Chapter 4.

There is no time to Dean, only burning hunger. Freezing emptiness. Sam is the only thing holding him together. Up on the mountain he sees nothing but Sam. Hears nothing but Sam's blood, his words, sees his smiles and lives his quiet happiness in their current life. He's scared to disappoint him. Knows that soon he'll screw it all up.

He can't stomach food again. He throws up what little food Sam more or less shoves down his throat. His mind wanders, he can't keep himself from thinking about the warm, slick, gorgeous redness of blood anymore. He trembles, his hands shake…he can't do anything and at night he dreams of pleading Sam to let him at least look at the blade, at least lay his dry, blood shot eyes on its outline.

Sam is siting in the living room pouring his soul into the reading of some old, dusty book sipping on Stress–Relieving tea. Dean had dutifully drunk his and then promptly risen to discreetly make his way to the bathroom. As he looks at the blood in the toilet that he'd hack up with the watery leftovers of the tea only moments earlier he knows…

…he's dying. And there's nothing either of them can do about it.

…

It's swirling darkness, misty with an underlying deep unfathomable purple. Through the darkness, which seems to be an entity all of its own, Dean can see Cain standing, giving him his back. At his feet there's a prone figure, blood soaking into the ground around it. Dean can only rightly assume it's the body of his brother, Abel.

Dean shudders at the sight of blood dripping from the tip of the first blade gripped tightly in his hand. He can't help it, can't fight it…he thinks of Sam. Fear grips his heart, roots him to the spot…he asked for this, he asked for the Mark, had he asked for Sam's death, for his baby brother's very blood?

It's so very cold, his breath clouding in front of him and he shivers even harder as Cain slowly turns to face him. Dean tries to back up, tries to get away. To escape this unavoidable reflection of himself. Dead eyed, stone faced…hands covered in the blood of his brother, his most precious companion…his reason to live.

"You and me are the same, Dean." He says in the authoritative, soft voice that has Dean believing him without thought. "You will kill your brother just as I killed mine."

And suddenly Sam is there on his knees between them. His shaggy head hanging limp to his chest, his hands bound behind him like a sacrifice for the offering. And Dean finally finds the strength to move. He stumbles away from his brother, quick to remove the darkness inside himself away from his innocent, good, little brother.

He pushes out a trembling hand towards Cain. "No. St, stay away from him. He doesn't deserve to die, he's not like us."

"He is like us Dean." Cain says, stepping around the younger Winchester arm outstretched and offering Dean the handle of the First Blade. "He's capable of the same darkness, save him from that possibility, save him from himself…like I saved Abel."

He can't control himself, he can't stop his arm reaching out…his hand wrapping around the blade. He needs blood. God, he needs it…you don't understand how he needs it. He aches for it, he burns for it…he can hardly think or see for the desire of blood drowning out his senses.

And Sam looks up; kaleidoscope hazel–green eyes glistening wetly, fear and trust fighting for dominance in them. And Dean can hear it, hear the blood racing through Sam's veins, pumping through his body, waiting to spill out and bathe him in relief.

He raises the blade and Cain's face is alight in triumph.

"No!" The knight of hell shrieks in anger as the blade runs cleanly through Dean's arm, hitting its bullseye; the mark.

And Dean sighs softly, looking down numbly, peace washing over him…there is blood.

…

One way or another, through tear blurred, swollen eyes Sam gets the dungeon clean. He's all too happy to make any proof of Dean being locked away disappear but it still crushes him knowing he'd done it. Sam throws the knife Dean had used to seer the flesh away from his arm away without a thought, he never wants to see it again. Never wants Dean to see it again.

The skin on his hands burn as he washes them in the kitchen after he's done. His eyes are dry and burning now…but he can't get clean, god Dean's blood, and vomit and sweat, and confusion and pain…Sam can't wash it off.

He finds himself back in Dean's room, eyes on his brother's pale face. Dean's skin is wet and shiny, unhealthy red coloring the middle of his cheeks, he shivers and trembles, teeth clenching and grinding.

Sam sinks to his knees backs of the knuckles of one hand going to his older sibling's forehead, fingers of the other hand seeking out his wrist to count a pulse. Dean jerks away from his touch and Sam's heart sinks…

"St…stay away from him…" Dean mumbles, his face twisting with internal agony. "He doesn't deserve to die, he's not like us…" he whispers, calming though his eyes still rove under their lids.

"Dean," Sam starts, voice tremulous. "It's okay, I'm here, you're okay."

"No S'm," he mummers back, "Stay away." He sighs exhaustedly, before rolling over onto his side away from his baby brother. Sam slumps dejectedly, can't even begin to imagine what Dean is going through, what is going on in his head. How his subconsciousness in choosing to torture him in his fevered state.

"I'm here." He says to Dean's back, "I'm not going anywhere you can forget it. Whatever it is we can figure it out together."

And then the sound reaches his ear…a soft scratching sound, nails against skin, fabric rustling. He jumps up lightening fast before he even has time to think, jerking Dean over onto his back. His fingers wrap around the wrist of Dean's uninjured arm the fingers of which are digging mercilessly into his wound where the Mark used to be. It takes most of Sam's strength to drag Dean's desperate fingers away from the wound and he grimaces at the raw inflamed skin starting to ooze blood.

Dean whines and struggles, his face contorting in a pained grimace, fists clinched.

"Shit Dean." Sam whispers, as he grabs a hand towel from the bedside table and holds it too the bloody wound, a cool hand against Dean's hot neck soothing him with soft whispers. When Dean has settled a little Sam goes to the bathroom and soaks a wash cloth with cold water, wrings it out and then spreads it over Dean's forehead.

But Dean turns his face back towards his brother and his touch, "Sammmmmyyy…" he sighs out a calm sleepy breath. And Sam feels his heart inevitably heal and break with the swell of love and fear for his big brother.

…

Sam looks up as Dean blinks quickly, his eyelashes clumping and sticking together with sleep. His muscles tense and he moans under his breath as he shifts under the covers. The younger Winchester watches carefully as Dean lifts his arm to gaze at the wound through bleary eyes, the contented, sickly–fascinated gleam in them making Sam's concern spike even higher.

"Dean?" He asks hesitantly, not at all sure his brother is actually with him.

Dean's eyes jump to his, and Sam's heart contracts so painfully at the way he tenses and distances himself even if it is just mentally and emotionally. The vulnerability and fear evident in Dean's features lets Sam know Dean isn't himself, makes him rise to reach out a hand to feel his temperature.

Dean stays still. Doesn't move at all, his eyes seem to stare through Sam and everything else, he doesn't even flinch when Sam touches his forehead.

"Dean, how are you feeling?" He asks quietly, sighing with the still blaring heat of his fever.

Dean simply hmms under his breath, looking away eyes back to the wound on his arm and Sam frowns.

"Dean. It's me, it's Sammy." He said quietly but firmly, leaning down and taking hold of one of Dean's hands. "I'm here, I came back…do you remember what happened? What happened to you? You're worrying me."

"Sammy?" Dean asks quietly, confused. His eyes finally lifting to study Sam's familiar features. "You came back?"

Sam smiles, sweet relief flooding him. "Yes, its me. Of course I came back…"

The agony in Dean's eyes scares the breath from Sam's chest. "I don't wanna hurt you Sammy…" is all Dean breathes out as he wrestles his hand from Sam's grip.

"You would never hurt me." Sam says firmly, "You know that better than anyone."

"That's the thing." Dean says, words muffled as he looks down at his arm, lips caught between his teeth as he rubs his thumb over the raw flesh, "I don't know that anymore."

And jesus, he sounds terrifyingly coherent, like himself.

Sam's never felt Dean this far from him, has never felt him so unreachable. He watches with wide eyes as Dean roughly rubs those wrinkles between his eyebrows worriedly. Watches the fear and confusion dance in his eyes, the muscles tense as he clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes closed against the thoughts and doubts his brain and the fever are drowning him in.

"Just sleep." Sam pushes gently, "I'm gonna be right here, I won't let you hurt me."

"Don't let me hurt you…" Dean echoes as he slips back into oblivion.

…tbc

Gonna be working on this more. Thx for you guys patience! REVIEW!? ;):);)