Somewhere along the last stretch of the drive, Dean lost consciousness. Sam helped Bobby carry him inside and put him upstairs in a spare room before calling a family meeting. John grabbed a sixer from the fridge and placed it in the middle of the table, then sat down near his youngest son. Bobby returned a moment later with a heavy stack of books which he thumped down next to the beer.
Sam scanned the titles as his father cracked open a bottle.
"Vampyre: Mythe and lore; The Undead; Compendium of Blood Magick and Rites, a slew of hunter diaries… Bobby, if there were a cure—I mean, I don't want to give up hope, but don't you think we'd know about it? How many hundreds of hunters must have been bitten in this line of work? If there were a cure, wouldn't they use it?"
Bobby scowled.
"I'm not sayin' you're wrong, Sam, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't be looking. Besides, it ain't just a cure we should be tracking down. Dean's a friggin' mess if you all hadn't noticed. He's unwilling to feed and keepin' him sick and strung out on dead man's blood ain't exactly an optimal solution for anyone. That shit might not kill him, but it's cutting it close, don't you think? We have to find some way to help him or he's either gonna lose it, or more likely starve before we get around to fixin' him. You ever seen a vampire after it's been starved, John? Your boy is gonna whittle down to the bones and go stark ravin' any day now, and from everything I've read, it's rare to come back from somethin' like that. You can already count his ribs. We gotta find something quick or he ain't gonna make it."
John scowled.
"Bobby, whether or not he feeds is Dean's decision. The consequences are his, too. All I know is, anorexic or not, we've got a vampire on our hands. Learning what makes 'em tick won't help. I hate to say it," he said quietly, "but… maybe-" He took a deep breath, scrubbed a weary hand down his face and bowed his head, "Maybe we gotta stop thinking of him as Dean if we want to resolve this. The reality is that you were almost killed back there, Sam. That's the reality. Dean's fault or not, he got turned. It happens in this line of work. At the end of the day, though, Sammy, our job is to keep innocent people safe, plain and simple. Even from…"
Sam shoved his chair back, stood angrily and chucked one of the books in front of his father.
"Even from Dean, is that it? Read the fucking book, sir. Dean always defended us. He died, got turned, defending us. Defending me. Time we returned the favor. Or did you forget that part of our job is defending Dean, one of your so-called 'innocent people' and your son no less, even from himself? And that we've failed him?"
With that, the youngest Winchester stormed out of the room.
John sighed and collapsed back into his chair.
Dean was cold to the touch and completely still. His body was laid on the bed, head gently resting to one side. Sam watched for any sign that he would wake, but it seemed as though hours went by without the slightest stirring. His hand was in Dean's, which slowly started to absorb his body heat and reflect it back to him, but that was all.
Eventually, a knock came at the door.
Sam briefly considered denying them entry, thinking maybe it was his father come to continue their fight, but he thought better of it. His Dad wouldn't bother to climb the stairs it took to see them, not after that argument.
"Come in," he said. Bobby entered, approached the bed, and stood behind Sam.
"He won't wake up," Sam said quietly, hating the plaintive note of worry that crept into his otherwise matter-of-fact tone.
Bobby heaved a sigh, pulled over a chair.
"Listen, Sam," he began, "Dean's in rough shape. The research I've been lookin' at down there? It's pretty bleak. Worse than we thought."
Sam felt his mouth go dry.
"What do you mean?"
Removing his dirty trucker cap, Bobby squeezed the brim of it between his hands in his usual nervous tick. Bad news, is what this meant. Sam steeled himself for it.
"Dean's only a week into the change. He needs blood, Sam, and a lot of it. The fact that he's refusing to eat is a bad sign. He could lose control, or worse: He might up and die on us. Now, your Dad is as likely to help Dean feed as a werewolf is likely to give up hearts for lent, but you and I, we watch out for family. And Dean is family."
Sam nodded, his throat constricting, but a thought occurred to him.
"I thought… I thought starvation couldn't kill a vampire. Don't you have to cut off their head? That's what we've always assumed, right?"
"Well, we thought wrong, at least as far as young 'uns are concerned. You get turned, you're pretty vulnerable for at least a year. Once you've got enough human blood in your system, then you can count yourself immortal except for a beheading, but until then? Yeah, Sam, they can starve, and Dean's starving. And from what I read down there? It ain't a pretty way to go, son."
After a moment of tense consideration, Sam clenched his fingers around Dean's hand.
"What do we do?"
Bobby put his baseball cap back on his head and pulled an IV bag of O Positive blood from his flannel.
"I have a bit on hand because I'm tired of sticking myself every time I gotta do a blood sigil. From what I've heard, it helps if it's warm, so I kept two of these here in my shirt pocket. Should be about body temperature by now."
Bobby stood and approached the bed, carefully placing a hand beneath Dean's jaw and one behind his head. Gently he tilted the head back, elongating the throat, and he pulled back Dean's lips to check his teeth.
"Fangs are in place, so we can use 'em to tear open the bag," he observed.
"Bobby…" Sam hesitated, "What if he wakes up?"
"He might," the older hunter answered truthfully. "And one of three things will happen. One, he'll be fine and thank us for our hospitality and start eating again like a normal goddamn person… er, vampire. Whatever. But I think we both know about how likely that is. Two, he's gonna panic when he tastes blood and try to spit it out or get away, and that's a bit more Dean's usual M.O. If he tries that shit, you gotta hold him down until I can force him to eat, alright?" -Sam nodded- "Or three, and this is what I'm scared of, kid…"
Bobby took a deep breath before continuing.
"Three, he might start jonesing. Hard. Dean hasn't let himself eat much of anything so far, and this is pure human blood. If he loses it, it could be dangerous. He won't be able to stop himself. And not just right now. This is gonna make it really difficult for Dean to control the hunger around humans. Up til now, he's had animal blood-"
"No," Sam cut in, "He bit… He bit Dad."
"You think two mouthfuls is gonna count? You ever try cocaine, kid?"
Sam shook his head.
"Once or twice, and you feel good and happy and maybe think you can handle it. But the next time, you start wondering when you can do it again. Pretty soon you're gonna need that hit. Crave it like your life depends on it."
Sam swallowed uncomfortably.
"It's worse for vamps," Bobby said quietly, not without pity. He looked at Dean's still form and almost felt sorry for what they were about to do.
"Every time they drink human blood, it cracks that resistance. Makes the hunger a little harder to stop. It's why so many of them end up on the wrong end of a hunter's blade- they get sloppy. It's hard to stay on top of an addiction like that and not get caught. You aren't thinking about leavin' a trail, you're just worried when you can get your next fix."
Glancing at his brother, Sam felt a well of grief rising in his throat.
"Dean's gonna hate us for this," he said.
Bobby looked like he was close to tears and too tired to shed any of them.
"He might," he replied, "but only if he lives through it. Animal blood ain't gonna be enough to keep him alive through the change. Maybe we can switch him over later, but right now? He needs the high-test stuff, and fast. You ready?"
Sam nodded, got on the bed, settled his weight on his brother's body and firmly held both arms pinned beneath his knees and hands.
"Okay," he said. "Ready."
