A/N: Because we could all use some Winchester brotherly love right about now.

They're not mine, but you knew that. Their lives would probably be easier if they were.

Dean sat out in the yard for a long time—he hadn't really expected an answer to his prayer, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't hoped for one. He lowered himself down onto the hood of some old junker, staring up at the stars and not seeing them at all. His thoughts swirled in ever darkening circles inside his head—he wanted so badly to see a way out of this, and for the life of him, there was nothing. He was done. The end of the world was coming, and all they could do was run.

The stars he wasn't looking at were fading into the pink of dawn when Dean suddenly became aware of how cold it was. With a tired sigh, he slid from the hood of the car and made his way inside. The house was quiet and dark—Bobby had long since gone to bed, though he'd left a lamp on in the study for Dean. Dean flicked it off and moved toward the stairs, pausing on the landing. No sound was coming from below. He took a few steps into the basement, his stomach twisting when the silence persisted. Memories of the last time it had been that quiet crashed into his mind with unwelcome images of his baby brother convulsing on the floor, and he flew down the remainder of the stairs and flung open the window to the panic room.

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding when he saw Sam sitting quietly at the foot of the cot, his back to the door. Carefully, Dean slid back the bolt and eased the door open enough to put his head in. "Sam?"

"Hey, Dean," a tired voice answered. Sam didn't turn.

Dean considered for a moment. Sam had taken a lot longer to come down last time, but then again, he'd been on the demon blood for a lot longer then, too. Dean stepped into the room. "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam answered flatly. He still didn't turn around.

Dean walked farther into the room until he could get a good look at his brother. If 'fine' meant done with the withdrawal, okay, he might buy that much, but Sam looked awful. His skin was pale and clammy, dark circles ringed his eyes, and though his hands were folded together across his knees, it wasn't stopping them from shaking. "Fine?" Dean repeated, arching an eyebrow. "Dude, you look like hell."

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" Sam turned his head in his direction, but didn't quite look up at him. "I'm trying not to puke, my head is killing me and I feel like crap." He sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

Dean dropped down on the cot next to him, bouncing once on the thin mattress and jolting Sam's hand away from his eyes. For a long moment, neither of them said anything.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam said in a small voice.

"Sorry?" Dean blinked in confusion. Had he missed something? He turned to Sam, but his brother was staring at his shoes.

"I know it's not enough, but I—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for any of—"

"Sam, just, stop it. Hang on a minute," Dean cut him off. "What are you talking about? What are you apologizing for?"

"For this, Dean!" Sam said, throwing out an arm, encompassing the panic room with his gesture. He returned his hand to his face, rubbing his eyes again. "For everything that happened," he went on quietly. "The blood, the demons, for being…" He laughed once, bitterly. "I just can't stop screwing up."

Oh. That. Dean had been so caught up in his own despair, he hadn't really thought about what this had all done to Sam.

"I tried, Dean," Sam said softly, seeming to take Dean's lack of response as a demand for an explanation. "I tried so hard, but then they were there, and it was like I could hear it—I could hear the blood pumping, and I needed it." He closed his eyes, biting his lip. "And I just—I couldn't stop, I couldn't…" He drew in his breath, running a hand through his hair. "I know you're disappointed," he mumbled. "But I really am sorry." His voice sounded so young, so desperate for Dean to understand.

Dean swallowed at a catch in his throat. No wonder Sam hadn't looked at him since he came in. He got off the cot and crouched down in front of his brother. Sam's face was hidden behind a curtain of hair, so Dean put a hand on his knee. "Sammy, I'm not disappointed."

"Yeah," Sam snorted. "Sure. Just because I was tripping on demon blood doesn't mean I couldn't see your face."

"Okay," Dean said. He didn't want to dump all his crap on Sam, but he hated lying to him, and he hated even more the thought that Sam thought it was all his fault. The truth, then. "Yeah, you know what? I am. I'm disappointed at the horrible, crappy turn our lives have taken. The world is ending, and people we love keep on dying. I'm tired of being treated like a game piece in some galactic chess game, I'm tired of running from angels and their stupid destiny crap, and I'm tired of everything trying to kill us. Our lives suck, and I honestly have no idea how we're going to get out of this. Everything's just getting worse, so yeah, I'm disappointed. But not in you, Sammy." He squeezed Sam's knee. "Not in you."

For the first time, Sam looked up and met Dean's eyes. He looked sick and broken and tired and…just a little bit hopeful.

Dean pulled up as encouraging a smile as he could muster, answering the unspoken question in his eyes. "Really," he assured him. "Hell, if anything, I'm proud of you."

"You're proud of me?" Sam asked incredulously.

"You said no, Sammy," Dean said simply. "I won't pretend like I know what that stuff does to you, but I know it hits you hard. When Famine threw those demons at you, I—I'm not gonna lie, it scared me." Sam looked down again, and Dean pushed on. "But you said no. You ganked the demons and you took down a freaking Horseman, Sam." He squeezed Sam's knee again, willing his brother to look at him. "You did good."

"I still drank the blood in the first place, Dean," Sam protested. Dean sighed. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Good old Winchester guilt. "I still let it get to me." He met Dean's gaze again, eyes swimming with unshed tears. "I still broke."

"I'd call it more of a bend than a break," Dean replied, trying for a little levity. Sam said nothing and Dean sighed again. "Okay, so maybe you cracked, but you did a hell of a lot better than you did last time," he insisted. "You pulled yourself out this time, instead of us trying to force you to stop. Hell, you even asked us to lock you in here to ride it out."

"I did?"

Dean smiled and patted Sam's knee. "Yep. I'd be proud of you for that, even if you hadn't pulled a win out of this thing. You're growing up, little brother."

Sam smiled then—a tired, small smile, but it was genuine. "Thanks, Dean," he said softly.

Dean got to his feet, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder. "C'mon," he said warmly. "Time for bed."

"'m good down here," Sam argued, swaying as Dean pulled him to his feet.

Dean hooked Sam's arm over his shoulder, shaking his head. "You've spent way too much time in here already, dude. Real bed's upstairs, come on."

Sam muttered something incoherent that was probably a protest, but allowed Dean to maneuver him in the direction of the door. The stairs were a challenge, but Dean's hand on his back kept him steady.

Pausing for breath on the landing, Dean glanced through the living room into the kitchen. He vaguely remembered Bobby mentioning leftovers earlier, and though he wasn't hungry, he was in full big-brother mode now, and knew Sam hadn't eaten in a while. "You hungry?" he asked. "Bobby left us some dinner."

Sam made a noise that sounded like "hrk", and shook his head quickly. "No," he said emphatically. He shut his eyes. "Remember what I said about trying not to puke?"

"Right. Bed, then." He moved to start up the stairs.

"Couch 's fine," Sam said, his words starting to slur together.

"Bed," Dean insisted, and Sam didn't argue. The second flight of stairs was more difficult than the first—by the time they reached the top Sam had ceased to be any help at all, and Dean practically dragged him the last several feet to their room, registering somewhere in the back of his brain a certain amount of pride in not making enough noise to wake Bobby. He half-dropped, half-lowered his brother onto the bed nearest the door. Sam groaned and rolled over onto his stomach, snuggling into his pillow like he did when he was a kid. Dean pulled off Sam's shoes, grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and laid it carefully across his back. He got up and came back with a glass of water which he placed on the nightstand, and a trashcan which he put on the floor by the bed. He hated seeing Sam sick, but taking care of him? That was something he could do. There might not be a thing he could do to stop the end of the world, but he had this one. Dean felt comfortable—and maybe even a little less miserable—falling back into the familiar role of Big Brother. It was easier than breathing.

He sat down next to his brother and started rubbing his hand in soothing circles across his back. "It's okay, Sammy," he whispered. "You're gonna be okay."

"So're you, D'n," Sam mumbled sleepily from half-inside the pillow. "We c'n figure 's thing out."

Dean smiled to himself. Sammy always was the hopeful one. Maybe he could muster up enough for the both of them.