If there was anything Sam hadn't asked for, it was definitely being infected with demon blood as an infant. It was a bit too late to be dwelling on it now, one of his rare moments of consciousness being wasted on regret over something he had no control over. The room is as clean as hospitals are touted to be, but the environment won't get him sicker than he is. It's typical otherwise: eggshell walls, stained wood doors, a laughable excuse for "comfortable" chairs. Trying to hide his discomfort from one of those chairs is his brother Dean, staring into space engulfed in doom.
"How you feeling sunshine?" Dean says when his daze lifts and he tries to casually stretch.
"I'm not really in any pain right now, so I guess that's good."
"I would hope so! They gave you the good stuff." Sam rolls his eyes; this is not the time for joking.
"Did the doctors tell you anything? Is there any way to make me clean?"
"The uh," Dean clears his throat like he does when he's nervous or upset, "the demon blood has pretty much compromised your immune system kinda like AIDS. But don't freak out yet, they said it's possible you can saved with a blood transfusion," Sam watches his brother's hand interlock with his over the turquoise blanket that wasn't really keeping him warm.
"But-" Sam's head was spinning. They were basically a couple hours from anything and he highly doubted this hospital was stocked with blood, or even that anyone here knew how to perform the transfusion.
"We've got it covered Sammy, trust me."
"Dean-"
"Just get some rest. I'm going to get some vending machine food." Sure enough, Sam was out soon after; he seemed to only be awake five minutes at a time.
Sam doesn't know what time it is, since the lights are unwavering here and there's hardly a window around. A tray is on the nightstand next to him with some terrible excuse for fresh fruit and vegetables. Dean probably told them he's a vegetarian; a lie, but Dean knew he'd get more edible food that way. Outside he can hear voices that are verging on tense. One of them is Dean.
"I've told you, there is no blood stored here. He needs to be transferred to a bigger hospital."
"So he can die in the four hour ambulance ride? No."
"It's his choice, not yours. There's really nothing we can do."
"No, no, no! He's only awake a few minutes at a time and needs to be heavily drugged for the pain. He can't make a decision like that. I'm the only family he has!"
"Mr. Winchester, I feel we can come to an agreement. Let's discuss this elsewhere."
A nurse is putting a needle in his arm when he wakes up. His eyes follow it to the blood bag that is hanging.
"We found a donor," Dean's voice startles Sam with its dreary tone. He waits until the nurse has left and then leans over Sam to part his shoulder length hair to the sides. "You're going to be ok, Sammy."
"You didn't, Dean. Please tell me you didn't! Transfusions need three pints of blood!"
"I'll do whatever it takes to keep you healthy. I'm ok. We're in a hospital, what could happen?"
A week after the transfusion, they're in a motel near the highway. Dean was too tired to drive to the next town, so here they are. They've been here almost the entire time Sam has been out of the hospital. The bags under Dean's eyes could compete with the mariana trench, his lungs sputtering like the sound of a dying car. He won't go to a hospital for a few reasons: he hates hospitals, they don't have any more fake insurance cards left, and he can handle a bit of a cough.
Day after day, Sam tends more and more to his brother; Dean can hardly get out of bed anymore. He alternates between fevers and chills, hardly eats, and breathes slower than ever. Sam pleads with his brother to see a doctor to no avail. "It's pneumonia, usually clears up on it's own. Doctor'll say the same thing."
Sam comes back with breakfast as he's done for almost two months now. "I got your pancakes!"
"Sam," Dean rasps and then goes into a coughing fit. Sam rushes over and places his hand over Dean's forehead. "Oh my god, I'll run and get some ice. We've got to cool you down now!"
Dean grabs Sam's wrist as he's about to turn away, "Don't." He coughs hard, making Sam throat ache from the sound.
"I'm going to cool you down-"
"No. I'm not," he coughs heartily, "going to drag this out any longer."
"Dean it's just a virus, c'mon." Dean gasping for air.
"Sammy, you and I both know I'm on my last legs."
"No! You're not gonna die. We'll take you-"
"Sam I haven't been able to breathe well for the last couple days."
"Why didn't," he pauses while Dean hacks, "you tell me?"
"I've gotta give you hope. But it's over, kid." Dean smiles weakly, a tear blazes a trails down his left cheek. It lands on the bed sheet. Sam holds his brother and curses whatever deity he doesn't care for. Dean's last breath is loud and harsh and then gone, a resignation.
Months after Dean's death, Sam is holed up in a cabin sobbing; a nosebleed caught him unexpectedly. The blood oozes indifferently while the tears land on the backs of his hands and mixes with the blood there, Dean's blood.