A/N: I've always had this niggling question burning at the back of my mind. The boys get injured a lot, right? They often lose blood, yes? Obviously it's never come up in the show, but could either of them give blood to the other, in a pinch? What would happen if they did? Would Sam's demon blood then affect Dean? My questions, my answers!

I did do some research regarding the medical stuff…and tried to gloss over the technical bits…but if this and the next chapter make any biologists, doctors, med students, or just plain shmart people cringe with its inaccuracies, I deeply apologize. Just do me a favor and go with it.

Don't own Supernatural and strong language warning ahead.

…

MONEY

…

"Okay, Dean, I think we only got one shot, here."

"What's the matter with your arm?" Only if he spoke slowly and determinedly, did Dean manage not to slur his speech like a sleepy drunk.

"Huh?" Sam asked, as if he genuinely had just realized he had been favoring his left arm and was now clutching it absent-mindedly. "Oh. Think I hurt it in the wreck. I'm all right. Okay, so look, Dean." Sam crouched, kneeling down by the spot from which Dean hadn't yet gathered the strength to stand. "Our options out of here are through that steel door we came in, a magic secret door that I have yet to find, or digging. I have found a spoon."

Dean chuckled appreciably at the joke, but Sam continued as if he had been serious:

"It's silver, and the handle is sorta pointed, so that's something, I guess."

Dean held out his hand, palm up, expectantly.

"What?"

"Gimme."

"Silver isn't really that detrimental to vampires, though, that's just legend, right?"

"Dude. I have a chance to kill a vampire with a spoon. No way I'm letting you take that from me. Gimme."

Sam wasn't sure whether he wanted to jump for joy that Dean was back in the game, or throttle him for being juvenile. He settled for giving him the spoon.

"Okay, so that leaves me with, I dunno, the conveniently sharp piece of wood and the switchblade. What a fucking team."

"Yeah, man, we're like the A-Team or something. Tell me, you gonna build a tank out of all this junk in here, Murdock?"

Yeah, okay, so Dean was definitely a little loopy. Maybe a lot loopy. But that was better than depressed. At least he was in a fighting mood.

"Yeah…probably not. There's also a sort of sharp piece of metal. Could maybe be used for beheading, but it's kinda small."

"Shiv. Gimme."

Sam didn't argue this time. A shiv and a spoon. Sure. His brother was totally gonna kick some serious ass.

"Okay. So. They can see you right when they come in, so you'll have to stand here like you're still tied up, and as soon as they come in I'll shut the door. Hopefully we can out-flank them, take them by surprise, we can take care of a few before they all come in, and…and we'll go from there. Can you stand?"

"Shhhure thing, Sam-Sammy…."

That doesn't sound promising. Dean's attempt to stand ending up in a dead faint was even less inspiring. Shit, okay, new plan, Sam…

"Dean? You all right, man? I think I'm gonna have to lock you back up there to get you to stay."

"Fuck, no," Dean protested, forcing himself to sit up. "No, I'm all right. I just…just need to rest."

"What you need is blood, Dean. You're not gonna—we're not gonna—Jesus Christ." Sam paused, musing, thoughtful. "We're not getting out of here with you like this. We'll have to risk it."

"Risk what?" Dean asked warily, though admittedly too exhausted to sound half as nervous as he felt.

"Blood transfusion. I have a…a pen. And there's a half a bottle of whiskey one of the vamps left in here—"

"There's whiskey in the room and you been holding out on…." Dean paused as the first part of Sam's statement caught up with him. "Wait. What? No fucking way, Sam!"

"Dean, it's all right. I've done it before." Well, not strictly true, and he backtracked a bit. "Well, Dad did it before…remember our first wendigo? I was only, like, sixteen. It got you good and we were in the woods with no cell reception and you were dying Dean, so we had to, to get you out…"

"That's not even half of what I'm worried about, Sam. Case you hadn't noticed, blood's a precious commodity around here, seeing as how we're in a vampire's lair—"

"Perfect! They obviously don't like the taste of my blood, maybe that'll sort of keep you safe, too. Safe from being devoured, anyway. And it'll get you strong enough so that we can get out of here."

Dean still looked suspicious. Something about this whole arrangement made him nervous, and there was really no nice way of putting it:

"Uh…Sam? Demon blood? Won't that…uh…"

Sam huffed darkly. "Taint you?" He shrugged. "I don't know, honestly. It could kill you for all I know, or not actually do anything to help." Then he laughed, as if with a sudden idea. "Who knows, it might get Michael off your ass for good."

Dean grinned, appreciating the sentiment, though he doubted it would do anything of the sort. Sure, Sam had given him blood before—more than just on their first wendigo—and while admittedly he'd apparently always had the demon blood in his system from birth, never before had it been this highly concentrated.

True to form, though, that wasn't what Dean was worried about. Not much, anyway. He was only mildly worried about Sam's medical expertise—much less concerned than he should have been—seriously, a pen, a switchblade, and half a bottle of whiskey? Seriously?—and the fact that there were about sixteen ways this could go wrong, demon blood aside. But, no. Dean was worried about Sam:

"Sam: it's not the best plan to steal blood from the only fully-operational Winchester in the house. You'll just be weak, then, too. And then we'll both be useless."

"Dean, you can't even stand now…"

"I know, Sam, but damn it! What if you get something wrong—really hurt yourself, or can't stop the bleeding? And you're arm's hurt already!"

Sam was looking at him like he should be bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Dean hated that look, because it usually meant that Sam was about to whip out the patient, intelligent voice and the puppy-dog eyes, and kick his ass with his freaking Vulcan logic, and he could "Damn it, Jim!" all he wanted, but there was no escape. Resistance was futile.

"Dean. You're the hurt one, remember? Like, all over. I'm fine. I can take a few more hits if it means getting you on your feet, dude, I promise. Just trust me."

Ooh, that's a cheap shot, Sammy, bringing the T word into it.

"Fine. Whatever, dude."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief, but it came out as a shudder. Hard part over: now for the really hard part. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and cleaned it with a splash of whiskey, then took a look at Dean.

"Shit, man, all your veins are shredded. We may have to go in the…" Where? Neck? No, that's in even worse shape. "Wait a minute, I think I can get it in your wrist, here, make a fist for me."

Dean complied, but his fingers tightened around Sam's wrist like a vice until he looked up to meet his eyes:

"If I start getting visions," he warned, "or…move things with my mind…"

"Dean, I don't think that's how it works," Sam reassured him.

"Yeah, well, it'd better not. First spoon I bend is getting shoved up your ass."

"I'd like to see you try."

…

The hunter had been right about one thing. Demon blood, or whatever it was that was in Sam Winchester, had an…intoxicating effect. She'd drunk the most out of her coven, first to bite and last to let go, but it was just enough of a hit to tempt. Even drinking up most of the hunter informant before she let the rest of the coven devour him didn't sate her.

Maybe it was worth a trip downstairs.

No one knew how to stop this Apocalypse thing, and those who seemed to know weren't talking. So if she was going to survive, Clare knew she had to be stronger than she was. Maybe this demon blood thing was the answer. Anyway, she'd see how she did on the Demon Blood Light diet, diluted with human blood. If she could handle the spice and get enough down—not quite enough to kill him, may need more later—well, there was no telling how her powers might grow. It had turned this puny human into something worth reckoning. What might it do for her?

Definitely worth that trip downstairs.

…

"Jackpot."

"Ow. Shit."

"You okay, Dean? Does it hurt?"

"You've stabbed me with a fucking ballpoint pen, Sam! Yes, it hurts!"

"I mean, more than that. Does my blood, I dunno, feel weird? Burn? Hell, does it feel tainted?"

"No, Sam, it just hurts. Blood feels…fine," he said it with a kind of sigh, like he was relaxing almost without wanting to.

"Told ya. You're doing better already."

But you know what they say about when things seem too good to be true.

The attack might have been expected if they had been paying attention and had heard the bolt being drawn back and the door pushed open. But Dean had been so out of it and Sam so focused on his task that neither one heard anything until it was too late.

Sam had thought that he had Dean in a protected position. The blood transfusion necessitated that they sit near each other, and Dean's back was up against the beam in the middle of the room. Sam crouched around him like a lioness around her cub. One second Dean was there, lines of pain smoothing out of his face as he began to relax, the next second he was just gone. There was a crash, and Dean's body flew into a wall, in amongst a pile of junk, which crumbled around him and on him. Before Sam could see his attacker, he was flat on his back.

That was when Sam remembered that he was the main target.

Dean woke groggily from being thrown against a wall, intense pain and a fear for his brother being the main motivators that kept him from just checking out. He tried sitting up, but only managed it half-way before a great pain stopped him. He opened bleary eyes to see what was wrong with him now—it couldn't possibly get any worse, could it—and groaned at what he saw.

He should have known better. Because being trapped under half a wall and a rusty old filing cabinet while his brother was being menaced by a vampire could always get worse.

"Sam!" he shouted, hoarsely, because the weight of the materials on him was half-crushing his lungs. He gasped.

"Dean!" Sam shouted back, unadulterated terror in his voice. Tattoo vampire had him pinned flat on his back, straddling his legs, pinning one arm with one iron grip and holding his throat firmly but not quite dangerously with the other. The tiny tube, still stuck into his arm, was burbling blood.

Everything started to slow down for Dean, and the room began to fold in on itself. She grinned evilly, first down at Sam, then over at Dean. Dean was sure he was shouting empty threats and curses and struggling to free himself, but it was no use. She lowered her mouth to the tube and closed her lips around it, like a model's mouth around the straw in a bottle of Coke.

And she just began to drink.

She stopped once, wincing at the too-strong-liquor taste, and grinned. "Mm. You're right. Jackpot."

…

A/N: Unfortunately, real world calls, spring break almost over, and I won't be able to get back to writing more for a while! Fear not, however, as the boys will surely figure a way out of this one (I'm taking suggestions as to how, exactly, LOL), and after some more whumpage there will be tender loving comfort all around. Stay tuned…but, like, don't hold your breath or anything. Perhaps take some time to synch up The Wizard of Oz with The Dark Side of the Moon. It's what Dean would do.