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[Sam very nearly speaks out, objects to what Cas says. But the comment about his blood leaves him quieted. The truth is, he has no idea why his blood is important. He doesn't know the details — has no memory of Yellow Eyes, or the horrific tale the demon had weaved for him, all proven horribly true. Okay. Guilt and blame later, then.

Making a face at Dean holds priority, even if Sam's terrified his brother's about to die any minute; you're grievously hurt, and that's gonna be your potential last words? He's honestly not even surprised; it may be the very least surprising thing, and as he crouches down next to his brother and Cas, he hushes Dean.]

Talk when you're not hurt and covered in blood, jerk.

[He looks back at Sam, anxious.]

I can give you some of mine, too. If you need it. I can do it.

[He doesn't mind bleeding for family, whether it's his fault or not. Whatever's wrong with his blood, it's useful right now. Just give the word, and he'll cut his skin, too. Bleed a cure. Be something better for a second.]

[ Dean isn't generally a happy drunk, but he is a very happy pothead and apparently bloodloss is having a similar effect. It's as terrifying as it is heartbreaking, and as Sammy crouches beside and chides him, all Cas can do is pray anyway, to anyone, that Dean isn't going to die like this in front of him. ]

It's fine.

[ Cas says in Sammy's general direction as he takes the bottle from Sam with a deep frown. That's a lot of blood, Sam, fuck, don't leave Cas to look after you too? He's still got his own leg to worry about, after all of this.

Holy oil is a clever idea. It has a multitude of uses, including purification rituals, but Cas has never seen it used like this. He doesn't know if it'll work, how much either of them has to drink, or how long it will take to take effect if it does work, but between the amount of time already past since their exposure and Dean's blood loss, there's no time to question it. He untwines his fingers from Dean's, presses extra gauze against Dean's back, and uses his shoulder to lift Dean just enough so that he won't choke on the... blood and oil mixture. God. ]

You be Robert Plant, and I'll be your band's groupie. Drink.

[ He doesn't give Dean room to argue about it, just presses the open bottle to Dean's mouth. Down the hatch. ]

[ Dean isn't really paying much attention to what's going on around him anymore, he's too close to losing consciousness to really hear or see clearly -- which is probably a good thing, because if he actually saw what's being put into that cocktail, he'd likely flip out. ]

The autumn moon lights my way.

[ He flashes a too wide smile up at Cas, shifting against the angel and parting his lips and immediately gagging, because it's fucking foul, and it tastes like warm liquid copper. ]

Eugh--what--

[ He'd protest more, but Cas isn't really letting him get a word out edgewise, and he swallows a few times as it's practically dumped down his throat before he finally gurgles and pushes it away.

Gross. ]

[Sam watches. Carefully and critically, leaning into the back with his arm braced against the roof of the Lincoln. There isn't room for him back there and Cas-

-thank God for Castiel. Focused and in control and guiding Dean despite his own injury.

Sam doesn't think he can hear prayers anymore, but if he can there's a loud, desperate one in Sam's heart, laced with fear and heavy, jagged anxiety.]

A little more, Dean. It's gonna heal you.

[He thinks. He hopes. What Dean can't drink is for Castiel but they can always make more. Please let this work. Please let this work. Please let this work.]

[Sammy watches with a sort of faraway look in his eyes, hands hanging at his sides, expression grim. His heart beat quickens; something about watching this, seeing someone ushering blood into someone else's mouth, it — scares him. He bites the inside of his cheek and tastes pennies, tastes something nectar-sweet that stales into something bitter and rotten. He blinks back to awareness, unsure where he'd even really gone; it's not like there are memories to fall back into.

He (Sammy? Or — an older, sadder Sam, buried under layers of a creaking spell?) says, softly:]

Cas. You, too.

[ It's a sickening, guilt-ridden process, but if it kills the virus, keeps this place safe, and keeps Dean alive, it's worth it. Dean drinks, and they'll probably all hear about it later, but for the moment, it's a small blessing that Dean doesn't have the wherewithal to argue and waste time.

Eventually, Dean argues his distaste (which, fair), and the younger Sam directs Cas to drink also. Without hesitation, Cas brings the cup of oil and blood mixture to his lips, though he can't help looking between the Sams with resigned concern: at the older who's weakening himself by giving his own tainted blood, at the younger who knows more about Croatoan than he should at any age. But what other choice do they have? Cas throws the rest of the mixture back, lets it slide warm down his throat without tasting it, like taking a shot, and the nauseous churn of his stomach isn't new to the drink; this whole day has been a continuous nightmare. ]

[ Oh, God. Dean would have so much to say about all of this if he had his wits about him. It's lucky for everyone that he doesn't, because he does what he's told for the most part. It's awful, in Dean's humble opinion, and it burns in his stomach, in the heartburn way, not the good way, and spreads through his veins like wildfire. It isn't fun, feeling a deadly virus burn out of you by virtue of your brothers sinful blood and purifying holy oil, but it's probably better than getting capped by said brother when you turn into a mindless walking corpse.

So.

Compromise.

Doesn't mean he won't bitch about it later, in great detail, though with Cas here it's probably him that'll get the bulk of the earful, though Sam should certainly expect a rant at some point in the near future.

Providing this works, though it seems to be. ]

Feel like I'm on fire. [ He groans, clutching at his stomach, head tipping back with a whine. Fuck, ow. ] Son of a bitch.

[Sam bites his lip as he watches, and lets the quiet settle for a moment. There's a little, bitter hope that the blood works — bitter only because he knows there's something concerningly wrong with it. If it can heal someone, though... it's something good. Something positive. He hopes, anyway. (But some little voice says you're all messed up on the inside, and he's not sure if it's about the blood, or about his soul, or what-)]

... How... do you feel?

[Would the virus have changed them by now? Influenced their words or thoughts?

Dean's kind of hard to use as a reference; he's delirious with injury, and all... Maybe they should... call on a particular angel, instead of letting those injuries simmer on Dean's health. Prayer, right? They'd just need to pray.]

...Weird. Hot.

[ Like he's running a massive fever, truthfully. Hot and cold flashes through him, the rising temperature of his body burning the bad shit away. He's still bleeding though, so that's sort of an annoying problem. They could use some help, and he shifts a little against where he's laying on Cas, groaning with the effort. ]

Uhh... 'other' Cas-- if you're listening? We could use an assist.

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