compunction.

Because he knew what he had to do.

And he knew what he wanted.

But right now? Shit, he wasn’t sure he knew anything at all.

“Dean? Hey, D–”

The sound of a voice nearby was something to hold onto, and he took a breath – feeling it strain painfully in his chest. He grimaced, igniting the ache in his head and the throb in his sinuses. Opening his eyes was an unfortunate inevitability, and he knew he was supposed to be awake – but shit, he really didn’t want to be.

“Look at me. That’s it.”

His eyes were slow to focus, and the entire world was gauzy around the edges. He couldn’t quite focus, but he could just make out Garrett’s concerned face, hovering above him. Logan was there, too, and Tucker.

He frowned. “I have to finish shoveling.”

It wasn’t exactly a coherent thought, but it was the only one he had. He tried to push himself up–

And regretted it immediately.

His head spun – and badly. Everything lurched, and he was helpless as Garrett pushed him back down. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” he said. “Lay there while we take your temperature.”

Dean shook his head, eyes flitting to Logan. “No,” he said, gathering his strength. “But Logan said–”

Words were too hard apparently. What little he’d gained in coherency – his body lacked in everything else. The words pulled painfully at his chest, and he wheezed – deeper and deeper until it all caught on the garbled mess at the back of his throat. The first cough was small, shaking him.

The next one tore at his chest, and the next and the next–

His body seized, curling on its side as his eyes watered. He gagged, choking in a breathful of air before his lungs protested again. Before he understood what was happening, his body was rebelling, something hot and acrid burning up his throat.

“Shit–”

“Roll him–”

“Dean!”

There was nothing he could do as he threw up, bile spilling out between his lips. It hit the wood floor with a sickening sound, and the smell made him gag again.

His body convulsed against his will, and if not for his friends bracing him, he would have rolled straight off the couch. He heaved again, an inhuman wretch as his eyes burned. He half sobbed, useless and pathetic, as his body gave in and he slumped against the hands holding him.

They rolled him back, hushed words over his head. He let himself drift, shaking and spent.

“Dean–”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Dean.”

He made a sound, turning his head away.

“We need to take your temperature,” Garrett said. “Just turn your head”

Tired, his eyes cracked open – and the worried expressions of his friends guilted him into compliance. He opened his mouth, and before he could do anything else, Garrett gently pressed his head to the side, sliding the thermometer into his ear. He winced a little, keeping himself still with the slight pressure, until there was a beep.

Garrett pulled it back.

His eyes widened and he did a doubletake.

“Shit, D,” he said, reaching out to touch his forehead again. “You’re burning up.”

Logan took the thermometer, mouth flat as he handed it to Tucker.

“Damn! Give him the Tylenol,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll get a cool compress–”

“What?” Dean asked, a little dumb and slow. “Is it bad?”

The words slurred a little, enough to answer his own question.

“103.5?” Logan asked, shaking his head. “Dean, why didn’t you say something!”

He did, was the thing.

He said it.

A lot.

Vociferously.

But there was no point in worrying about that now. “I’m fine,” he said instead, closing his eyes as he settled back with a sigh. “I just want to sleep.”

“Meds first,” Tucker said.

Dean cracked his eyes open again, glaring as Garret pressed two pills into his hand.

“Take those,” he ordered.

Dean complied, his hand shaking as he lifted to his mouth.

A cup of water appeared.

“And drink,” was the next order.

This was harder, Dean’s hand so unsteady that he could barely hold it and lifting his head was – a chore, to say the least. He splashed water on his chest, frowning as he managed to swallow the next. It took a few tries to get enough in his mouth to swallow down the pills with a grimace.

“Can I sleep now?” Dean asked, eyes already falling shut. “I feel like shit, guys – I know we’re supposed to – but I feel–”

“Yeah, Dean,” Garrett said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Go ahead and sleep for a bit. We got it from here.”

That was all he needed to hear, as he closed his eyes and let himself go.

-o-

Dean was out as quickly as he came to, but there was no way to call it restful. His eyes were closed, but the sleep was tenuous – his body trembling slightly with his mouth open, small ragged breaths through his pale lips.

“He’ll be okay,” Garrett said, but it sounded too much like he was trying to convince himself.

Logan arched his eyebrows. “He’s running nearly 104,” he said. “I’m no doctor but that’s like – almost ER levels.”

Tucker nodded, hovering over the couch anxiously. “I mean, we just need to give the meds time to work.”

“And getting out in this snow is too dangerous anyway,” Garrett reasoned.

Logan glanced out the window. The sky had darkened, the haze of snow picking up as the wind whipped against the house. Garrett’s Jeep had all-wheel drive, it was true. But the roads would be shit right now.

But his eyes landed back on Dean.

They’d gotten him inside. He was safe on the couch.

But he didn’t look better.

If anything, he just looked worse.

“I don’t know,” Logan said, biting the inside of his lower lip. “This has to be more than a cold.”

“The flu, covid,” Garrett said with a helpless little shrug. “But that’s shit we can treat at home. We do it all the time.”

It was a point. Logan knew that

“He’s just been acting weird,” Logan pointed out.

“It’s Dean,” Garrett countered, but his expression darkened with a touch of uncertainty. “He’s always weird. And melodramatic.”

“We just let him rest,” Tucker said. “Plenty of fluids.”

His face lit up.

“I can make soup!” he said. “I have all the ingredients. It’ll be good for all of us.”

Garrett blew out a long breath. “That sounds good. Thanks, Tuck.”

Tucker hurried off, already getting to work.

“And we just – what?” Logan said. He let his gaze linger on the blonde. “Wait?”

Garrett sighed. “Dean’s sick; there’s a storm outside,” he said. “I mean, what else are we going to do, Logan?”

Something – anything.

Nothing.

The futility of it all felt inevitable.

“We’ve prepped as much as we can,” Garrett said.

“But not for this,” Logan said. “Dean’s sick.”

“Well, and we’re all here to take care of him,” Garrett reasoned, grabbing a blanket and pulling it over the defenceman. “No practices, no classes–”

“No medical help–” Logan said.

Garrett tucked the blanket around Dean, as the blonde shifted, taking a shaky, loud breath.

“We can handle it,” he concluded with certainty, smoothing the blanket down. “Just like we handle everything.”

Garrett was sure of himself, Logan could grant him that. And usually, he trusted Garrett’s leadership.

But the storm raging–

Dean’s restless sleep–

And Logan wasn’t as sure as he wanted to be.

-o-

Sleep felt cloying – thick and wrong, like a wool blanket, wrapped around him. Every breath felt suffocating somehow, like the more air he took in, the more it hurt, and he was wet.

Why was he wet?

Not wet, he realized as his eyes fluttered open. He was sweating.

A lot.

His vision was muddled, light and movement blurred together in a disconcerting way. Taking a deep breath only made it worse – and he was coughing before he realized it. It racked him, making his body buck up, and someone caught him, easing him onto his side and holding his shoulder.

“Just – easy. Take it easy.”

As if.

Dean groaned, swallowing it back. He winced, forehead furrowing. He flopped back, and the hands let him, and he took several long moments to let his head clear.

For what good that did him.

The marginal clarity only drove home the point. He was hot and sweaty – and why the hell was he swaddled in so many blankets?

He huffed, lifting his hand to push them off. It required more coordination that he realized, and his movements were sloppy and – hard.

He kicked instead, flailing.

“Dude,” Garrett said, holding him down. “You can’t be doing that.”

Dean looked up at him, breathing heavily. “But it’s too hot.”

“It’s not too hot,” Logan muttered from above him. “You’ve got a fever.”

Dean glared at him, as if this was some kind of betrayal. “I’m fine–”

Garrett rolled his eyes, pressing his head to the side a little. Dean made a sound, but the thermometer was in his ear before he could protest. He tried to pull away, but Garrett’s touch was steady, and suddenly the idea of fighting was just – a lot.

He sagged a little, until something beeped, and Garrett eased his grip. Dean blinked clouded eyes up at him.

“102.4,” he said, glancing back at Logan.

Logan shrugged, nose wrinkled. “That’s – better,” he said.

Garrett’s brow was still dark as he brushed his hand against Dean’s forehead. “He’s still hot.”

“I’m right here,” Dean said, shoving at the blankets again. He was more successful this time, pushing one of them off. “Don’t talk about me like that.”

“You’ve been pretty out of it, D,” Garrett told him.

“Yeah, too out of it,” Logan said. “Do you remember your swan dive outside?”

Dean did not.

He remembered shoveling.

He remembered – not shoveling.

Look, he just didn’t remember.

“Look, you can take off a blanket, but in return, we need you to put a shirt back on,” Garrett said.

This seemed–

Dean looked down, and he was indeed shirtless. He had no memory of that either, but it tracked. “I don’t–”

He didn’t get to say anything as Garrett sat him up. He made an indignant sound but when Logan pulled a shirt over his head, he complied by raising his arms. It wasn’t hard, but it felt taxing, and when they were done, he happily slumped back to the couch and glared at them.

“I’m not a baby,” he muttered.

“Of course not,” Garrett said. “Now, sit up and drink something.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Guys–”

“Or we will hold you up and force feed you,” Logan said, shrugging one shoulder. “Your choice.”

The thing was – he believed them. Angrily, he sat up again, huffing heavily as he got situated. His hands trembled a little, but he refused to show it – taking a bottle of water from Garrett’s waiting hand.

The asshole had opened it for him.

Why was Dean so grateful?

The first sip was shaky; the second went down faster. The third almost choked him, and he only half finished the fourth.

“There,” he said, holding the water out again. “Happy?”

Logan snorted. “Ecstatic,” he said, taking the water.

“You’re just sick,” Garrett said. “Fever, chills, all of it.”

Dean sighed, laying himself back. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said, shifting back to sit on one of the chairs. “We’ll put something on, What do you want to watch?”

“Nothing,” Dean muttered. He sneezed, which led to coughing – and he groaned. “I just want to sleep.”

“Well, that’s not super interesting,” Logan said, taking a seat in the other chair. “So pick – or we’ll pick for you.”

He frumped, brow furrowed as Garrett started scrolling. Through shows and movies and–

Before he could pick something–

Anything–

His eyes were heavy.

And he was asleep once more.

-o-

Garrett had put on a movie, but no one was watching it. Dean had fallen asleep as quickly as he woke up, and Tucker was busy in the kitchen. Garrett was on his phone, and Logan looked listlessly out the window.

“It looks bad out there,” he said. And he glanced guiltily back at Dean.

It looked bad in here, too.

“Yeah,” Garrett said with a sigh. “Forecast just keeps getting worse. Snow emergency will last all weekend. It’ll take days for us to dig out.”

Logan made a face. “Did someone tell coach?”

Garrett laughed mirthlessly. “There’s good ice right outside, boys. Don’t let an opportunity go to waste!”

It was a good impersonation, and Logan chuckled despite himself, even as the wind lashed against the house, the snow caked against the screens.

“Ugh,” Tucker said, coming back out from the kitchen with their long forgotten hot chocolates. “You might as well drink this before it gets cold again. I heated it up.”

Logan accepted the mug, its warmth against his hand. “Do you need help, Tuck?”

“You did the shoveling,” he said.

“All the good it did,” Logan said.

Outside, the ground was covered again, You could hardly tell.

“Every bit helps,” Garrett said. “It will help us dig out faster.”

“But first we have to survive the next few days,” Logan said. “I mean, blizzard of the century? While Dean’s sick?”

Garrett cast a long look at Dean. “I’m sure Dean will be fine,” he said. “We all will be.”

He sounded less sure than he did before.

“You guys still want that soup?” Tucker asked finally.

“Yes,” Garrett said, getting to his feet. “I’m going to go upstairs and check the window seals. In this cold, they’re going to have trouble sticking.”

“Run the water, too!” Tucker said. “The pipes, dude!”

Logan watched them retreat, letting his eyes rest on Dean. “I’ll stay here,” he said. “Make sure Dean, you know – doesn’t die.”

Garrett snickered tiredly. “I guess you got the easy job, huh?”

Logan watched them go, before turning uncertainly back to the bigger blonde.

The easy job?

Logan could hope.

Doubt gnawing in the pit of his stomach, he had to hope.

-o-

And then, it was freezing.

Not just a little cold. Not nippy. Not the cold that made the hair stand up on your arm or made your nipples all hard.

It was cold, from the inside out. Like someone had cut him open and poured ice in his veins. Cold enough that he woke up to the disconcerting sound of his own teeth chattering.

He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head. It didn’t work, but he grappled for the blankets he knew had to be nearby. He was a blind motion, and he might have succeeded–

Until a round of coughing overtook him.

The only good thing about the coughing was that it was so intense that he forgot for a second that he was literally freezing to death. But as he fell back to the cushions – worthless and miserable – he was just as cold as ever.

“What the hell, man?” Logan asked, hovering over him. He looked weirdly discombobulated. Like he was floating.

Since Logan probably hadn’t become a ghost, Dean figured his vision was still wonky.

Maybe if it wasn’t so damn cold–

“Dean?” Logan asked, frowning. He reached a hand down and pressed it to his forehead–

Dean flinched.

Badly.

“Holy shit,” Logan said, eyes going wide. “You’re on fire, dude.”

Dean chuffed weakly. “If t-that’s your way of s-saying I’m h-hot–”

Logan didn’t even bother to roll his eyes. He grabbed the stupid thermometer and pushed Dean’s head slightly to the side.

“I’m fine–” he whined, too weak to even pull away.

Logan didn’t reply, but he waited for the beep. He pulled it back and paled.

Dean withered just at the look. “T-those things a-aren’t accurate,” he chattered.

Logan put it down and reached for a bottle of water. “You need to drink.”

Making a face, Dean shook his head. “I’m fine–”

“Your fever is 104 again asshole,” Logan snapped. “You’re still an hour from taking more meds. So shut up and drink something.”

Logan was smaller than he was, but Dean shrank back from him anyway. His shaky hand snaked out from under the blankets as he slowly took the water. Logan had taken off the top – thankfully – so all Dean had to do was hold it to his mouth and sip.

It was harder than it looked. The holding – the tipping – the drinking.

Some of it splashed down his chin, hitting his chest. He whined again–

“Drink more,” Logan ordered. Then, with his head tipped, he added, “And I’ll get you another blanket, okay?”

That was a deal worth taking, Dean decided, taking a few more sips. When he was done, he handled the bottle back, and Logan already had a bowl of soup for him.

“Dude,” Dean moaned. “T-that wasn’t the d-deal.”

“Fever of 104,” Logan said flatly. “Can you sit up?”

This seemed increasingly unreasonable, but Dean tried to comply. Movement was a lot – and harder than he expected. He was weak – he was uncoordinated. His head spun, ears starting to ring–

And then–

He coughed.

A little.

A lot.

And then he just couldn’t stop.

Railing, racking, horrible coughs. He inhaled, catching on a gag that sent him off again.

“Dean–”

Nothing helped. Breathing made it worse. Not breathing made it worse.

“Dean, shit–”

He slumped, body giving out as he fell forward. Logan caught him against his chest, propping him up.

“Damn it–”

“Logan, is he–?”

“What the hell?”

Dean wanted to tell them he was fine. He wanted to tell them to stop worrying. He wanted to tell them a lot of things.

But Logan’s touch was gentle as he laid him back down, and his eyelids were heavy.

And when Logan pulled the blankets back up – another one on top for good measure – he forgot what he wanted altogether.

-o-

“He’s getting worse, guys,” Logan said, finally, filling the uncomfortable silence in the living room. Dean had dropped back off to sleep, but his wet breathing still filled the space – even over the low drone of the TV in the background and the sound of the wind on the old wooden siding of the house.

Garrett’s face was pinched as he stared at Dean thoughtfully. “Well, that’s how sicknesses work, right?” he said. “His body has to fight it off.”

Garrett’s answer was didactic – and not unreasonable necessarily.

But looking at Dean – flushed with sweat, a faint line between his eyes as he gaped for air – it felt a little unreasonable.

“What do you think he has?” Tucker asked quietly. “Flu? Covid?”

Garrett shrugged. “I mean, we treat it the same, right?” he said. “Medicine–”

“It’s not working,” Logan cut in sharply. He gestured at Dean. “His fever is already back up, as high as it was before.”

Garrett’s brow darkened. “Well, we keep him nourished and hydrated,” he continued.

Logan’s frustrations were beginning to get the better of him. “He can barely hold the water, much less keep it down,” he said. “And we think he can eat Tucker’s soup?”

Face flushed, Garrett turned. “Well, what do you want to do, Logan? Huh?” he demanded as he pointed outside. “There’s a blizzard outside – we couldn’t get him to the doctor even if we wanted to.”

The flush rose up his own cheeks. “So we just let him lay there? Struggling to breathe?” he asked, gesturing to Dean instead. “For how long?”

“It’s the flu, Logan!” Garrett snapped. “We’ve all had the flu!”

“Like this?” Logan asked. He scoffed as they all looked at Dean again. “Really?”

Dean mumbled something incoherent, brow furrowing deeper as his head tossed to the side. He coughed in his sleep, the motion shaking him before he tucked miserably into himself with a whimper.

As if Logan needed him to prove his point.

Leave it to Dean to be cooperative about that.

Garrett sighed, crossing back over to Dean. He sat on the coffee table. “D?” he said, shaking his shoulder. When Dean’s head lolled, he reached up and tapped his cheek. “D, can you look at me?”

Dean was shaking – body visibly trembling – as his eyes slitted open.

“Shit, D,” Garrett said, running a hand over his brow with a sigh, brushing his sweaty bangs back. “You couldn’t make this easy, could you?”

Dean’s only answer was a weak series of coughs that left him strained and reeling.

Shaking his head, Garrett looked back at him. “How long until he can take meds again?”

“An hour, at least,” Logan said.

Garrett pursed his lips, looking back at Dean. “Okay, Tucker, get some cooling compresses.”

Tucker ran off.

Garrett looked at Logan. “There’s a nurse hotline,” he said shortly. “If you think we should call 911, we can talk about that–”

“What’s the hotline?” Logan said, pulling out his phone.

Garrett pulled his out, too, sliding his finger over the screen. “Sent it to you.”

Logan pulled up the number, pressing dial. He turned, pacing restlessly to the window as he watched the snowstorm pick up intensity. He wriggled his toes restless–

When he realized–

“Shit,” he said, looking at his phone. “I don’t have service. The call won’t go through.”

Garrett got up, dialing on his phone, too. “Shit,” he agreed. “Mine’s gone, too.”

Logan flattened his lips, marching anxiously into the kitchen. “Tuck–” he started.

But Tucker turned back to face him, face pale as he held up his screen. “Mine’s out, too,” he said. “It must be the storm.”

Throat constricting, he went back out to the living room. “So,” he said, looking blankly at Garrett. “Now what?”

Garrett swallowed, and for the first time since the storm started, he looked uncertain. “Nothing’s changed,” he said, even though his voice wavered. “We take care of the house. We take care of Dean.”

He locked eyes with Logan, nodding as much for himself as for Logan.

“We get through this,” he resolved. “Together.”

-o-

Dean’s throat felt like he’d been gargling glass, and the pressure in his sinuses made his head feel like it was three sizes too big. But it was the weight on his chest, constricting him tight, that kept him from slipping into the deeper sleep he craved.

Each breath hurt, traveling through his swollen airway and clogging in his sinuses with who the hell knew what. But they were harder to take, one right after another. Catching, pulling, gurgling – like something was wrong in there.

Shit, like everything was wrong in there.

He was pre-law, not pre-med, but he was pretty sure his lungs were supposed to move hair when he inhaled.

And when he exhaled–

Well, it all went to hell.

He shuddered, jerking to expel the gunk. His eyes opened, straining as he tried again. The next inhale was ragged, making him gag, and he jackknifed up off the couch, clutching his chest when he realized he wasn’t actually breathing at all.

“Dean? Hey, Dean–”

He keened, hand grappling desperately at his pecs for some relief. The veins on his throat went hard as his body stiffened and desperation set in.

“Shit! Dean–”

Someone grabbed at him, but he couldn’t feel it. He recognized Logan vaguely but–

He needed to breathe.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

“Hey, D, get it out,” Logan coaxed. He braced Dean’s shoulder, a hand on his back. “Dean–”

It didn’t work. The next breath was strangled and strange, and his vision started to blur – dimming at the edges while his limbs tingled.

“Dean? Hey, Dean,” Logan said, louder now. He slammed him hard on the back. “Dean!”

He was thrust forward, as his back was slapped against. And again–

And–

Something moved, moving in his airway like a clog. There was a fullness as his gag reflex kicked in – hard.

Which.

No–

Please–

“Dean?”

Dean’s body convulsed, his stomach turning – hard. He was still blind and dumb, and there was nothing he could do but let it happen. He lurched forward aimlessly, and Logan caught him by the shoulders as he heaved.

Everything burned, an acrid taste in the back of his mouth. He made a pathetic sound and heaved again, Logan shifting desperately to keep him from falling on his face. The next spasm racked him with a cry, which cut off in a funny way – and his body shook as the exertion pushed him to the maximum.

“Oh, shit, oh, shit,” Logan said, trembling. “Dean–”

He tried to breathe. He tried to throw up. He tried to stay conscious.

But when the darkness came for him, all he could do was collapse – sagging helplessly into Logan’s arms.

-o-

“Dean?”

Dean’s body had gone heavy and slack, and Logan grunted, trying to heft his dead weight back onto the couch.

“Dean?”

Dean was sprawled awkwardly against the cushion, half splayed. Drool and bile had trickled down his chin, hair sweaty and mussed across his forehead. His mouth was hanging open – lips blue.

“Hey,” he said, finger shaking as he reached up to Dean’s face. “D?”

He tapped the blonde’s cheek, but there was no response. No flicker. No twitch.

His stomach dropped, sweat breaking out over his body.

“Dean, hey,” he said again, grabbing his shoulders and shaking. “Dean!”

Dean’s body lolled, head rolling limp – chest totally and utterly still. Logan’s mind went blank, and for a second he froze.

Dean couldn’t be–

Dean wasn’t--

But then the blonde staggered, taking a horrible railing breath that filled the room more than his lungs. His body seized, and Logan’s jaw went hard.

“Come on,” he muttered, getting to his feet. He grabbed Dean under the arms and hauled him up. The blonde’s body slumped against him, heavy and unwieldy, and Logan grunted.

“Tucker! Garrett!” he screamed. “Come help me!”

They were there in a heartbeat, Garrett quickly taking half of Dean’s weight, so he was draped between them.

“Tuck, get the shower started–”

Tucker looked confused. “The what–”

“The steam for his lung!” Logan barked. “He’s having trouble breathing, so I want the steam for his lungs!”

Tucker’s eyes widened, but he nodded, turning to run off up the stairs. Garrett looked at him, eyes darkened over Dean’s bowed head.

“You think it will help?”

Logan snorted, adjusting his grip on the brawny blonde as they started up the stairs. “You have a better idea?”

For once, Garrett had no reply, and they worked their way up the stairs carefully. By the time they got to the top, they were panting – but Tucker had the shower blasting, and they stumbled across the threshold and eased Dean down.

Garrett caught him behind the neck, keeping his head from thwacking against the tile, and Logan hovered useless as the steam filled the room and Tucker closed the door, coming next to him to flank him from the other side. Dean sat there, head bowed forward and bangs in his face, taking small, strained breaths.

It was everything they could do, he told himself.

Except – it wasn’t.

He got down, hitting his ass next to Dean. “Help me–”

Garrett didn’t need to be told. He reached down, shifting Dean’s weight from the wall and to Logan. Tucker moved to arrange Dean’s limbs, positioning him more comfortably against Logan’s chest.

Dean shifted, head falling back against Logan’s shoulder as his jaw fell open with a shudder. He wheezed – something low and whining – and Logan shushed him.

“You’re okay,” he promised the blonde. “I got you.”

Dean was beyond understanding, eyes slitted open and confused, but his body relaxed anyway. He eased into Logan, and the next breath came easier.

“That’s it,” Logan said, snaking his hand around and splaying it on Dean’s chest. “Just keep breathing. That’s it.”

In and out. In and out.

Barely anything, he knew.

But God help him, it had to be enough.

-o-

Dean couldn’t remember exactly.

There was a blizzard. They were doing storm prep. He was supposed to be shoveling.

So why was it warm?

He couldn’t make sense of it, but trying to figure it out was harder than expected. Ideas didn’t connect. Impulses never came to fruition. He burned, somewhere beneath the surface, penned in by a body that felt wrong.

Everything hurt, sore and constricted, and it wasn’t right, it wasn’t okay, it wasn’t—

A sneeze, a cough. A wheeze.

Sweat on his chest and hair stuck to his forehead.

Breath that didn’t fill his lungs and a muted roar between his ears. Platitudes and promises and—

A steady touch. A calm voice.

Someone jostled him, pulling him up. He slumped back with a helpless whimper, but they caught up, gathering him up. An arm under his knees, the other behind his back. Someone lifted his head, nestling it in a soft warm place.

“Easy—“

“Get him downstairs—“

“Dean—“

He shivered against cold air, burrowing deeper into the touch that held him but too weak to grip him back. He strained for air, his brain muddled.

“Okay, okay—“

“Almost there—“

“We got you—“

He was lowered, and Dean whimpered, trailing off with a cough as he was arranged on the couch, propped up on cushions. Someone laid a blanket over him, smoothing his hair back.

Fluttering eyelids, he saw Garrett, Tucker, and Logan.

“I’m sorry—“ he slurred, even if he wasn’t sure why.

Garrett’s face tightened and Tucker looked barest. Logan drew a sigh. “You’re sick, Dean. Remember?”

Whiny complaints, childish protests. Dramatic sighs and easy protests.

They’d been so annoyed with him.

“I’m sorry—“ he tried again, but the words were garbled, lost as a cough racked his body.

Garrett steadied him and Tucker pulled up another blanket. Logan rested his hand on Dean’s hair.

“Just rest, D. Just rest.”

Dean's eyes were already closed.

-o-

The storm raged all day, wind whipping the sides of the house and snow caked on the windows. Temperatures were plummeting, and cell phone service went in and out as news of the storm continued to worsen.

The message was the same. Stay indoors. Stay warm. Stay safe.

They thought about calling the nurse line on and off, but Dean ate a little and drank a little. He was able to keep down his meds and it seems okay.

It seemed like maybe they had this under control.

As the night fell, though, the storm took a turn for the worse. The wind picked up, howling relentlessly. The snow intensified, with white out conditions. Phones cut off again, and Dean shuddered through it all.

And then, the power went out.

A flicker. A whir.

Then, everything went dark and still.

Logan stopped, cold in his tracks. Garrett looked up from his book and Tucker stepped out of the kitchen, where he had been stress cooking all day.

“Uh, guys?”

“Did we just lose power?” Logan asked.

“Shit—“ Garrett said, getting up.

He went to the door, peeking outside. Tucker tried the lights in vain.

Back inside, Garrett shook his head. “Street lights are out, but it’s hard to see—“

Logan licked his lips, looking at Dean. “The breakers maybe?”

Garrett drew a serious breath. “We can try.”

Tucker ran off. “I got it!”

In the dark, the sound of the wind and Dean’s strained breathing filled the void. Logan swallowed. Hard.

“If we don’t have power—“

Garrett’s face was set like stone. “We prepared for this.”

“Dean is sick,” Logan hissed, gesturing at the blonde. “And if we don’t have power—“

“We’ll get out the generator and start the space heater. If we all huddle together, it should be okay,” Garrett reasoned.

“But if he has trouble breathing—“

“Then, that’s not better with or without lights,” Garrett snapped, eyes flashing.

Logan clamped his mouth shut, stomach churning.

Garrett exhaled heavily. “We have candles and flashlights,” he said. “There’s plenty of food to eat. There’s blankets, and with the generator, there’s nothing more we can do.”

It was true, and Logan knew it. They had done more than most; they had invested their due diligence.

He just worried, looking at Dean.

What if it wasn’t enough?

Sometimes you gave it all and came up short. Sometimes you played your best and lost anyway. Sometimes you couldn’t get the job done.

Tucker clambered back inside the room. “Nothing, guys,” he reported breathlessly. “Power is out.”

They stood, quiet for another moment while they faced it. The fear. The uncertainty. The doubt.

Before Garrett nodded. “I’ll get the generator going,” he said. “Tuck, candles and flashlights, everything we need.”

He clapped his hands, nodding in approval. “On it.”

Garrett looked at Logan. He looked at Dean. “Take care of Dean, okay?”

Logan nodded, his throat tight. Garrett left and Logan shifted back to the couch, sitting on the table to feel Dean’s brow.

The blonde stirred beneath his touch, eyelids fluttering. Blue slits, muddy and unfocused as he pulled in air through his open mouth. In the wan light, his skin looked oddly waxen, the stunted rise and fall of his chest, too much and too little all at once.

“Logan?” Dean asked weakly. His eyes tracked slowly. “I — the storm—“

He looked confused, too tired to be fully distressed.

“Do I need to shovel?”

Logan felt his stomach go hard, and he soothed Dean with a hand pressing his bangs back. “No, buddy,” he said. “Just rest.”

Dean frowned, confused. “But — I’m supposed to—“

He jerked slightly, a half motion he had no energy to continue. Logan pressed him down gently. “You’re fine, okay?” he said. “Just rest.”

Dean was too weak to question, too weak to fight. He hesitated, before his willpower wilted and he faded, body easing back once more. “Just rest?”

“We’ve got the rest, okay?” he promised.

And as Dean settled back into a fitful sleep, Logan hoped this night wouldn’t make a liar out of him yet.

-o-

It didn’t—

What was—

He couldn’t—

Dean took a ragged breath, something that dug deep in his chest and aggravated his sinuses. The whole thing disoriented him, and he shuddered violently.

Hot—

Cold—

“Hey, D. You need to eat something.”

He was lifted up without warning, propped up against something — someone. The process was dizzying, and he closed his eyes and gaped.

“Eyes open. Come on.”

The world was blurry, fuzziness he couldn’t make sense of. Voices and faces and someone took his hand.

“You got to eat. Drink. Dean?”

It was too much, and his head slumped back. Someone cursed, propping him up more.

“Just — let me.”

A hand on his cheek. Dean groaned, trying to turn away. “M fine,” he muttered. “M not hungry.”

“Your body needs shit, D. Open up or we’re going to do it for you.”

This seemed unnecessary. He wrinkled his nose, trying to glare. It only half worked. Logan sighed, holding up a spoon.

“That’s it,” Logan said, shoving it in Dean’s mouth before he could stop him.

The liquid was tepid and easy, and Dean swallowed in time for Logan to spoon feed him another.

“That’s it,” Logan coaxed. “Stay up.”

It felt humiliating, and he ducked his head. Garrett was holding him, though. “Nope, we need you up.”

“It’s good for you, man,” Tucker added from somewhere. “You need your strength.”

He scowled, blinking owlishly around. It was then he realized—

It was dim. The room flickered in candlelight.

And it was cold.

Logan lifted the spoon again, and Dean shook his head. “Was I s’pose to shovel?”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Why is that the only thing you remember today?”

Garrett huffed behind him. “All the bullshit we’ve done for you.”

Dean tried to look at him. “What—?”

“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” Tucker said and this would reassure him.

“Seriously,” Logan said. “You’re pretty sick, man. Just let us help.”

It was a funny request. Something plaintive, something more.

He couldn’t remember—

He couldn’t quite say—

He couldn’t—

“We’re losing him again,” Garrett said.

“Get him the meds,” Tucker added.

Dean wanted to say they needed to talk to him and not about him but words were too hard. His eyes were closing and he was jostled upright.

“Here—“

Two pills in his mouth, between his lips.

“And swallow—“

Water, cold against his lips. It went down, harder and easier and whatever.

He let his eyes close, falling back against Garrett. They shifted him down, back to the cushions as the blankets were packed on.

He should ask—

He should help—

He should do something but all he managed was to close his eyes and let the world dissipate.

-o-

The night deepened. The storm got worse.

The wind was whistling in the shutters, rattling the front door. You couldn’t see outside, the white out conditions were that bad, and none of them had had phone reception in hours.

Without power, temperatures were dropping — and fast.

And a lot.

Even with the space heater, powered by their generator, the living room was getting icy. The windows were visibly frozen and they all put layers on, sweaters and sweatshirts, coats and hats. It was hard to say what to do with Dean, given the state of his fever, but letting him freeze seemed wrong.

They helped him get dressed, pulling clothes on his insensate body and pulling the space heater as close to him as they dared.

Logan tried to tell himself that was something.

But the hours passed.

And Dean got worse.

He stopped waking for medicine. He couldn’t drink, even when the bottle was to his lips. The fever was overpowering him, but none of them wanted to say it.

They talked about wind chills and gasoline for the generator. They talked about snow plows and candles. Anything but the fact that the blonde was struggling.

And then, as Tucker went to use the bathroom, he came back out — looking spooked.

“So, um,” he posited, face flickering in the shadows. “I think the pipes froze.”

“What?” Garrett asked. He shook his head. “No way—“

“The toilet doesn’t flush,” Tucker said. He sat down on his chair, pulling his hat down again. “I tried the sink and the shower—“

“Shit,” Logan said.

But Garrett’s eyes were bright with denial. “There’s no way.”

“There’s every way!” Logan yelled. “Come on, Garrett. We lost power, and the house is below zero. Of course they froze!”

“But we had a plan—“ Garrett stated.

And Logan couldn’t take it. “The plan is bullshit!” he said. “When are we going to admit it’s bullshit!”

Garrett’s eyes were bright. “The plan is all we have—“

“The plan isn’t helping!”

“It’s more than you’ve done!”

Logan’s ire rose, and he did too—

Until Dean moaned, coughing weakly as he shifted on the bed. Tucker went to him, murmuring something gentle. Dean made a sound — a mewling cry — until Tucker hushed him and he was back into a restless sleep.

Logan drew back, face flushed. Garrett locked his jaw hard. And Tucker bit his lip for a long moment.

“I mean, we have some stuff,” Tucker said finally. “We have enough bottled water. And I made plenty of food and we have dry goods—“

Logan shook his head, frustration spiking again. “Dean isn’t even coherent,” he said sharply as he gestured to the blonde. “None of that is what he needs.”

Garrett shook his head, the layers of sweatshirts still leaving him red in the cheeks. “Logan, you’re worried. We’re all worried, but this is why we prepared.”

Logan scoffed, unable to tolerate it any longer. “We didn’t, though. We didn’t prepare for this.”

“We did everything we could—“ Garrett continued.

“And what if it’s not enough?” he snapped. His voice felt thin in the night air, flickering across the flames of the candles and buried under the wind outside. “I believe in planning, Garrett, I do — but when are we going to admit we’re in over our heads?”

The rattling sounds of Dean’s breathing made the point stand.

Tucker looked down, buried under his parka and hat. And Garrett finally snapped back. “Because what else am I going to do, Logan, hm?” he asked, jabbing his finger at Dean. “I know it’s bad. I know we’d have him in a clinic — hell, the ER by now, if we could. He’s sick. He’s really sick, and it scares the shit out of me because I can’t get his fever down and I can’t even get him to wake up. So what the hell do you want me to do, Logan?”

The question rang, the emotions heavy in the cold air. The air was freezing.

The truth was closer still.

“I just—“ he started but the words didn’t form.

Because for all his frustration, he had no answers. For all his accusations, he had no solutions.

Garret had plans.

Tucker had a willing heart.

And all Logan had was the growing fear that this storm was going to take them all by surprise.

Garrett sighed. “I know, man. I know.”

His throat constricted and Logan wiped his eyes as he looked at Dean. “I left him outside in the snow alone,” he admitted. “I thought he was being a whiny asshole.”

Tucker nodded guiltily. “I thought he was making much ado about nothing.”

And Garrett let out a heavy breath. “I thought he was full of shit like always,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I didn’t think.”

None of them had thought.

They’d written Dean off. They’d assumed he was nothing. They’d downplayed his feelings and left him vulnerable. They hadn’t taken him seriously — they hadn’t treated him like a person, much less a trusted friend. Like a punchline.

But no one was laughing now.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Logan asked, voice low and broken in the dark room.

Tucker was at a loss but Garrett inhaled. “We stay close. We stay together.”

Logan’s laugh was short and incredulous. “And if that’s not enough?”

They all looked at Dean as the question lingered.

“It has to be,” Garrett said. “It has to be.”

It wasn’t an order. There was no definite certainty or authority.

It was a hope. A whisp of a prayer.

And, with the storm raging and their options dwindling, Logan didn’t have it in him to question it anymore.

-o-

The world stopped making sense.

Wakefulness eluded Dean, and unconsciousness wasn’t as much a reprieve as it was a terrifying void. Time slipped, running over him like water, and it was seconds, minutes, hours, days.

People lifted him, but he slumped back as his body refused to cooperate. The questions no longer made sense and he couldn’t understand their invectives enough to follow them.

Gentle hands. Soft voices.

“Dean. Dean. Dean.”

It all felt hard, the air in his lungs and the sluggish beat of his heart. It took on a surreal quality, something tenuous. He thought that might be bad, but he couldn’t really think.

It didn’t make sense.

Because he was hot.

Fire burning from the inside out, consuming him inch by inch. Burning through his brain, singeing every part of him. It would take him. It would kill him.

Among the fog, that was the lone clarity.

It would.

-o-

The night was deepening, and the storm showed no signs of letting up. Huddled together in the living room, Logan drew the blankets around him a little more, wriggling his toes inside the layers of socks and boots. The space heater provided a small bubble of heat, which they directed mainly toward Dean, while the rest of them shivered on the edges.

Temperatures dipped subzero, and they could feel the wind, slipping through the windowframe as the snow stacked up against the exterior of the old house.

The coach’s fears about losing his starting lineup to disaster?

Suddenly, didn’t seem so far-fetched.

He wasn’t really at risk of hypothermia or starvation. He knew that.

It just was going to be a really, really long night.

Between the loss of power and the frozen pipes – he told himself, surely, that was as bad as it was going to get.

Sometime past midnight, Dean would prove him wrong.

He heard the shift, something strange in Dean’s breathing. Something deep and halting. Logan opened his eyes a little more, perking up just to be sure. He thought it was going to be another coughing fit – maybe another vomiting session.

But Dean’s breathing caught again, and across the candlelight, he could see Dean’s chest hitch. He frowned, sitting up a little more.

Dean didn’t look right.

His color was – wrong. Something pale and waxen, lips colorless. He looked–

“Shit,” he said, scrambling out from under the blankets. He tripped over them in his haste. “Dean?”

The others stirred – Garrett awake almost instantly while Tucker blinked drowsily. Logan didn’t wait, sitting hard on the coffee table as he looked at the blonde.

“Dean? Hey, Dean–”

Dean’s eyes were open halfway, but they didn’t seem to focus. The grayed-out tone to his complexion was startling, and upclose, Logan could hear the way his breathing came out wrong.

Not congestion.

But short.

Cut off.

Wrong in a way Logan couldn’t quite make sense of.

Didn’t want to make sense of.

“Dean,” he said, gentler now as Garrett stood behind him. Tucker, too. “Hey, D.”

“He looks wrong, man,” Tucker whispered anxiously.

“He’s not breathing right,” Garrett said.

And then, Logan’s fingers touched his face, and his stomach dropped. “Oh, shit,” he said, lifting his hand to Dean’s head. “He’s on fire – worse than before.”

He frantically pulled the blankets back, exposing Dean’s sweat-slicked chest. His body was shaking now, low tremors that went up and down his body. His limbs were practically vibrating, his torso twitching.

Tucker scrambled to help, and Garrett was reaching for the thermometer.

Then, Dean’s face contorted, eyes rolling up to show the white. His chest hitched, but didn’t exhale, as his hands locked and his arms went rigid.

“Dean?”

The only answer was a choked sound, inhuman and wrong–

And then Dean’s head was wrenched back as his body convulsed. The tremors were full blown now, head to foot as he shook with surreal intensity. The force nearly jerked Dean straight off the couch, and Logan cried out, trying to hold him in place.

“You can’t – hold him down,” Garrett said, falling to the ground to brace Dean’s legs. “If he’s having a seizure, we could hurt him worse–”

If was the most insane wishful thinking.

Dean was lost in the seizure as it took him whole, bucking and thrashing enough to rock the couch.

“We still don’t have phone service–” Tucker cried. “Guys?”

There was no answer. Logan bit down hard, eyes burning as he watched Dean seize. They were helpless was the truth of the matter. All their work, all their preparation–

And this seizure would have its way with Dean.

All they could do was watch.

The seconds were agonizing, a terrible heat breaking out across the cold room. Dean made another choked sound, deeper than before, and Logan realized he was foaming at the mouth–

Jaw locked, drool collecting.

“He’s choking–” he said.

Garrett grimaced. “Get him on his side–”

They worked together, bracing Dean’s body without holding him down. It felt wrong – the rigidity of Dean’s muscles as they contracted violently. His head was craned at an unnatural angle, making it hard to tip him forward enough for the drool to run clear.

But even in the low light, Logan could see. Dean was turning blue.

“He’s not getting air,” he said. “Garrett–”

“It’ll stop!” Garrett said, but he didn’t sound sure.

“What the hell, guys?” Tucker cried. “We need an ambulance–”

But there was no ambulance. There was no help. There was no backup.

There were just three college hockey players and their best friend.

Snowed in and helpless.

If they had listened sooner–

If they had taken Dean seriously–

If they had been the friends they claimed to be–

The snow would stop. The temperatures would rise. The world would thaw, and Dean would be okay.

Dean had to be okay.

Please.

Dean jerked toward him, keening badly now.

Please.

His legs slammed into Garrett, one locked fist nearly hitting Tucker.

“Please!”

The tremors tapered off slowly, as Dean’s jerking started to ease. Soon, there was nothing but errant twitches as his fists unfurled and his body went lax. His eyes finally fluttered shut and he took a ragged inhalation before he slumped back lifelessly.

“Is it over?” Tucker asked, voice no more than a whisper.

Garrett eased Dean’s body into a more comfortable position, face serious.

Logan’s hands were shaking as he adjusted Dean’s head, trying to shift him back to something that looked normal as his neck seemed too loose and his jaw dropped slack. “I don’t know,” he said, pausing to take Dean’s pulse – just to be sure. “I think it’s just beginning.”

-o-

Dean knew who he was.

Dean knew who he was supposed to be.

A Heyward and a Di Laurentis. Success was part of the legacy; hard work was part of his DNA. He was born for persistence and perseverance, and he had never let his people down.

His parents. His teammates. The girls he hooked up with. His friends.

He left it all on the ice, every time.

He didn’t admit when he was tired. He didn’t tell people when it was actually hard. He complained about the little things, but the big things – that was his shit.

And maybe he couldn’t sometimes. Maybe sometimes it was too much.

Maybe sometimes there was nothing left for himself.

There was something wrong this time, see. There was something heavy and cloying, lingering over his consciousness and holding his body down. Breathing felt like a chore, and the beats of his heart suddenly felt measured. As if he’d pushed himself to the limits and found his breaking point. As if he’d run through all he had and found nothing on the back end.

Because Dean knew who he was.

He just wasn’t always sure if it would be enough.

-o-

When the seizure was over, none of them quite knew what to do. They waited – several long moments – while Dean’s body settled into the stillness, and the eerie quiet was filled with the sound of the wind, the whir of the space heater, and Dean’s thin breathing.

“Is he okay?” Tucker finally asked, voice quivering.

Of course he wasn’t okay; he’d just had a seizure.

Garrett flattened his lips, reaching up to press his fingers to Dean’s neck. “He’s got a pulse,” he said, and he put his hand in front of Dean’s mouth. “And he’s breathing.”

“Not well,” Logan muttered.

Garrett ignored him, rolling Dean onto his back and tipping his head toward him as he positioned himself over him. “Dean?” he said, holding Dean’s chin in his hands. “Hey, D. Look at me.”

There was nothing. No flicker; not a glimmer.

“Shit,” Garrett muttered. “Someone hand me a flashlight.”

Tucker fumbled, picking one up and handing it to Garrett. Garrett smoothed Dean’s hair back, using his fingers to pry open one of Dean’s eyelids. The beam from the flashlight illuminated the blue, but Logan saw what Garrett was looking for.

The movement of his pupils–

Sluggish and small.

And Dean didn’t even twitch.

With a long exhale, Garrett handed the flashlight back to Tucker. “People are really out of it after a seizure. It’s normal.”

Logan let himself laugh. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Graham?”

Garrett looked at him, jaw locked tight. “It’s what I know.”

“Dean just had a seizure--”

“And we’re still stuck in this stupid snowstorm without electricity, water, or phone service,” Garrett reminded him sharply. “You want me to admit that I don’t know? Fine, I don’t know. I have no clue what I’m doing, and I’m scared shitless. Is that what you want me to say?”

The words were sharp, cutting with emotion.

Tucker shrank back, and Logan swallowed hard.

The admission was what he’d been looking for, and he knew it.

It wasn’t what he wanted.

It lingered – the tense moment as Dean struggled – and Logan broke first.

“I know,” he admitted, voice cracking slightly. “I just – I’m scared, too, man. I’m really scared.”

“I’m like shitting my pants over here,” Tucker admitted. “I don’t know what to do.”

Garrett looked back down, hanging his head with a long sigh as he looked at Dean. “I don’t have a clue, okay?”

Logan gritted his teeth together, putting a hand on Garrett’s back. “We do it, just like you say,” he said quietly.

Garrett looked up.

“We have the supplies, so we use them,” he said plaintively. “We clean Dean up, try to get some meds in him. We make him comfortable and stay close to him.”

“That’s nothing, Logan,” Garrett said.

“It’s something,” Logan insisted. He nodded at Dean. “When has Dean ever let us down when we needed him?”

They all looked at the blonde – insensate as he was, it was still Dean.

Garrett finally nodded, lips pursed. “I guess that plan is as good as any.”

They didn’t need to talk about it, then. They didn’t need to debate it.

They were still a team, after all. And – more than that – they were friends.

Quietly, they moved the blankets, clearing the area. Dean had soiled himself during the seizure – leaving his shorts wet – and they wordlessly retrieved new underwear and pants, working together to lift his legs up, wipe him dry, and dress him once more. They soothed Dean during the process, pulling a t-shirt for him as they sat him up, and then they worked together – all three of them – to help Dean take some pills and drink.

It wasn’t an easy process, to be sure. Logan held his head while Tucker guided the water to his lips. Garrett’s face was pinched as he worked Dean’s jaw – gagging lightly as his reflexes finally kicked back in, and he swallowed it down with a whimper.

Hearing Dean like that hurt, and Logan couldn’t help himself. He drew the blonde into him, resting his head against his shoulder, muttering soft reassurances that Dean was too far gone to hear. Then, they bundled Dean back up, layers of blankets and clothing, before they all hunkered down together on the couch.

Tucker on the end, and Garrett on the left. Logan stayed on Dean’s right, keeping the blonde’s languid body on top of him, enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest and the even beat of his heart, even while the fever burned.

There was nothing they could do if it happened again, Logan knew that.

But this felt like something.

This felt like enough.

This felt like everything.

He’d stay like this, all through the night, whatever it took.

As long as Dean stayed, too.

-o-

Dean came to with light filtering through the windows. It was hazy – but actually. The windows were caked with white, making the whole thing feel ethereal.

It was kind of pretty.

It was kind of odd.

It took him a few minutes to make sense of that, to put the disparate pieces together. The living room was cluttered, littered with bottles of water, half-eaten bowls of soup, and candles burned low. The digital clocks were all flashing, and the lights in the house were on.

The space heater was pulled close, attached to a sturdy extension cord, and the whole room was heaped in blankets.

And the guys?

Were pressed up against him in their winter coats and stocking caps.

He let himself contemplate this for a moment, but everything seemed too hard to follow. He had vague memories – hot flashed, shivering memories – and strange things that didn’t make sense. Someone opening his mouth and making him swallow. Being hauled to the bathroom, feet dragging behind him. Gentle touch, constant questions, and steady reassurances.

You’re okay. It’s okay. We’re okay.

His body ached, and he was tired. Things hurt in a way he couldn’t explain, like all his muscles had been overtaxed and left vacant. His stomach was empty; his throat was raw. His sinuses felt glued with gunk, and he didn’t–

He couldn’t–

Tucker snorted in his sleep, down the line on the couch, drooling from where he was slumped against the edge. Garrett was upright – somehow – mouth hanging open as his arms draped over Tucker and Dean in equal measures. And Logan was behind him, he realized. He was propped up against the other man’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heart, the warmth of his body, lulling him back to sleep before he could even remember to ask why.

The impetus was pressing, but only for a moment, and he made a sound of small frustration as sleep beckoned him again. He twitched, rolling his head a little – and his hair brushed against Logan’s chin, enough for him to stir.

“Dean?”

Dean sighed, something like relief as Logan shifted him, easing him back until he was half cradled in his arms.

“You with me?” Logan asked, cupping his face. “Dean?”

He looked at Logan, licking his lips with a wince. “What – happened?”

The words were hard to form, and they grated painfully against his throat. His chest was heavy, limbs like lead, and he took a breath – half catching.

Logan pressed a hand to his chest. “Just breathe. Easy,” he coaxed.

It was enough to settle him, and next to him, on the other side, Garrett and Tucker stirred, too.

“Is he up?” Tucker slurred.

“D!” Garrett said.

He flicked his eyes to them, smiling slightly. “I don’t – remember–”

“I know, I know,” Logan said, running his hand through his hair. “It was kind of a long night, D.”

He furrowed his brow, the pieces of the puzzle still evading him. “Did I shovel?”

Garrett laughed, and Tucker made a sound half like a cry. Logan grinned, nodding a few times with wet eyes. “You did everything you needed to do,” he said.

Dean let that idea take him, eyelids starting to fall. He glanced toward the window. “The storm’s over.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Logan said, stroking his hair as he started to drift. “The storm’s over.”

It took him to sleep once more, something warm, something peaceful, something safe – something with his friends.

-o-

Dean fell back asleep, but none of the rest of them could. Garrett got up first, going to check the house. Tucker reset all the clocks, starting up the stove to warm up some breakfast, but Logan couldn’t bring himself to move.

Of the long list of chores, this just seemed more important – Dean sprawled out on his chest, breathing steadily and sleeping heavily.

It was funny, wasn’t it? The way Dean was difficult and whiny. The way he could be so entitled and oblivious.

And the way he was still the best friend you could possibly have.

They all had an idea of Dean, and Dean played into it, but he did work hard. He did do his part, and yeah – he did his best. He could act so selfish – but that was bullshit, and when Logan was honest, he knew it. No one gave like Dean did. His time, his money, himself.

It was why the girls loved him. Not because he took control, but because he listened to them. It was why he was good on the ice; he never needed to be the star. He knew where he needed to be for the play.

And ultimately, it was why he was a good friend.

Sure, he slept in late. He didn’t always clean the bathroom.

But he was there when it counted.

Which was more than you could say for the rest of them.

When Dean roused – to the smell of egg casserole and French toast – it took him a moment. His eyelids fluttered, slits of blue. He took a few deep breaths, seeming to orient himself.

“Logan?” he croaked.

“Yeah, D,” he said.

“Are we – cuddling?” he asked, frowning.

Logan laughed out loud. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess we are.”

Dean nodded for a long moment. “That’s not weird?”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head with a long sigh. “No,” he said. “That’s not weird.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “It seems a little weird.”

Logan shifted a little, so Dean could look at him. “You want to get up?”

Dean made a face – tired and content. “Nah,” he said, nuzzling back down. “I think I’m good if you are.”

Logan let himself settle, Dean’s warmth pressed against him a little while longer while Garrett fussed and Tucker cooked. “Yeah,” he murmured over the sounds of the house, settling in once more. “I think we’re good.”