Dean always noticed that time had a funny way of slowing down when something awful was happening. It was a nightmare, and his body felt as slow as molasses. He wanted to wake up but this wasn't something he could wake up from. This was really happening. He was moving, running, but not fast enough.

And then it happened and when it did, It hit him like a punch to the gut.

The grip of his machete was glued in his fist as he went in for the kill, cleanly severing the vamp's head from its' shoulders. The body shuddered and fell on his brother who was already pinned to the floor, smothered in tainted blood. Dean knew this was his fault. He was the one who was supposed to protect Sam. Instead he'd let him get turned because he wasn't strong enough, not like he needed to be.

Grief clawed inside him. He didn't expect to be forgiven and he certainly didn't think he'd be able to forgive himself. Their lives were never going to be the same and it would be a permanent reminder of his failure, of how Sam deserved better. But it was all going to be okay. It had to be. They had each other and that was all that mattered.

There were points in time when his life had been irrevocably altered. For Dean, that crux was and would always be Sam. He had no question in his mind, no protest or even a single thought to want anything else. It was simple, it always had been.

"Dean," Sam groaned, twisting in agony on the sopping, bare wood floor. His skin was starting to pale as the change began.

"Shhh, Sam, you're gonna be fine."

He gathered his not-so-little brother in his arms and hauled him out to the Impala. They drove off, putting the mission behind them as Sam writhed in the backseat.

"You, you've got to-"

"I don't want to hear it. You need to rest up, get your strength back," Dean ordered. Sam's voice was hollow and pained.

"Don't do this Dean… You know what happened. You know what you have to-"

"I don't have to do shit. Stop being a whiny bitch and get some rest. I don't wanna hear another word outta you."

Too tired to fight, Sam gave up. Dean glanced in the rearview at his brother shivering as his heart stopped beating and his blood turned cold. It had to have been a hell of a thing to go through. It should be him instead. He turned back to the road and tried to forget that this was all his fault.

Everything was going to be alright, he told himself again as he turned up the tunes just enough to distract him without bothering Sammy. His brother was going to be fine. They'd beaten the odds before and always came out on the other side. Not unscathed, but breathing. This wasn't any worse than the demon blood, Dean reasoned. If anything Sam was going to become a more astute hunter, and he was already the best.

The next couple of days were hard. It didn't take long for Dean to realize something was wrong, aside from the fact that his brother wasn't human anymore. Sam was seriously sick, demon-blood-withdrawal kind of sick, and nothing was cutting it.

He'd bled three deer and drank two coolers of blood bags Dean stole from a donation center. The hunger wouldn't go away, it only got worse. Sam looked like shit, too, even at night when he should have been feeling at least a little bit better.

Despite lacking a beating heart, he was burning up. It was five days after he'd been turned and now the fever was getting worse with every hour. He laid shirtless on the bed, sheets drenched with sweat as he fought the waves of hunger that surged through him every ten minutes like clockwork. Each bout came with pleas for Dean to just kill him and end his suffering.

"We're going to figure this out, Sammy," Dean reassured him, shoving his own fear down as deep as he could while he scoured the internet for a clue to what might help fix him. He had the feeling that if he didn't find something soon, his brother was going to burn up from the inside out and he couldn't fail him this time. Not again.

He'd never heard of fangs getting sick before, but it stood to reason that every species dealt with some sort of sickness. The vamp that turned him looked worse for wear and if they'd been sick, Sam would be too.

"I… I think I got something," Dean mumbled, his eyes racing through the synopsis of an ancient text on vampire anatomy and pathology. Any other time this would have read like a how-to manual on finding a fang's weaknesses so that they could use it against them. Right now it was his only hope to save his brother before he withered away.

Dean genuinely laughed when he read the cure. It was too simple. "You just need fresh human blood. It's basically a cure for… almost everything."

"We've tried that already. The bags-"

"Don't count. It has to be from the source." Dean explained, rushing over to his brother's bedside.

"What are you…"

Dean sat on the side of Sam's bed and pulled up his sleeve, offering his arm expectantly. "Come on, it's gonna get you better."

Sam was remarkably strong for how sick he'd gotten. One shove sent Dean flying across the room and when he hit the wall, it knocked the air out of his lungs. He bit his tongue on impact and now his mouth was bleeding, too.

Sam could smell him. His nostrils flared and he pushed himself into the corner of his bed, as far away from Dean as he could get.

"NO!" he snarled, fangs drawn.

"This is my fault," Dean coughed as his lungs inflated and spasmed. "Let me make it right."

"You can't make it right. Don't you see what I am?" Sam shuddered.

"You're my brother."

"I'm a monster! I'm not going to feed on you, Dean. You can't ask me to do that. If you're even half the hunter Dad thought you were, you'd put me down."

It was a low blow to bring their dead father into the mix. Dean knew he was trying to make him angry. "I can't do that."

"Can't or won't."

"Both. I'm not going to kill you Sammy. I'd die first."

"You're pathetic," Sam growled as Dean inched closer. "You just don't want to be alone."

"Damn straight. I can't live without you, Sammy. You know that."

"If Dad was here he would have ended me the moment I turned. He wouldn't have made me suffer."

"Yeah, well I'm not Dad."

"Listen, this is a one-time deal. Just let me help get you better, then you can go back to blood bags, or whatever."

Dean came closer and sat on the edge of his bed again. Sam was still pressed into the corner. His whole body was shaking, covered in sweat. He could feel the fever's heat radiating off Sam's skin, even at a distance. The bags under his eyes and the hollows in his cheeks made him look like death himself.

"Get away from me!" Sam roared, an unnatural thunder in his voice.

"It's gonna be alright baby," Dean murmured, slowly reaching for his brother. "Just let me fix it."

"No," he whispered, fighting to the last thread of resolve.

Dean was close now, his hands resting on Sam's shoulders. His skin was too hot and his tremors turned to convulsions as he battled the urge to sink his fangs into his brother's flesh.

"Sammy, please," he begged. He couldn't stand the thought of his brother dying, especially when this was all his fault, and the cure was so simple. It felt like Sam wouldn't take from him out of sheer spite. Because taking himself away was the only way he could really hurt him, make him pay for the weight of his misgivings.

Dean felt a wet trickle down his chin and his fingers came away red. He pressed them to his brother's lips. Sam's hand grabbed his wrist in a grip so tight he thought it would crush his bones. Red webbed eyes pierced through him, filled with hate, confusion, need. Lust. Dean's heart beat harder, faster in his chest.

Then Sam's mouth was on him, licking the trail of blood up his chin before his lips locked onto his. Sam explored Dean's mouth violently, licking, sucking hard on his tongue. This wasn't what Dean had expected, but he didn't care. This is what Sam needed and he'd be lying to himself if he tried to believe he didn't want this. Though, he had gotten pretty good at self deception.

Sam took Dean's shirt in his fists and tore it off him before he shoved him back onto the mattress. He'd never felt so naked, so vulnerable. He didn't understand why, and there wasn't time to think about what it meant. Sam descended on him again, growling into his mouth, gently biting his lips and tongue and sucking on the cuts they left.

Dean knew this wasn't going to be enough. He pushed Sam back and bared his neck, waiting for him to take what had always been his.

"Please Sammy," Dean begged, his hand trailing down the line of his jaw.

Sam nuzzled into the crook of his neck, ghosting kisses, dragging his tongue over the hot, pulsing flesh. Dean's face burned red with embarrassment as he hoped his brother couldn't feel the physical evidence of what this was doing to him. He would need a few minutes alone after Sam had taken what he needed.

Dean gasped when it finally happened, when the hot-cold sensation of fangs sinking into his neck sent shivers down his spine. He felt Sam drinking him and with every needy pull his brother took, a chill slowly crept over him.

He stroked a hand through Sam's hair, resting at the nape of his neck. His fever was coming down, his skin was almost back to a human temperature. He knew it would dip down below that, and it was likely that this was the last time he'd feel any warmth when he touched him at all.

"That's it Sammy, It's okay," he murmured.

It was sick, he knew it was but he'd be damned if it didn't feel good to finally be what his brother needed. It wasn't Ruby, and it wasn't demon blood. It wasn't school, suburbia, or 2.5 brats and a white picket fence. It was him. For once Sam needed him as much as he needed his brother. He knew he was fucked in the head for feeling that way but he didn't care. It felt right.