His mind is already made up as they make their way to the car from the main house; Dean is no condition to be driving out of here and there isn't a chance in hell Sam's letting him, as he'd like very much NOT to end up pancaked into the side of a tractor trailer. Once was more than enough, thank you. But before he even opens his mouth to make his case, Dean hands over the keys without a fight. Literally hands them over, no joke, no swagger, no trademark toss over the hood of the car. It gives Sam pause. Dean's moving slowly, heavy lumbering steps, left arm wrapped good and tight around his middle with fingers pressed insistently to the bandage Ellie applied.

A thankful, careful patch job, but a quick one, nonetheless. Another victim of some unbelievable circumstance who can't seem to get them out of town soon enough. No amount of life-saving has ever been enough for the people they help to feel exceptionally comfortable with the hunters hanging around for long after the job's done, not even a young, attractive farmhand in spaghetti straps making obvious goo-goo eyes at his big brother.

Dean is quiet, in a distant, avoiding direct eye contact kind of way, not just in very obvious pain but presumably still upset about having to let Sam initiate the trials, 'let' being perhaps not the right term. In an attempt to keep Dean from embarking on a suicide mission Sam wore him down, no two ways about it; cajoled Dean into seeing things his way using the physical pain of his injury and their mutual desperation to be states away from the Cassity ranch before the call went in about Margo's death. Wore him down, got him to agree to allow SAM to carry the heavy burden for once. And he'd played, perhaps unfairly, to his brother's more vulnerable side, bringing out the trust card. "I believe in you, Dean. So, please – please believe in me, too." Because if he can convince Dean to believe him, then maybe Sam can begin to believe in himself again. He has more to make up for in this world than he can put into words.

No words in return, no "Of course I believe in you, Sammy," just a resigned expression and an Enochian spell on a slip of paper slapped into his hand, but that's about the best he can hope for from Dean with something this big. Closing the gates of Hell, that's something that can't be passed up, can't be put on hold to soothe a bruise in Dean's ego.

Sam isn't sure his big brother will ever really be okay with him taking on this big a task. Dean has trust issues aplenty, specifically with Sam and he's not completely unjustified in feeling so, and more than that, he's been meticulously programmed and hardwired to believe it's his own duty to shoulder a responsibility like this, that there is no other option than to protect Sam at any and all costs to his own wellbeing. Thanks, Dad.

Sam knows the cost. He's already paid that price.

He sighs as Dean trips over his own slow-moving feet with a grunt and braces a hand on the smooth surface of the Impala. Sam agrees that this entire situation could use a quick patch job, but what Dean needs is stitches. Probably a transfusion. He braces his bag on the side of the car and pulls out the first clean t-shirt he can wrangle free. The gray v-neck he's been wearing is stiff with drying Hellhound blood, a tacky and unsettling feeling against his skin. He strips off the offending garment with a grimace.

The entire time Sam is changing Dean is silently pawing at the uncooperative door handle on the passenger side, still not quite fully upright, his face pale and drawn. When it's just them, the charming tough guy act is unnecessary.

Sam pulls his jacket back on, balls up the ruined shirt and throws it and his duffel onto the back seat through the open window. He wipes his gummy hands against his jeans and moves as close as he can to Dean without the action being misconstrued as hovering. "Want me to get it?"

The door pops open with a creak from the car and a hiss from his brother. "Got it."

Keeping his distance, Sam frowns and waits outside the car as Dean drops his own bags inside and gingerly lowers himself to the seat, then retreats to slide behind the wheel. He fiddles with the keys a moment. "How's that bandage holding?" he asks, meaning, 'Will you deck me if I suggest maybe Ellie was right and we should hit up a hospital?'

Dean stretches carefully, adjusts to find a comfortable position against the stiff seatback. "Fine. S'not that bad. I've had – "

"Worse," Sam finishes with him, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, you said." And you agreed, dumbass.

As for himself, Sam's not really sure how to classify how he's feeling. Jittery and nauseated, an electric current buzzing beneath the surface of his skin, an adrenaline rush that isn't fading. The aftereffects of completing the first trial, but not worthy of discussion. If Dean didn't see the spark of light emanating from within the veins of his arm, it's not something Sam wants to bring attention to. It's not necessarily a BAD feeling, just different. This is not a short drive he's faced with, all the way back to their new home base in Kansas, but he's fairly certain he has the energy to run a full marathon at the moment, will have no issues waiting to sleep until they get back. It's a question of whether or not Dean will make it.

"Stop looking at me like that," Dean orders, like he knows what Sam is thinking. "Drive already. I just need to get some sleep." The only admission of pain he ever utters. Just let me sleep it off, Sammy.

Sam starts the engine and Dean lays his head back against the bench seat and closes his eyes, exhaling heavily. He's out within moments, before they reach the interstate, like someone flipped a switch.

Sam takes advantage of this rare opportunity to push the Impala, to see what she'll do for him without a grumpy Dean sideseat-driving. His brother's attachment to the car is unnatural, pathological, and Sam hasn't been permitted to REALLY drive the Chevy in years. Always enjoyed it, but doesn't remember a long drive feeling quite like this. Not an adrenaline junkie by nature, he's almost surprised by how he's relishing the rush of controlling the powerful car, the seductive purr of the engine, the thrum of classic rock drum beats that he usually finds comparable to nails on a chalkboard, but are like crack to Dean.

Time passes as quickly and inconspicuously as the yellow dashes on the road, hours running together like watercolor paints. Couldn't be less important as Sam pushes the gas pedal just a little more.

He makes necessary stops, pulls over to twenty-four hour convenience marts when nature calls, to fill the tank, to grab a quick midnight snack but bypasses the coffee counter, the cooler stocked with energy drinks. Dean sleeps through it all but Sam doesn't tire, doesn't require a caffeine boost to keep going.

A quick glance at his brother confirms Dean is still sleeping like the dead, like the detonation of a bomb wouldn't wake him. Sam grins, flexes the fingers of his right hand and returns his attention to the newfound beauty of wide open highway. He gives her even more gas.

On second thought… It's strange that Dean hasn't woken once, not even during those brief gas station stops. Not when Sam shook his shoulder and mentioned there might be pie. He reaches across the seat, nudges Dean with his elbow.

Dean's head lolls from where it's been resting precariously against the cool window to drop heavily to his left shoulder, but he doesn't wake. There's a smear of condensation on the glass from the moisture of his breath.

Dean is not traditionally a deep sleeper, and there's the blood loss to take into consideration. Sam shoves him with a little more urgency. "Hey, Dean. Rise and shine."

Dean exhales, coughs once, weakly, and opens his eyes to stare blearily up at Sam. "What?" he asks flatly.

Sam frowns. "You feelin' okay? Besides the obvious, I mean. You've been asleep a while."

Dean rubs his eyes and straightens. The motion draws a sharp hiss from between his teeth and he applies gentle pressure to the bandage buried beneath layers of shredded clothing. "Time's it?"

Nice dodge. Sam rolls his eyes. "Late. Or, early." It's morning now in an obvious way, the rising sun peeking through branches of passing trees. "Tell you the truth, man, I wasn't paying much attention. I'm still a little jazzed from the…you know." He should be focusing on how Dean's feeling, not himself, but he can't seem to help the words from tumbling out.

"Good for you." There's nothing remotely good-natured about Dean's tone of voice. "Why'd you wake me up?"

"Maybe I missed the obvious pleasure of your conscious company," Sam returns. "Or maybe you've been asleep for, like, twelve hours, man."

"Whatever." Dean shifts on the bench seat, grunts uncomfortably. "Pull over, would ya? Gotta take a leak."

"Yeah, I bet." Sam guides the car to the side of the road and Dean groans as they pass over the bump of the berm. "Need a hand?"

"Only if you wanna lose it," Dean growls as he steps out to water the tall grass.

Sitting still without the forward motion of the muscle car to focus on, Sam feels a pent-up nervous energy, bounces his leg. He stretches his right arm over the steering wheel and studies himself, the ridges of veins beneath the skin. Nothing remains of the strange light but he can feel it, a residual heat up and down the limb. The creak of the door draws his attention.

"You okay?" he repeats as Dean settles back into the car. Sam glances at the clock on the dash as he pulls the Impala back onto the pavement, calculating the remaining drive to Lebanon with raised eyebrows. Aren't more than a couple of hours out, they keep at this pace.

"Mm hmm." Another wordless grunt, then Dean makes a pained choking sound, the precursor to what becomes a genuine coughing fit. He doubles over, wheezing and hacking furiously into cupped hands.

Sam grips the steering wheel, eyes darting between the thankfully empty road and his brother fighting for oxygen next to him. "Dude, what the hell?"

Dean carries on like that for several more seconds before giving one final, awful-sounding hack. He falls back against the seat, catching his breath. Beads of sweat are visible on his forehead in patches of passing sunlight. "Dunno," he says, rubbing his chest with a wince. "Air down the wrong pipe, maybe."

"Yeah, okay." But Sam's eyes are drawn to a dark, damp spot on Dean's shirt where his hand's just been. Blood? Another sidelong glance confirms Dean's complexion has definitely paled since leaving Shoshone, maybe even since waking a few minutes ago, freckles standing out in stark definition. It's too early to be seeing symptoms of an infection, but it doesn't look like Dean's going to be able to sleep this one off. "Okay, we're gonna stop somewhere. Get you checked out."

Dean shakes his head, roughly clears his throat. "Nah, I'm good. Really. Let's just get back ho – to the, uh, batcave."

"Yeah. Okay." With a furrowed brow and an odd feeling hanging on, Sam presses on to Lebanon.

When Sam stands on the brakes outside of the Men of Letters bunker two and a half hours later, Dean is barely coherent. He's deteriorated rapidly since waking, drifting in and out of consciousness before finally coming to a point where he hasn't responded with anything resembling the English language in twenty minutes. The cough has persisted, his hacking bringing an unnaturally dark substance from somewhere within to stain his cracked lips. It looks too horrifyingly much like the warm blood that had washed over Sam as he drew the knife of the Kurds the length of the Hellhound's belly.

It has to be from the hound, whatever this is, maybe exacerbated by a preexisting weakness in Dean's immune system. It's not like he'd ever tell Sam if he was feeling under the weather. More likely, though, it's something supernatural, nothing any medical doctor can do for him. They treat most injuries themselves, and he's seen infected wounds in both his father and Dean, nasty ones that laid them up for weeks at a time and involved hospital stays, but symptoms never developed this quickly, and the black stuff Dean's coughing up is definitely new.

If this is supernatural, Sam should be able to reverse it, or fix it, and the bunker is a good a place as any, a somewhat unfamiliar but safe space. Safest place on Earth, he'd been told.

He'd leave the keys in the ignition if Dean wouldn't bitch about it later, pockets them quickly and rushes to the passenger side to collect his brother as he opens the door and exits the Impala in a tumble of heavy, uncoordinated limbs.

"If you touch me, I'll kill you," Dean growls, half-hanging out of the car, his eyes locking on Sam's in an icy stare that freezes him in his tracks.

The hell? Sam recoils, steps back with hands held up, and Dean collapses to the gravel and grass. He cries out as he crumbles to the ground, catching himself on outstretched palms and no doubt aggravating his wounds.

"Sammy, what the hell?" Dean groans in protest, echoing Sam's sentiment. He rolls to his uninjured side with a grimace.

Sam gapes. "What? You just said…"

Dean pushes up from the ground and braces himself on his elbows, looking genuinely pained and confused, and even paler than before. Ghostlike. He shakes his head weakly. "Sammy, I don't…"

Sam swallows. He knows how much Dean values strength and discretion, but maybe bypassing a hospital in lieu of Sam Winchester's home nurse care wasn't the best idea, after all. Then again, if this is how he is with SAM, then maybe keeping him away from total strangers is the best course of action. "Don't worry about it. Let's just get you inside." He pulls Dean's closest arm over his shoulder and hauls him upright, dragging him through the heavy iron door.

This is getting bad, and fast. Dean seems to be grower weaker by the minute, can barely support his own weight anymore, and the stairs are a bitch to navigate. Sam stumbles off of the bottom step and gets his brother to the nearest chair. He collapses into it with a yelp, favoring his slashed side. His eyes are bright, feverish, and unfocused, his skin clammy.

Sam turns on the lights and crouches next to Dean, helps him shed his heavy coat and pulls his shaking hands away from the bulge of the puffy bandage. "Let me see, man. You probably made it worse swan-diving out of the car like that. Hold this," he orders, pulling up the hem of Dean's shredded shirt.

Dean sucks in a breath and braces a hand on the arms of the chair as Sam inspects the blood-soaked gauze. "Then why didn't you do your Nurse Ratched act and help me?" Ellie's patch job may have been careful, but it was also inexperienced, and at first glance it doesn't look like she cleaned Dean up as well as she should have. There are red, bloody splotches visible under the surface of the milky medical adhesive.

"You told me not to touch you," Sam says slowly. He carefully pulls away the tape and gauze, alarmed by the heat radiating from Dean's skin. "It was like thirty seconds ago. You seriously don't remember that?"

Dean bites his bottom lip, slowly shakes his head.

Sam frowns. "That can't be good." He removes the bandage from Dean's side and his jaw drops. "That REALLY can't be good."

"What?" Wide-eyed, Dean looks down at himself.

The gouges in the skin are bad enough; three of them running parallel, four or five inches long and deeper than Sam remembers them being, leaving flaps of torn skin. The surrounding area is red and puffy. He should've patched this himself, should've stitched it up immediately, should've taken Dean straight to the hospital no matter what the stubborn ass said, but that's all moot now. Lines like spider webs, unnaturally colored veins wick outward from the wounds in all directions, raised streaks of dark crimson fading as they approach the edges of his jeans and t-shirt. So not just a poor patch job, after all.

He was wrong. The amount of lapsed time is irrelevant, and this is obviously an infection. Some kind of supernatural poison, a reaction to the Hellhound scratches.

Dean releases the hem of his tee and gingerly traces the bumps of the darkened veins with his fingers. He cringes, as though the slightest touch pains him. "Sammy…" He looks confused, childlike. "Sam, what is that?"

"I don't know."

"I don't…but we've never…what about Jo?" Dean winces, a stab in the soul and the conscience at the mention of her name. "I don't remember anything like…"

"Jo's injury was…more serious," Sam says quietly. Dean meets his eyes and the rest goes thankfully unspoken. If this is some kind of infection, if there's some sort of incubation period, Jo didn't live longer than a few hours after being clawed by Meg's hound.

"Then what?"

Sam's stomach drops and he shifts almost effortlessly into crisis mode, drawing from his ongoing burst of energy. "How do you feel?" he asks, leaning away from the chair and scrutinizing his brother.

Dean shakes his head, pulls away from Sam suddenly with his own burst of energy. "I don't…I feel fine – "

"Be honest, Dean," Sam demands. "And I need details, man. Don't hold anything back."

"Well, not BAD."

"Dean, I practically had to carry you in from the car like two minutes ago." But Dean's right; he already looks better, rosy cheeks and everything, the color returning almost before Sam's eyes, in the span of only a few minutes.

Dean shrugs, without a wince. "I feel better now. Just need to sit down for a minute, I guess. Told you it wasn't that bad. What's the big – "

"Shut up for a minute and let me think. This is, uh…" Sam runs a hand over his face, his heart racing. A moment passes, and he realizes his mistake. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

You stupid son of a bitch. Sam wishes Bobby was around. In the chaos, in the adrenaline rush of killing the hound, of initiating the trials, of Dean's side hanging in ribbons to the belt loops of his faded jeans, he'd let a stranger patch up his brother, and he'd forgotten the holy water. And that was nearly seventeen hours ago. Who the hell knows what's been happening to Dean's body in that time without the benefits of the cure-all holy water counteracting any ill effects of the hound's claws.

Sam scrambles away from the table, rushing wordlessly through the bunker. They haven't yet had the opportunity to properly inventory all of the available supplies or the scope of the space they've inherited here, so he makes a beeline for the packs they've brought in over the past three weeks.

Dean pushes up from the table, wide eyes following Sam's movements, but he stays in the room. "Sam, what?"

Sam tears through the bags, throwing yet-to-be unpacked clothes and belongings to the floor until he finds what he's searching for, returns quickly to the main room and roughly sets the small tin flask in front of Dean. "Drink this."

"What is this, whiskey? Usually, I'd like the way you're thinking but Sammy – "

Sam's head jerks. "It's holy water."

"Wha – " Dean's eyes widen as it sinks in. "Holy water."

"I am so sorry, Dean. I…" Any lame-ass excuse he might try dies on Sam's tongue. There is no excuse for this. If Dad was here he'd tan Sam's ass. Hell, Bobby probably would, too.

If either of them was here this never would have happened.

Dean unstoppers the flask and gulps a good deal of the contents. He sits back heavily in the chair with a wince.

Sam's heart skips. "What is it?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and brings a closed fist to his mouth. "Burns," he says hoarsely. "S'never done that before. Right?"

"No." Not good. Sam massages his temples, almost as though to stimulate his slow-working brain; he can't think quickly enough to process this fuck-up of monumental proportion. "Keep drinking that. I'm gonna call…" He wants to say 'Bobby.' Almost says 'Bobby.' "Garth." Really? "Yeah," he answers himself out loud, drawing a strange look from Dean. "I'm gonna call Garth." The "new" Bobby. The go-to for any hunter with a problem, and Sam sure has a problem.

"Sure." Dean curls his lip at the container of holy water in front of him.

"Hey." Sam slaps a hand on the tabletop, rousing Dean's attention. "Drink it."

Dean obliges with a huff, and when he leans over the table Sam catches a glimpse of his brother's blood-stained attire. He goes to the next room and retrieves the first aid supplies, pulls out a pack of antiseptic wipes. "Here."

Dean accepts the pack and looks between it and the holy water quizzically. "What do you want me to – "

"I don't know, Dean!" Sam all but snaps, throwing his arms wide. "All of it. Everything. Try…" He takes a breath, steps away from the table. "Try everything. I'll be right back."

"Okay," Dean says, not without an edge. "Dick," he adds under his breath as he removes a wipe and begins to clean the dried blood from his side.

Sam ignores the dig – it's not as though it's undeserved – and retreats to the bunker's spacious kitchen with his cell phone in hand. He catches his reflection in the screen and stares a moment. He looks fine, normal, but his skin is tingling, his heart pounding. This is more than any physical feeling he's felt before, more than a nervous reaction to what's happening to Dean. More than the fact he hasn't slept in over twenty-four hours. Something is happening to him, something strange, and he knows it's related to the trials in the same intuitive, experienced way he knows what's happening to Dean is from the Hellhound.

He shakes his head, Quit wasting time, asshole, and dials Garth without another moment's pause. The line rings more times than he's comfortable with.

"Go for Garth."

A somewhat crazed and completely rude bark of a laugh escapes Sam's lips, both at the sound of Garth's breezy, carefree tone and asinine greeting. "Seriously?"

"Sam, hey! Just trying something new."

The hunter is irritatingly excited to hear from Sam. "For what it's worth, my vote is 'no.'" Then, thinking maybe it's not a fantastic idea to insult the guy you're kind of hoping will save your ass, Sam quickly adds, "Or, you know, keep it going. Kinda like it."

"Sure, sure. What can I do ya for, Sam? It's great to hear from you again so soon." There's a lot of background noise. Laughter, shouts, and muted music in ludicrous juxtaposition to the immediacy of the situation. It sets Sam on edge.

"Listen, man, I'm not gonna sugarcoat this. I, uh…" But Sam suddenly finds himself unable to say the words and admit his mistake. "I need some info, whatever you know about Hellhound wounds, if they can result in any kind of infection or something."

The noises behind Garth's familiar drawl fade away as he finds a quiet place to talk. "You're joking, right? People don't just walk away from those nasty bitches."

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, forces himself to find patience. "Well, what if someone did. What then?"

"Well, Hellhounds pretty much do what they do, Sam. Strictly kill strikes. Then they drag your soul to Hell, and that's that."

Yeah, I remember. "We came across a pair of them, and one took a chunk out of Dean. There's something weird going on with him now. Looks like an infection. I know hunters who've…I mean, I've been there when they were attacked, but this is like nothing I've even heard of before."

"An infection? What are the symptoms?"

"Started with a fever and a cough, and he's been hacking up some kind of black stuff. Slept forever. Whatever it is, it set in really fast."

"Black stuff?"

"Yeah, but he seems stronger now, says he's feeling better. But it, uh, looks like there's something in his blood. His veins are…dark."

Garth lets out a low whistle. "Sam, seriously. I've never heard of anything like that."

"You're telling me there are no accounts whatsoever of someone walking away from a Hellhound attack?" Sam's voice is rising in volume and pitch, crazed and desperate.

"Well, yeah, okay, maybe I've heard of one or two guys that got clawed pretty good and pulled through but never heard of any kind of aftereffects like this. I might know a little about a lot of things but I'm not a doctor, Sam. Off the top of my head I don't know what this could be."

"Those hunters, did they all get holy water in the wounds right away?"

"I assume so. That's standard operating procedure with all beastie-inflicted owies. Even the idiots know that."

There's a tense, shared silence over the line.

"You did get holy water into the…Sam?"

Sam swallows, shakes his head before remembering to speak. "No."

"Well. Damn."

"Yeah, I know."

"No, really, Sam. Damn. I don't even know what that could do to him. Well, this, I guess…okay, here's what we'll do. I know a chick, a Wiccan, very hot. We go back, like, in a sexual way. This one time, we – "

"Garth!" Sam exclaims. "I think we're getting a little off-topic here. Let's bring it back around to helping Dean."

"Well, the relationship did not end well. This eagle's gotta fly, Sam. But if anyone can help, she can. Into healing and protection spells. Really knows her herbs and, uh, elixirs."

Sam closes his eyes, tries to ignore the way Garth stretched out the word 'elixirs.' "Great. Let me know if she has anything to say." He doesn't mean to be rude by disconnecting the call without a goodbye, his mind has just already moved on.

Sam takes a moment to collect himself, to push his clingy negative feeling away before returning to the table where Dean is still staring at his darkened veins. "So," he tells Dean as casually as possible. "Apparently there aren't exactly many known instances of someone walking away from a Hellhound."

Dean glares up at him. "Yeah, I dimly recall. But there are some?"

"Maybe. And he's going to consult with his, uh, herbalist." Dean won't trust any form of witchcraft, so Sam might as well keep that part to himself.

"Oh, great," Dean says with copious amounts of sarcasm. "No worries, then. Seriously, Sam, I really feel fine – "

The last word is swallowed by another fit of coughing. When Dean draws his hands away from his mouth, his fingers and lips are flecked with wet black spots, like from a paintbrush.

Sam rubs his face, nudges the flask of holy water. "Drink, man."

Dean gulps the liquid and gags immediately. He drops the flask to the floor with a clatter and runs for the sink in the kitchen, where he vomits violently.

Sam follows him, concerned. As he enters the room Dean shoos him away with a gesture generally understood to mean 'back the fuck off,' but as his hand waves in front of his brother, Sam is as good as body-slammed to the hard floor.

Dean whirls, wide-eyed and clutching a fist to his stomach. "Did I do that?"

Ow. Sam grips the edge of the countertop and pulls himself to his feet, unconsciously stepping back from Dean. He had his own bout of telekinesis once, a talent born ultimately from the demon blood he'd ingested as a baby. "That's not a good sign."

"You think?" Dean spins back to the sink and spits a dark, mucusy glob and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns on the tap, lets the flow of fresh water wash his sick, tinged with bits of blood and whatever the hell the black stuff is, down the drain. "You sure that's the same stuff?" he asks, voice deep, rough. "Tastes like ass."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "Your body is rejecting it, just like…"

"Like a demon," Dean says hollowly.

"Among other things." Sam can't think that way. "Let's not jump to conclusions. We still have no idea what this is."

"Sam, how was that not like a demon?" Dean starts to wave a hand around, catches himself and tucks his arm safely around his middle. He gags and turns to square up to the sink once more.

"Whatever this is, Dean, we're gonna figure it out. Come on, look where we are. There's nowhere in the world with more information about the supernatural, right?" Safest place on Earth, Sam tells himself.

Dean doesn't respond, remains bent over the deep stainless steel basin. His hand goes to the faucet and he turns off the water, his movements stiff, deliberate. There's an odd silence in the room all of a sudden, and a chill runs down Sam's spine.

Dean straightens and turns, his eyes a little manic. These recent harsh and sudden movements have reaggravated his wounds; fresh blood from the unbandaged cuts seeps through his thin cotton shirt. Sam can't immediately put a word to what he sees there, but it sure as hell isn't his brother. "Dean. Let's, uh, get you – "

As he steps forward, a guiding hand outstretched toward his brother, Dean strikes with frightening, unexpected speed, no telekinesis necessary, just brute physical force. His eyes dark, he knocks Sam roughly aside with his forearm.

Sam catches himself on the counter, pushes off of the polished marble and ducks under the fist rocketing towards his face, but Dean still clips his ear. "Dean, dammit! What the – " A second fist crashes into his chin, sending him once again to the tiled floor.

Sam lands hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He stares up at the patterned ceiling, catching his breath. He hears a suspicious metallic scrape from above, and then watches Dean step over him with a sneer. From this angle, his eyes appear black as onyx. Demonic. Sam catches a glimpse, a flash of metal in Dean's right hand and his training and reflexes take over.

He lashes out with both legs, sweeping Dean's from under him. He hits the floor hard next to Sam and, more importantly, loses the knife. Sam doesn't hesitate, returns his brother's punches with a couple of well-placed fists to the side of Dean's head until he falls back motionless against the cabinets.

Sam cradles the cell phone to his shoulder as he scours the kitchen's contents, carelessly throwing dusty boxes, bottles, and cans to the countertop and floor to narrow the scope of his search to the herbs and ingredients from the case in the Impala's trunk and the spoils of Dean's most recent jaunt to the grocery store. It's not just in his room that Dean's been playing Susie Homemaker lately; it's all over the damn place. He's stocked the refrigerator, the pantry, the cabinets, and they have ingredients and herbs for days. They've only been here a couple of weeks but it's Dean's first idea of home in three years, since Lisa and Ben, at least. These are the things Sam takes for granted, the things he's experienced more often and more recently than his brother.

The trunk contained a little bit of everything, and Sam rifles through the pile of sealed plastic baggies and colored bottles, trying for some semblance of organization. "Sage and what?"

"Juniper, Basil, Rosemary. And Eucalyptus leaf."

Evil repellant, Sam can't help but think. That's what these herbs are used to ward against, and that's what he saw before in Dean's eyes. Evil. Somewhat miraculously, he's able to find it all. He pushes the required items into a heap in front of him. "Got it."

"Then bind it all with a little holy water and a dash of sea salt."

A dash of what the hell? "I'm trying to cure Dean, Garth. Of evil, it sounds like. I'm not making a goddamned salad dressing!"

"It'll work, Sam, but time is of the essence. She was pretty insistent about that. Said not to finish TOO quickly, though, but that might have been for my benefit – "

"Garth!"

"Sorry. Don't forget the holy water. Lots of it. This'll work, Sam."

"It better." Sam doesn't know what he means by that, if it's a threat or a plea or a prayer. He's worried Garth will take it as the former, adds a hasty, "Thanks," this time before he disconnects the call. He drops the phone to the counter and gathers up the herbs and spices.

"Friggin' salad dressing," he grumbles, dumping generous amounts of each ingredient into a large glass mixing bowl. Sam blends the herbs with his fingers and wipes what sticks onto the chest of his shirt as he roots about for water. In a spacious pantry off of the kitchen he finds stores of dust-coated nonperishable foods, long perished by now, and a row of gallon water jugs.

"Yahtzee," he whispers with a small, strained smile.

They're still exploring all of the nooks and crannies and advantages offered by the secret hidden bunker of the Men of Letters, but it was built to withstand time and demons and everything in between. The safest place on Earth. Everything Sam could possibly need to make it through this.

Sam's dragged a chair from the main room and the deadweight of his heavy brother down the hall to a small, empty storage room with exposed concrete walls and bright fluorescent lighting. He's restrained Dean with the strongest knots he could manage, though he can't really be sure how long they'll hold. Everything Dad taught Sam he taught Dean first, and he has to assume that any knot he can tie, Dean can escape.

He hasn't yet, though; Dean's wrists remain tied tightly to the sturdy arms of the heavy wooden chair, his ankles likewise strapped to the legs. Dean is dangerous under the best of circumstances, and Sam's taken every precaution and removed his belt, boots, and all of the hidden knives. At least, he hopes he got them all.

It's spreading quickly; Dean's veins stand out in stark contrast to his pale skin, now stretching down his right forearm and up the side of his neck, where his pulse is visible in a rapid beat just below his jawline. Sam's laid a circle of goofer dust and drawn a shaky devil's trap in white chalk around the chair, a tight perimeter he's not sure whether he hopes will work, or hopes won't. Mostly he hopes he won't have to find out. Dean stirs, and Sam, waiting in the doorway with the herb mixture and the water, braces himself.

Dean coughs as he wakes, and a dribble of dark red blood falls from the corner of his mouth. A stale, coppery scent overtakes the small, airless room. Dean slowly raises his head and takes in his surroundings, shifting his limbs, and his eyes land chillingly on Sam's. "Where are we?" His voice is deep, broken like gravel in a garbage disposal.

The skip in Sam's heartbeat almost feels like fear. "Still in the bunker."

Dean rolls his wrists underneath the ropes, testing the bindings. More blood drips to the chest of his t-shirt. He squints his eyes at the bowl in Sam's hand. "What are you doing?"

Sam eyes those shifty hands warily, but Dean doesn't seem to be trying to fling him about. Or doesn't realize he can. "I'm gonna fix this."

Dean jerks his neck, narrows his eyes. "No, thanks." The odor of his contaminated blood is very nearly an additional tangible presence in the room, warm and heavy on Sam's exposed skin.

Sam breathes through his mouth, approaches cautiously with the paste of herbs and holy water. He also has a small knife in hand, has to get the mixture well into the wounds for this to work according to Garth and his contacts. "Dean…" He flounders, gapes wordlessly at the unabated hatred in Dean's eyes. "Just don't kick my ass for this later."

Dean watches him approach and strains against his bindings, muscles in his arms bulging. "When I get out of this chair I'm going to rip you into pieces." His eyes are mostly black, the skin around the left ringed with fresh purpling bruises courtesy of Sam's right fist, the knuckles of which are similarly colored.

Sam flexes the fingers of his sore hand as he crosses the devil's trap and steps up to the chair.

Dean bares his teeth, looking like a cornered, wild animal. "You want me to believe in you? Why would I ever believe in you? You're pathetic."

Sam ignores him and quickly moves aside the tattered remains of Dean's shirt. He draws the blade swiftly across the fresh scabs on his side. Yellow pus and dark blood well up in the cuts, and Sam gags at the stench the escapes.

Dean roars and bucks against the restraints. Sweat beads at his hairline and runs in rivulets down his face. "You're gonna pay for that."

Sam swallows, his own suddenly sweaty palms slackening his grip on the glass bowl. "I really hope not." He gathers up a handful of the pungent herb mixture and slaps it onto the open wound, drawing a scream from Dean that is nearly inhuman.

Sam continues the torturous exercise with gritted teeth, moves on to step two and grabs up the gallon of freshly blessed holy water. He yanks Dean's head back and dumps the contents into his open mouth, down his throat.

A faint plume of smoke rises from Dean's mouth. Like a demon. He snarls and gags and spits but Sam is prepared, is right there with more water and a long strip of duct tape. He wraps it around Dean's mouth and the back of his head, keeping the water where it needs to be.

Hot tears of pain and frustration join the sweat cascading down Dean's cheeks, moistening the edges of the tape, but it holds.

Sam backs away, his energy well finally tapped. His legs give out, exhaustion and emotion catching up with him, the adrenaline rush finally fading, and fast. He falls to his hands and knees, breathing heavily, unable to tear his eyes away from Dean writhing violently in the chair. The legs pick up and thump back heavily to the concrete floor. Sam might be imagining the sounds of the rope fraying, the wood splitting. Might be imagining the chair stopping short of passing over the barrier of chalk and Hoodoo dust. Or he might not.

Dean's struggles don't stop, but they lessen little by little, and once Sam is sure he won't be ripped apart he drags himself to his feet and approaches the chair. It appears Dean has swallowed the water so he removes the tape. The ropes stay where they are.

What happens next is the longest fourteen hours of Sam's life. He keeps an uneasy watch from a chair nearby, with a bucket and the remaining holy water at his feet. He dozes occasionally, mere minutes at a time between Dean's agonizing screams and bouts of vomiting black blood as the herbs and holy water kill whatever poison is inside of him. Thick black goo oozes from the open wound in his side; the infection from Hell, literally.

Every time Sam gets near him, Dean sneers, spits, promises a dozen different slow, painful deaths for his little brother. The inky black that has overtaken his eyes pulls back into his pupils, the hazel of his irises reemerging red-rimmed just before his head dips for a final time, his chin falling to his chest. His shirt is covered in blood, sweat, and residue from the Sam's herb mixture.

Dean's unconscious for a few hours, and during that time the dark lines stretching across his pale skin fade away completely, and Sam's able to properly stitch and bandage the Hellhound scratches. He carefully thumbs up Dean's eyelids, thankfully notes his eyes are back to normal.

Finally, mercifully, Dean shifts, stares up at Sam with wet but clear eyes and through pale, cracked lips, implores, "Sammy? What the hell happened?"

Sam's not so immediately convinced, keeps a safe distance beyond the trap barrier.

Dean's brow furrows, and he looks around the bright room, down at his bound hands and red, raw wrists, down at the chalk marking on the cement floor. "What's with the…"

Sam swallows. "You were…sick. You, uh, remember any of that?"

Dean licks his lips, shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe…"

"You're okay now. I think." Sam shifts his weight, the toe of his shoe touching the edge of the chalk line. "How do you feel?"

"Hungry," Dean says immediately. He wiggles in the chair, looking uncomfortable. "Sammy, I gotta piss like a racehorse, man. Can you let me out of here?" He wrinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

"You. It's…you've been in that chair a while."

"Well, you mind letting me up?"

"As long as you're done threatening to kill me."

"As long as I what?"

Sam doesn't believe for a second that Dean doesn't remember any of that, but maybe this is the easiest way. It's certainly always been Dean's preferred method of coping over the years. "Never mind," he concedes, stepping forward and loosening the ropes.

Sam closes the door to his newfound bedroom and finally flops on top of the covers, stretching out, hands locked under his head. Nothing but his exhaustion matters now. He breathes deeply in and out, in and out, already feeling sleep drawing him in and welcoming it.

A knock on the door draws him back, opens his eyes with a snap.

Dean doesn't wait for an invitation, but barges right in. "Sammy, you sleepin'?"

"Not yet," Sam growls, with nothing near the ferocity Dean has recently displayed.

"Oh, good." Dean slaps his hands together. "Let's go out, get a drink. Play some pool. I feel good, man, like I slept for a month."

Sam groans and rolls to face the wall, pulling a pillow over his head.

"Sammy?"

"Go to your room, Dean."

Author Notes: Started on this one back in October, and just got around to finishing it. Figured, hey, if I wrote a one-shot in one day, then I can certainly force myself to finish that "Trial and Error" post-ep I've had slowly developing abandonment issues for six months.