Title: Bitten
Author: Dannyblue
Email: PG
Summary: Dean must take charge after Sam gets bitten.
Disclaimer: SUPERNATURAL and its characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
Distribution: All you have to do is ask.
Feedback: Yes, please.

PART ONE

There was blood everywhere.

Dean clutched the steering wheel with one slippery, blood-soaked hand. The other was holding a towel against the side of Sam's neck.

A white towel that was quickly turning dark red.

Dean swallowed against the nausea that wouldn't stop turning his stomach. It wasn't like he'd never seen blood before. Plenty of times. His own, as a matter of fact.

But, somehow, this was different.

"Sammy," Dean began, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "You still with me over there?"

There was a long pause. Long enough to worry him. Then, finally…

"It's Sam," came the faint reply.

Lips twitching with the hint of a smile—even as his heart sank at how weak Sam sounded—Dean took his eyes off the moonlit road long enough to study his brother. Sam's tall, lanky form was slouched in the passenger seat, his arms resting uselessly at his side. His eyes were closed, his head lolling back against the headrest.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked, turning his eyes back to the road.

"Fine," was Sam's automatic reply. Then, a second later, "Tired. And dizzy."

Dean nodded, even though there was no one to see. "Well, we're almost at the motel. Then, you can lie down, and we'll…take care of this."

Sam nodded a little, just enough to make the towel shift. Dean had to readjust in order to keep it pressed tight against the wound. And the car swerved a little to the right

"I can take it now," Sam said, sounding a hint stronger, even though the five words slurred together just a little.

Dean glanced over at him, not trying to hide his doubt since Sam couldn't see. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Sam insisted. Then he forced his eyes open, as if to prove the point. "I'm sure." Then, after a pause, his arms lifted, slow and unsteady, trembling just enough for Dean to see in the near darkness. Finally, both of his hands were covering Dean's atop the towel. "See?"

What Dean saw was that Sam was a pale as a block of marble.

"Sure you got it?" Dean asked, even as he noticed how cold his brother's hands were.

Eyes already closed again, Sam only nodded.

Reluctantly, Dean let go, pulling his hand from beneath Sam's. And, almost immediately, he felt…disconnected. It was almost like touching Sam was proof he was still there, still relatively okay. Now that he wasn't touching Sam anymore, wasn't physically connected anymore, some irrational part of him was suddenly afraid Sam would slip away without him noticing.

Get a grip, Winchester, Dean told himself as he wrapped his hand around the steering wheel… and tried not to cringe at how stiff the drying blood felt against his knuckles.

The wound wasn't that bad, really. Not too deep, not too wide. It was putting on a great show with all the bleeding and stuff. But that was all superficial. Any doctor would take one look at it and say, "Apply pressure. Clean it. Patch it up. Good as new."

But this was his brother. His brother slumped in his seat, too weak to keep his eyes open for long. His brother's blood, coating his hands like dark red ink, filling the car with that thick, coppery smell. His brother's throat that... thing tried to take a chunk out of.

And Dean would pay good money to be able to kill that bitch again.

Despite his deeply ingrained aversion to going to a hospital—bringing that kind of attention down on them—Dean would be speeding towards the nearest ER if he thought, for one second, that it would help.

But the wound, the blood loss, wasn't the reason Sam had gotten so weak so fast. It wasn't the reason the bleeding didn't want to stop. The real reason was nothing a doctor could help them with. Dean was probably the only person within a hundred miles—besides Sam—who knew what to do.

You sure about that, buddy boy?

That cold, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach—that had been there since the warehouse—settled in a little deeper.

"Shut up," Dean growled at his annoying inner voice.

"Hmmm?" Sam murmured, turning his head to face Dean, but still not opening his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean said. Taking his hand from the steering wheel, he squeezed his brother's shoulder. "Hold on, Sam. We're almost there."

(TO BE CONTINUED)