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He’s pacing, maddened by the cacophony of his own senses. Everything too much, clashing, battling for the attention of his beleaguered brain. Too loud, too bright; even the slightest current of air scratches his skin like a blizzard. Too much smell. Way too much. His jaws ache with holding back the fangs and his gums feel raw. His stomach is knotting itself into a pretzel.
If he doesn’t feed soon, he knows with sickening certainty what will happen, and that knowledge is the greatest overload of all. It threatens to pull him down, a dark vortex of teeth and blood and churning horror from which there will be no climbing back. He may have drunk human blood, but he hasn’t killed, not yet. He clings to that slender thread of hope, clings to Sam, and that’s laughable, because Sam did this to him. But it’s the only lifeline he has.
“Dean.” Sam commands his attention with a single word, spoken so softly, but breaking on his ears like thunder. He stops his pacing and stares, swallowing the saliva that pours over his tongue. Wonders if he looks even half as wild and tense as he feels.
“It’s all right,” Sam murmurs, and obviously, he does. “I trust you, Dean. You won’t hurt me.” He’s sincere; completely unafraid. His heartbeat doesn’t lie.
Sam lays bare the column of his throat and turns his head to the side, an open invitation to feed. The measured thump and rush of the blood eclipses all other sound, rising steadily, hypnotically in Dean's awareness until he is mesmerised. The scent is intoxicating. It pulls him like an insistent thread of red, wet hunger, and yet, there is something else there, too. It smells like Sam.
Dean has never consciously thought about how his brother smells, it's the least developed sense in the human species; but he knows, intellectually, that everyone has their own, unique scent, and he has been breathing it at close quarters for years. It is ingrained, indelibly, in the deepest, most primitive layers of his brain. It calls to him on a subconscious, emotional level that captures everything he has ever felt about his brother. Loving, protecting, nurturing, guiding.
In a flash of insight so humbling and enlightening it almost sends him to his knees, he realises how little they actually know about vampires; these creatures they have always dismissed as savage, blood thirsty, incapable of any feeling beyond the need to feed.
He knows, suddenly, that whatever else he may be capable of, whatever future actions he may come to regret, and no matter how fiercely the hunger gnaws, one thing is irrevocably certain: Sam is right. He can never hurt him.
His Sammy. For whom he died and suffered in Hell, and becoming... this, makes no difference whatsoever to that fundamental aspect, that core pillar of his being.
Sam is still standing there, leaning against the wall, an offering of such complete trust it brings tears to Dean's eyes. He steps closer slowly, almost reverently, lays his hands on the wall to either side of Sam's head, and leans forward to inhale, breathing deep.
His fangs extend automatically but he can't bite, that would leave too ragged and ugly a wound. He reaches into his jacket for his knife, instead. Lays the edge of the blade like a whisper against Sam's throat, angles it just so, careful to avoid the major artery. He makes the gentlest of incisions, slicing skin like silk. Sam doesn't react; even his heartbeat stays the same, reassuring with its slow, steady rhythm.
A bright ribbon of blood flows from the wound, like wine, like the holy sacrament. Dean stoops, presses his mouth to the flow, taking care not to let his fangs bruise flesh. He seals his lips over the cut like a kiss and tongues at the pulsing trickle, lapping and sucking. His eyes close; he can feel Sam's pulse like a trapped creature in his mouth, its wings fluttering to the steady drum beat in his ears. Sam Sam Sam Sam Sam it whispers; and his world shrinks down and simultaneously expands to just this, the heady surge of life over his tongue.
It's the most incredible thing he's ever tasted. Rich and thick like gravy, it floods his mouth and runs down his throat like a caress, meat and salt and tang of iron better than the best burger in creation, better even than bacon. It's nothing like what he drank earlier, from the blood bag; that was cold and dead, bitter with added chemicals; anti coagulants, he supposes. Sam's blood is warm and bursting with life, hundreds of side note flavours jostling his taste buds from all the ingredients that make up vein-fresh blood besides the cells. The difference is like comparing a rare, juicy steak from a fancy restaurant to stale leftovers eaten straight out of the refrigerator. He can understand why vamps prefer their meals on tap. If he could drink without hurting his brother, he'd drain him like a beer.
He catches himself at the thought, the seduction of the blood almost making him lose control; forces himself to take it slow, dip at the fountain when his body screams at him to jump in and drown. He hears, almost abstractedly, a soft whimper escape his own throat and he shudders with the exertion of holding back. Then he feels something ghost over his hair. Sam's fingers, he realises; and now Sam is holding his head, cradling him close, and Dean presses against him, nuzzling as he savours the slow, steady stream. He ekes it out for as long as possible, wrapped in the full sensorium of Sam.
Gradually, the vortex subsides, its hungry maw closing, grumbling still but satisfied; for now. With it, the raging conflict upon his senses also ebbs, and a sense of peace descends. He realises he can only hear one heartbeat; his own has synchronised with Sam’s so perfectly he can’t tell them apart. He stops drinking, but stays still, his lips pressed to the wound in Sam’s throat, his breath ghosting warm over skin. Sam strokes his hair, then his shoulders, his back; soothing, gentle.
“See?” Sam murmurs, and this time his voice rumbles softly as it’s meant to. “I’ve got you, Dean. I’ll look after you. We’ll work around this.”
Dean believes him, now. He has to. He has no choice. The thought occurs to him, bubbling up from the vortex like a malevolent whisper, that this could be what Sam intended all along; he has bound Dean to him as surely as if he’d fixed him with a collar and leash. There can be no going back to Lisa now. He pushes the thought back down, ruthlessly, as unworthy. He must have made a mistake; Sam froze from shock, or time slowed while the vamp forced Dean to drink, or the failed cure scrambled his memories with paranoia. He can’t have seen what he thought he did. Sam loves him; his offering, his trust, surely prove that.
They can do this, together, like an alcoholic and his buddy keeping faith. Lenore stayed sober, and what were her credentials, after all? Dean is a hunter, he’s been saving people (not killing them) since he was old enough to clean his own gun. And Sam is the most moral person Dean has ever known; as long as he leans on his brother’s guidance, he can hardly stray. Sam will keep Dean on the straight and narrow; as he’s always done.