A/N: IMPORTANT UPDATE: Make sure to go back, if you haven't already, and re-read Chapter 9,Brain Damage, which I tacked a short scene onto. That'll lead you straight back here, and everything will begin to make sense!

Warnings: Rough language, as well as unnecessary amounts of schmoop, fluff, sap and general brotherly love ahead! No Wincest though.

...

ECLIPSE

...

A decidedly human touch brought Dean around. That was funny in and of itself, that he could recognize a human by touch alone—that such a concept existed—but he was deadly serious and overwhelmingly relieved because as he drug himself from the depths of unconsciousness he knew for certain that, after such a long time, here, this, this wasn't a vampire, and it wasn't an angel. It was a human. The normality of it was disturbingly calming.

Dean didn't really want to be awake, but the hand on his brow, stroking his face with a thumb moving in totally uncool, unacceptably touchy-feely soothing circles, seemed to be insisting on it. He groaned in protest, but opened his eyes out of curiosity more than anything, and practically fainted in relief at what he saw:

Sam?

Dean didn't actually have to ask out loud. Of course he would see Sam. Of course he was here, kneeling desperately beside the couch with that worried, pinched face of his, trying himself not to look as weak and sick as he probably felt, asking how Dean was doing, practically lifting him up and hugging him. A walking, talking, chick-flick moment.

"S-Sam-my?"

Dean tried, for no reason, to move his right arm—his good one—in relative terms, because while this one wasn't broken, the wound in the crook of his elbow was bad enough that he was having trouble making a fist—towards his brother, and struggled with a cough that wracked his chest. He was genuinely afraid his body was going to rattle apart.

"Hey," Sam said with a gentle smile. "How you feelin', bro?"

"I—" Dean coughed, choked a bit. Tasted blood. "I f-feel…"

That was all he got out before his body rebelled, forcing him from his bed of solace into the throes of purging. Sam, who admittedly caught on faster than Castiel had done, was only fast enough to help lift him and tip his head over the side of the couch, although a container of some sort quickly entered his line of vision and quickly began filling up with bright red blood.

Dean felt like crap.

He vomited so long and so steadily—it must have looked like a demon exiting a host, only with a stream of blood instead of black smoke—that he forgot or was unable to breathe for long enough that his vision began to go dark. As he came to, he felt his brother's hand still supporting his head, taking the strain off his tattered neck muscles, while another hand was on his shoulder, helping his body tip, and this hand was now rubbing up and down his back, telling him over and over just to get it all out, better out than in, that it was okay and he was here with him and would look after him. Dean gave a weak cough and moaned rather pathetically as the pain from vomiting caught up with him: injured muscles strained, stitches pulled, broken bones shifted. An indication of the colossal amount of agony he was in was that he was well past the stage of not wanting Sam to see him like this. Throwing up on an Angel of the Lord, all over another hunter's sofa, where he'd lain, naked and bleeding, too weak to even keep his eyes open, had quickly taught Dean that there were more mortifying experiences in life than needing your little brother to hold your head up while you puked your brains out.

When Dean felt he was done, he tried to settle back himself, raising an arm to wipe the blood from his lips. But apparently Sammy was going to have none of this as Dean felt a warm, wet cloth was suddenly wiping at his face, wiping his hand, wiping at the couch. Dean was being told to rinse and spit, and then drink and swallow, as water trickled past his lips. He really didn't want to puke again, but rather than try fighting the puppy-dog-eyes he knew were glaring at him, he managed a few sips before Sam laid him back against the pillows. Dean knew by the movement just beside his head that Sam knelt there, cleaning his vomit. Scrubbing bodily fluids out of the carpet. If that wasn't love, Dean wasn't sure what was.

And God, how he hated it.

As Dean lay there, half-conscious and helpless from pain and weariness, he pricked up his ears, trying to listen to the conversation through the thick fog of fever and a laundry list of other things that sucked about his life right now:

"You say he ingested some of your blood—"

"No, Cas, he didn't ingest it. Just a regular transfusion—well, okay, the MacGyver version—but he didn't drink my blood, no."

"Well, it appears his body is attempting to purge it from his system. The vessel of Michael will automatically reject any impurities." There was a hint of emotion in the angel's voice that Dean couldn't quite place.

"Yeah, checked all the wounds, they're clean," Bobby assured them. "This ain't a normal fever, or ain't a normal infection. Try to give him some antibiotics, just in case, I guess…"

"We should…" Cas began, and then stopped. Suddenly, Dean recognized the emotion in his voice: nervousness. "We should get him to the panic room."

Okay, and distrust.

Dean flinched, ever so slightly, in fear: for fuck's sake, he wasn't going through withdrawals…

"No."

It took Dean a moment to realize that the ice-cold growl had come from Sam, who was still beside him, the only one close enough to feel him tense. Dean guessed he must have also made some sort of pathetic simpering noise only loud enough for his brother to hear, because Sam laid a comforting hand on his chest, miraculously, on the only part of his body that didn't hurt, which said Don't worry, bro, I got you as clearly as if it could speak.

"Sam, your brother is—"

"No, Cas, and don't say it again. For fuck's sake, my brother isn't going through withdrawals, he's sick. He's staying right here, where it's comfortable, where I can look after him."

Wayta go, Sammy, Dean thought, almost grinning in spite of himself, his body going lax under Sam's defense. Then, with a melancholy that was actually mainly pride: That's only the, what, eighteenth time you've had to save my ass in the past two days?

Either the room went quiet, everyone left, or Dean passed out at that moment, because the next thing he recognized was silence, except for Sam's voice, prominent, urging him awake.

"Come on, Dean, open your eyes. Got something here for you…"

Dean obeyed and opened his eyes, but couldn't seem to do much else besides stare at the ceiling. He waited there, unmoving, unthinking, until Sam pushed himself into Dean's field of vision. Dean blinked at him owlishly, blankly, for a minute, waiting for the world to explain itself.

Nothing was forthcoming.

"Dean? You with me, man? Jesus Christ, you're burning up."

The touch of knuckles to the side of his head did more to rouse Dean than anything. It took a massive effort, but he jiggled his head in Sam's direction, managing a raspy, "Yeah." Then, as a few struggling neurons connected: "You okay?"

Sam ignored the question. "Got some pills to give you here. Think you can keep 'em down for me?" he asked gently. He began nudging them past Dean's lips, a glass of water ready in his other hand.

At the last moment Dean realized what was happening and flinched away, hardly able to move but taking full advantage of what little he could manage. "Uhng," he said, eloquently. He shook his head, and pressed his lips together.

"Come on, Dean, you've got to."

"Hurts, Sammy."

Dean didn't miss Sam's eyes going wide in unadulterated alarm at Dean's admission of pain, though he quickly recovered and gave him his signature pout: "I know, Dean. These'll help. Help you feel better."

Dean managed to shake his head this time: "Just puke 'em up again," he moaned, and closed his eyes.

"Come on, Dean!" Sam whined. The bitching was hovering dangerously near seven, maybe eight, but Sam wasn't enough of a bastard to take advantage of him while he was sick. "Please, man."

Or was he? Dean didn't dare look at him, in case the puppy-dog eyes lay in waiting.

"Dean, look, you've got to give it a try. Just trust me, man. I'll give 'em to you in some warm milk, you think you can keep that down? I'll even throw some of Bobby's secret Chivas Regal stash into the mix if—"

"Oh, God," Dean moaned, his stomach flipping. Fuck, how sick was he if expensive scotch didn't appeal to him?

"Okay, okay, maybe not," Sam corrected, backpedaling, laying his hand briefly on Dean's stomach as if this would prevent it from revolting again. "How about some ginger ale? I can send someone to the store for some Canada Dry. How does that sound?"

That actually sounded okay, and Dean made the mistake of opening his eyes. Sam had turned the puppy-dog eyes up to fucking eleven, and Dean found himself giving it up faster than a cheap hooker: "Fine, okay," he whispered. "I take the pills, you get me ginger ale." He was too sick and tried to argue.

Sam grinned widely, relieved. "Deal."

Dean didn't even bother attempting to raise his arms or head, instead letting Sam steer his body through swallowing the pharmaceutical cocktail. He spent the next few minutes bargaining with his stomach about accepting the offering, willing it to stay down while his head was swimming in about twelve different directions at once. Somewhere in the background, he heard Sam getting bossy with the angel—

"…Look, Cas, I don't care where you get it from, or how you get it, but go buy Dean some ginger ale. It's called Canada Dry, and it's the soda with the green label. Here's some cash, but honestly I don't care if you beg, borrow or steal some so long as it gets here, okay?..."

—which, if he'd been in any slightly better condition, would have been hilarious. As Dean did have a pulse, it was still pretty funny.

The ginger ale, when it came—from a Wal Mart in Springfield, Illinois, randomly, but as the entire trip only took Castiel about fifteen minutes via angel express, no one complained more than they laughed—soothed his stomach enough so that when he puked again, as was inevitable, most of the pills appeared to have been at least half dissolved and into his system enough that Dean dared to feel slightly better. Sam was holding him upright throughout this spell of vomiting, and after the rinse and spit, he pressed more pills on him, and this time a sip of milk, too, and then some more ginger ale, and only then did he let him down to sleep. But this regimen seemed to do the trick, or else he was just done puking, because now he got to deal with other far more fun problems.

Dean was entirely too exhausted to deal with the whole freezing one second and practically boiling the next, but Michael's vessel seemed pretty intent on scrubbing itself clean, and sweats and shakes seemed to be the way it was going. Luckily, Sam was there to create a nest around him with what honestly might have been every blanket in the house. He was of course too weak even to push the blankets away from his body when he grew warm, but Sam stood readily by to destroy the nest again when he saw Dean struggling for air.

The world around Dean spun constantly, like he was riding out a storm in a rowboat in slow-motion. It helped a bit when he opened his eyes, but he was too tired to keep them open for long. Hovering nursemaid Sammy appeared in doubles, while Bobby and Castiel were like ghosts flitting in the background. Dean actually hallucinated a few times—reapers, demons, and vampires (oh, my!) mainly—but Sam alternately shushed him and offered to protect him, depending on how bad the vision was. While Dean never got an exact number, he felt sure his fever alone was probably high enough to do this to him.

A fever that came from demon blood. From Sam's blood.

"Sam!" Dean screamed, terror and concern for those in the house lending him strength he didn't have at a terrible interest rate. There was vampire right here. God, how did these bastards keep finding him? Maybe they weren't after him anymore? Were they after Sam?

"You keep your greedy claws off my brother, you understand?" he shrieked, forcing himself up until he was almost sitting, which was only slightly more threatening than him lying flat on his back.

"Why don't you just give it up?" it asked tiredly, teeth gleaming as it settled itself on top of him, forcing him back, pinning him to the couch with depressing ease. "It will be over quickly for him, and it will solve this whole Apocalypse thing. It isn't as if he doesn't deserve death, right?"

"Fuck you!" Dean spat. "That's my brother you're talking about, you bloodsucking bastard!"

"You know the alternative, Dean," it leered. "Sam possessed by Lucifer, destroying the world? You, forced to say yes to Michael to combat him and save a world hardly worth saving." What was with bad guys and their aversion to doing anything in favor of just saying shit? What the hell kind of kick did they get out of monologuing, anyway? "Tell me how this isn't better."

"You want him, you'll have to go through me first!" And with that declaration, Dean pulled some newfound strength out of his ass and launched himself at the vampire, forcing them both from the couch. He landed a solid punch and was just looking around for anything he could use as a weapon as it scrabbled to grab his wrists and—

"Whoa, Dean! Dean, it's me, holy shit! Come back, man!"

The body pinned under him was no longer attached to the toothy maw of a vampire. His vision cleared and the vampire shifted and melted until it looked like a blurry Sam. This thing wasn't trying to eat his little brother—it was his little brother!

Dean wobbled, falling back away from Sam. Time to pay the piper for that little dance number. His vision faded steadily, going dark, as pain became the sensation of the hour, blocking out his perception of anything else. He barely felt what might have been Sam's limbs wrapped around him, holding him upright so he wouldn't topple over. Although, honestly, if it had been a vampire grasping him, Dean couldn't have done a damn thing about it.

Then Dean might have puked again, he might have just been sobbing, he might even have lost control of his bladder, and he wasn't sure he cared about any of the above. If he and his pride met on a street corner right now they wouldn't have recognized each other. He couldn't even summon the energy to be offended at Sam's babying of him as he slowly came to. A gasp and a flinch were all he could manage as Sam pulled him painfully close before heaving him back to the couch:

"Whoa, whoa, easy, man, it's okay. It's just me, Dean. It's Sam, don't fight me. Just relax, I gotcha."

"C-can't see, Sammy…" Dean whispered, wanting to be afraid at this development but not strong enough to care.

"That's 'cause your eyes are closed, moron. Okay, one, two, three—"

And holy shit! okay now he could see, but nothing but a killer bright white light that exploded somewhere in his skull as Sam lifted him back to the couch. He definitely tasted vomit in his mouth this time, and the tears mingled with the rivers of sweat that poured off him. He couldn't remember ever feeling this level of agony. Or this level of pathetic, for that matter. Maybe post-Alistair. Maybe.

"I-is it always this bad—f-for you?" Dean rasped, surprised he was able to speak. He was shivering now, teeth chattering, as Sam worked to cocoon him in the blankets which lay ready, already sticky from his sweat. "When you're—in the panic room."

Sam didn't answer, but Dean felt him shrug, which meant the answer was the one he didn't want to hear and Sam didn't want to say: No…it's worse.

That was when Dean knew that he had been the biggest dick in the entire history of dickish brothers. He should have been there with Sam, the whole time, as he rode out his addiction, as he struggled to come clean, damn the consequences and the fact that Sam was practically rabid when he was jonesing. Instead he had left Sam in his misery, not just once, but twice, committing on top of this the cardinal sin of not trusting his brother, refusing to forgive him. Sam may have been the resident selfish brat for their entire lives, but ever since Sam—no, they—had released Lucifer, Dean was steadily winning that title away from his little brother.

I'm sorry, Dean wanted to say, but "Don't leave me," was what came out.

Sam heard both, luckily, and nodded, and shushed Dean to sleep.

…

When Bobby checked on the boys later, in the wee hours of the morning, he was glad to discover them both finally asleep—for now at least. Dean lay on the couch, dead to the world, probably heavily drugged, with Sam sitting on the floor beside him, his head resting on the seat by Dean's chest. It was a picture of trust. Their arms were entwined in a way they would undoubtedly deny and blame on each the other's unconscious clinging tendencies the moment they awoke, but Bobby could not help but be touched at the sight. Sam's arm fell lightly across Dean's chest, a reminder of his presence, while his hand lay flat, palm against the side of Dean's neck, where the worst of the wounds were, applying no pressure, but protecting, cradling it. Dean had perched his hand atop Sam's head, the same aching skull which Sam had been loath for even the doctors to prod, while Dean was here permitted, even encouraged, to lay his hand protectively over his brother's brow.

Bobby would later claim that the tears which sprang to his eyes were due to dust in the air. The day was long gone in which seeing them together like this was natural enough not to be given a second glance. Bobby couldn't help but be reminded to marvel at the titanic forces it had taken to pull them apart the past year, and at the fact that they drew closer to their former selves with each passing day. Even if Sam and Dean didn't know it yet, things were back to the way they should be between them.

Still. Brotherly love wasn't going to solve the coming Apocalypse.

…

And everything under the sun is in tune

But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

…

THE END (?)

…

A/N: Whew! Glad you made it here to the end, and thanks for reading! I'm glad I made it, lemme tell ya! Thanks so much to all those who left reviews and in general encouraged this story. I never would have continued it or even given it a second thought had it not been for your support!

This was my projected endgame, but then again this wasn't supposed to be more than a one-off anyway, so I can always be persuaded to keep going… ;) Seriously, though, it won't be as neatly tied off as I thought this bit was, but I can always do an "Encore" chapter if enough people request it, or if I didn't fulfill anyone's wishes sufficiently in this chapter, on account of I aim to please!

Otherwise, fin. I will be re-posting this under its correct title, The Dark Side of the Moon, in a few days, just so no one gets lost, so apologies ahead of time if my lack of knowledge deletes anyone's reviews or favorites or whatever. In other news, I've got a Wee!chester adventure in the pipeline which I hope you will check out, as well as my ongoing serial Why Metallica Calms Dean Down. Thanks again for reading, and I would love to hear what you think about this story, and am as usual always open to ideas and suggestions, so please drop me a line! :D