Author's Note: This is the result of an amazing prompt on OhSam. This is set in very late season 9 so major spoilers. Please enjoy!

"Was it you or I who stumbled first? It does not matter. The one of us who finds the strength to get up first, must help the other."

—Vera Nazarian

"The First Blade," Sam began quietly, eyes downcast. "It's changing you." He raised his gaze then locking onto his brother's green eyes. How unfamiliar they appeared now, dark and filled with a murderous rage. Blood dripped off the blade, dotting the cement ground outside of the bunker. They had been on a simple hunt, yet things had spiraled out of control so quickly.

Dean had tried to kill an innocent bystander. A young woman in the wrong place at the wrong time and his older brother had seen her and suddenly, she was the target and if Sam had been a second slower she would've died. He has no doubts that Dean would've run her through.

Dean would've killed her.

"I'm fine." His older brother growled, his grip tightening on the blade's grip ever so slightly. "That girl was in the way—"

"Of what?" Sam challenged, his voice rising. "We killed the elemental! What was she in the way of?"

"Sam, drop it—!" His brother's stance was ridged; his body practically hummed fury and righteous indignation.

"No!" The youngest Winchester roared, his own anger boiling over as the memory of that woman's wide hazel eyes filled his memory. She knew, just like he had, that she had almost died. And for what? Arriving at the lake at the wrong moment? She ran away as soon as Sam had gotten in between her and Dean, not tat the youngest Winchester could blame her. "Can't you see what it's doing to you? You're not yourself!" He gestured to the blade. "That's changing you for the worst."

"Like the demon blood was for you?" Dean

That hit him like a stab wound to the gut. The subject of his addiction was, needless to say, a touchy one. Back then, Sam thought he had been doing what he assumed was right and look where that had gotten them!

"Yes." Sam hissed through clenched teeth.

"Here's the thing about that though," Dean began, lips turning upwards in a chilling parody of a grin. He held up the blade proudly. "This? It actually gets results."

"Do you even hear yourself?" The youngest Winchester questioned. "Dean, this isn't you—!"

"You know what, Sam?" Dean moved towards the bunker's door. "You were the one who said we were partners, not brothers." His hand hovered over the door handle. "So, just stay out."

With that, he went inside, leaving a bewildered Sam alone in the cold night air.

"You're injured?"

Sam nearly jumped at the familiar voice, but simply settled for pulling down the sleeves instead. The red marks were hidden now, but they still caused the youngest Winchester a bit of concern.

"Just rope burn." He muttered, though he couldn't remember the last time he'd been tied up. Definitely not any time recent enough to get these marks. Still, he had a lot more things to worry about than a few marks that he might've picked up from any of his hunts. Castiel's brow furrowed, but he dropped it and changed topic.

"How is Dean?"

"He's . . ." Sam sighed, facing the current leader of Heaven's army. The youngest Winchester was lucky that Castiel even had time to come check in with how busy he was organizing the next attack on Metatron. "He's addicted to the blade."

"I know." Castiel's eyes darkened. He ran a hand through his hair before pacing the room. "I've been trying to do some research on it—"

'There's nothing." The other man snapped. "I've been through everything and anything I can find is vague." Sam grimaced, coming to rest at the foot of his bed. "I just . . . I can't let this consume Dean."

"I could try talking to him." Castiel offered, gaze serious and expression tight.

"You won't get through to him." Sam chuckled bitterly. "I really screwed this up, didn't I?"

"Sam—" A comforting hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"I told him that we were just partners," He plowed on, bitterly. "And that was my mistake." He rose from his bed and sighed mournfully. "And now, here we are."

"I will talk to him." Castiel vowed, vanishing in a flutter of wings.

"Good luck." He whispered, facing the mirror once more. Pulling up his sleeves, he stared at the rope burn once more. Idly rubbing the irritated skin, he silently hoped that everything would be okay.

He would make it okay.

The next morning, he wakes up in a haze of blood, pain blossoming everywhere. He lets out a strangled gasp and pushes himself out of the bed and tries to remember how to breathe properly. It feels like he's been in a car accident—

"Shit."

The sight of himself in the mirror is one that he knew too well. That car accident so many years ago when that semi-hit the Impala and Dean had been on death's door and their father had—

The memories stung almost as much as the injuries.

"Sam?" A hesitant knock at his door and the youngest Winchester forced himself to spring into action. He reached for a towel and wiped the blood away and tossed it to the side. He grimaced, knowing that Dean would notice the wounds and until Sam had a definitive answer, he didn't want to alarm his brother unnecessarily, especially since Dean might act first and think later. He couldn't risk that, not yet, not now.

"Just give me a second!" The cuts were still visible, but the bleeding had stopped for now. He opened the door and hoped his brother wouldn't notice. "Hey."

"You hit your head?" Dean muttered as he entered the room.

"What?" Sam attempted to play dumb. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and noticed that the cuts had scabbed over. Some of them had even faded from view. "Uh, yeah, I did."

"You were always a klutz." Dean let out a mirthless laugh.

Silence filled by awkwardness. Neither one knew exactly how to take the steps needed to mend the rift between them.

"Dean—"

"Look, I was out of line." His older brother confessed. "I said things I shouldn't and you're right." With a shaky hand, he extended the First Blade out, and the youngest Winchester quickly took it. "Put it somewhere." His hand was still outstretched, as if he wanted to snatch it back. "Don't tell me where."

"Okay." He mumbled. Dean smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Good." He let out a shaky breath before quickly turning around and heading towards the door. Sam reached out, grabbing his shoulder and his brother stiffened. It was almost as if he was shaking, his body trembling at the loss of the blade. It was almost like—

Withdrawal.

"I'm sorry too." He offered a small, hopeful grin that his brother returned before moving towards the door.

"Thanks, Sam."

Then, he was out the door.

The mysterious injuries kept coming—a shallow stab wound here, a few bruises there. Nothing truly serious because as soon as he woke up, the injuries began to fade and heal until he went to bed, perfectly healed. The problem was he knew that these injuries—his injuries from his life of hunting—consisted of a few fatal ones. There was no pattern to them. It wasn't like he could pinpoint the day that he would experience the fatal stab wound that Jake had given him or the bullet to the heart that those rogue hunters had inflicted upon him.

This morning—his fifth since the injuries had started; since the curse had begun—he awoke to a gaping bullet wound on his shoulder, courtesy of Bella. He forced himself out of bed, pressing a bed sheet to his bleeding shoulder. The pain was intense, almost blinding him to any sense other than the throbbing and burning of the invisible bullet.

"Damn it." He ground out, moving towards the door. He had to get to the first aid kit. The blood loss was too intense for him to just wait for the injury to start to fade. If he didn't stop it soon, he would lose consciousness.

He would never wake back up again.

"C'mon." He breathed, trying to focus on the slow, arduous task of walking down the long, winding hallway. Dean was out—had been going out more and more ever since he'd given up the blade. Sam hadn't had a chance to ask what his brother had been up to, and between researching the blade and the curse, he hadn't had much time. Still, it was times like these he'd wish that Dean was around more and that their relationship was fixed.

But it wasn't.

That's why Sam had to keep moving, to get to the kit, to fix things—

His knees buckled as his hands reached for the kit, bloody fingerprints smearing on the wooden table. It was almost in his reach! If he could just stretch a bit more—

A pair of strong hands swiftly brought him up and concerned green eyes met his.

"Dean?"

His older brother opened his mouth to say something, but the sound didn't reach Sam's ears. He felt his body list and then there was nothing but an odd sense of detachment and darkness.

Then, nothing.

"Hey, easy, just take it easy." His brother's voice, soothing and strong, was the first sound he heard as he came to in his bed. Dean hovered anxiously above him, clearly wishing he could do something. One thing his older brother had always hated was being useless.

"Hey." Sam murmured, drowsiness still having a hold over him.

"Hey?" Dean echoed, incredulous. "I come home to find you bleeding out from a bullet wound and all I get is 'hey'?" The anger was evident not only in his controlled voice, but in his stance. His older brother barely looked like he was holding it together and sure, maybe part of that was due to the withdrawal of the blade but Sam knew that part of his brother's frustration was from this secret he was keeping.

"Dean, I can—" He pushed himself up from the bed, hissing with phantom pain.

"Easy," Dean pushed him down, his grip firm and insistent. "Just tell me what happened." His brother let out a shaky breath. "Did someone get in here? I mean, we have wards, but I never thought we'd have to protect against other hunters—"

"No, it wasn't like that." Sam flexed his shoulder experimentally, only to find that the pain was gone. Dean moved towards him, ready to reprimand him when Sam quickly pulled off the bandage.

"Stop! You'll re-open the wound—"

"There's nothing there." Sam stated with a tight smile. At Dean's bewildered expression, he continued on. "I think I've been cursed."

"And you're just telling me now?" Dean growled, rage bubbling under his tone. "Sam, you could've bled out if I hadn't gotten here! How long has this been going on?"

"Five days."

"Fuck." Dean swore under his breath.

"Today was the first day when it was really bad, Dean, otherwise I would've—"

"You would've what, Sam?" Dean spun on him. "Given me a heads up?"

"I didn't want to worry you unless I was sure—" The youngest Winchester protested half-heartedly. He had wanted to tell Dean and if things had been different, he would've. But with Metatron and the First Blade, it had been the furthest thing from his mind to tell Dean about this curse.

"Well, a bullet wound to the shoulder is pretty damning evidence." His brother muttered, running a hand through his hair. Pacing the floor a bit, Dean finally faced him, slightly calmer. "Tell me what you know."

That's how their dad would start his hunting lessons. Sam could picture himself, wide-eyed and naïve and ready to be like his older brother and his confident father, ready to finally to be involved in the family business. Back then; before he'd started to question things, before normalcy had become his main objective, things had been simple. He'd been sure of his place in his family. His father would take him aside and say with whatever book Sam had been studying and ask that simple question.

Tell me what you know, Sam.

That had been back before the grief and the rage and the hunt had consumed their father, before Sam realized what he really wanted. Before the slammed doors, the sharp rebukes and the angry glares, there had just been this—

Tell me what you know, Sam.

"I'm experiencing injuries from past hunts." The youngest Winchester began quietly. "I don't know how or why, but the injuries appear when I wake up and fade throughout the day until they fade away, like they weren't even there."

Dean's expression darkened; his gaze dropped. Sam knew where his older brother's mind was going. It was the exact same place that Sam's had gone the moment he put it together—Cold Oak.

"Is there . . ." Dean coughed, trying to strengthen his voice. "Is there a pattern to them? A way to predict which ones you might wake up with?"

"No," He shook his head. "There isn't a set pattern."

"So, we're flying blind here?" Sam nodded his head. "Fuck."

"I haven't been able to find a hex bag—"

"And I don't think we've run into a witch recently." Dean muttered. He paced the floor, though the youngest Winchester wasn't sure if he was aware that he was doing it.

"Maybe we have but we didn't know." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, it hit him. "Wait."

"The girl." Dean breathed. "The one I almost killed."

"A revenge spell then." The youngest Winchester concluded. Revenge spells were powerful magic fuelled by the spell caster's emotions. They could target someone over 100 miles away, though that took serious magical prowess to achieve. Still, she had looked like the type of witch they were used. She was young for one thing, but then again, she could be using her magic to appear that way. She was the best lead they had.

"We have to find her," The eldest Winchester began. "Get her to reverse the spell."

"And if she won't?" Sam ventured, quietly.

"I'll kill her." Dean stated, matter-of-factly.

"No."

Stunned eyes met his.

"No?" His older brother echoed. "Sam, this spell of hers will kill you, you get that, right?"

"Of course I do." He replied quickly. "But Dean, you need to sit this one out."

"Why the hell would I do that?" Dean retorted, practically seething with fury. It came rolling off him in waves and made Sam flinch. This wasn't his brother—this was what the First Blade had done to his brother. Sam would fix this, would finally save his brother.

He had to, but right now, he needed to keep his brother from innocent civilians.

"Because I need you here." The admission made him sound vulnerable and weak, but Sam didn't care. He was done with the lies. He wanted to fix things between his brother and him and maybe this curse could be the starting point. "You're right. I don't know what injury I could wake up with. Until we have more of an exact location to go on, I can't risk heading out there only to end up with a knife in the back."

Dean flinched at that, the memory obviously still raw and painful.

"Okay." He breathed, inner calm seeming to take over him. "What do we need to do?"

Sam beamed at that. They were a "we" once again.

"We start with research."

"Okay."

Finally.

They were getting somewhere.

They were getting nowhere.

The witch had vanished seemingly without a trace. Whether that was because she was magical or because she was just good at covering her tracks remained to be seen. Yet, even with six hours of solid research, they had nothing. Nighttime had long passed and dawn was approaching and with it, the fear of the unknown.

"We'll get her." Dean vowed, shoving his book back and reaching for another. "Or if not, there must be a counter spell we could do."

"Yeah." Sam replied tightly, not willing to ruin his brother's newfound calm mood with a dose of reality. The truth was, revenge spells were notoriously hard to undo with a counter spell. You had to find the witch if you wanted to be sure the spell was gone.

"We should call Cas and see if he can—"

The first rays of the dawn filled the blackened sky. Bright yellows and oranges quickly staked their claim as the rays began to stretch out. Sam held his breath in anticipation. He'd never experienced the curse right when it started—he just woke up with the pain.

Dean seemed to realize this and he jumped out of his chair. Coming over to his brother, he placed a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder. It had been so long since they were like this—brothers. For the longest time, it seemed like they were two ships eternally passing each other in the night. They let their anger and resentment form a hardened wall and now this curse was slowly, but surely chipping away at it.

The sun arose in the sky and Sam beamed.

"See?" Dean grinned, relief evident in his eyes. "Nothing—"

A sharp pain to the back and suddenly, Sam knew this was it.

"Dean!" He gasped, knees buckling as he tumbled to the stone floor. Dean's arms locked securely around him and pulled him. His brother's calloused hand came to rest on Sam's face

"Sam, hey, look at me!" His brother's hand came back red with blood and Sam knew that this was it.

"Dean, I'm—" He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the blood in his mouth. "I can't—"

"No, no, no," His older brother chanted under his breath. "We'll get you help, okay? A hospital or—" He tried to move Sam, but the youngest Winchester cried out in pain. Immediately, Dean froze.

"D'n, m'dyi—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence." Dean growled. "You're going to be okay."

"D'n—" A cough cut off his voice.

"Castiel!" Dean screamed, then his gaze coming back to Sam's. "Stay with me, you hear? You don't get to do this again." A tear snaked down his cheek and he smiled wearily. "I can't do this without you, Sam."

Sam wanted to say something—something profound; something that would make things right, but his tongue didn't work. He felt detached from his body and his head lolled to the side as his vision began to cut out from him.

It was a pity really, he thought as his brother clasped onto him, he hadn't wanted to die.

"Sam!"

He was floating, then falling and then there was—

Silence.

"Sam?"

He opens his eyes and flinches against the harsh light. He takes a breath and then shudders at the pain that flares up from his ribs. He feels like he's been banged up and barely patched back together again. He tilts his head and meets the cerulean blue gaze of their friendly neighborhood angel.

Castiel smiles upon seeing him, a relieved one full of joy.

"Cas?" His voice is raw and immediately, the angel hands him a glass of water. He drinks it greedily, the cool liquid soothing his ravaged throat. "What happened?"

"You . . ." He hesitates. "Were dying, Sam."

The phantom knife to the back. Dean's pleading. The realization that this really was the end.

"But . . . I'm not dead." He stated, dumbfounded.

"No, you are not." Castiel replied.

There was a pause.

"Where's Dean?" He sat up, groaning and Castiel was there, trying to push him back down.

"You need to rest—"

"Where is he?" Sam questioned.

Castiel glanced away, clearly uncomfortable with having to divulge this information.

"I managed to stabilize you," He opted to explain instead. "Froze time around you so to speak." He grinned painfully. "But without the witch, there was nothing I could do and my powers wouldn't last forever—"

"He went after her." Sam muttered, forcing himself off of the bed. Swaying slightly, he almost fell, but Castiel quickly supported his weight. "He took the First Blade?"

"There was no other course of action, Sam." Castiel stated grimly. Though Sam logically knew that, he feared what Dean would do with that blade in hand. Who would get caught up in the rampage fuelled by the First Blade? He had to go and find his brother and stop him before he did something that he would regret.

"Take me to him—"

"No, Sam, you need to—"

"Now, Cas!" Sam snapped and the angel sighed before nodding his head. In a flutter of wings, they arrived in the living room of a small house. On the snow-white carpet, the young woman laid, crimson from her chest staining the carpet red. Dean stood above her, the blade dripping with blood. Her eyes, wide open, and clear in death. Had she known this was coming? Why had she cast the curse to begin with?

They would never know.

"Dean?" Castiel began and the eldest Winchester spun around, blade poised to strike. Upon seeing Sam, however; the blade fell out of his hands and to the floor. His expression shifted for predatory animal to caring brother in a quick second.

"Sammy?" He breathed, as if he wasn't sure if the image in front of him was real or not.

"I'm okay." Sam assured him, forcing a smile on his lips.

There was so much he wanted to say to his brother. He wanted to assure Dean that they didn't need the First Blade to end Metatron. He wanted to make his brother see the damage the blade was having on him, on how it made him addicted to the bloodlust of a hunt. He wanted to promise his brother that he would save him from whatever was going on; that he would find the answers.

He wanted to say all of this and more, but he didn't.

"Fuck, Sam." Dean's voice broke and then suddenly, he was in his Sam's arms, gripping him like he might lose him if he let go.

"It's okay." Sam soothed. "I'll find a way to fix this."

And somehow, he knew that Dean understood. There had never been a need for them to spell out their feelings to each other. They showed how much they cared through their actions. Dean's careful way of scanning a room whenever he and Sam entered; the way Sam would conveniently get tired whenever he knew Dean needed to sleep but was too stubborn to admit it—those were their declarations of love and of family.

Holding Dean, Sam understood that.

Sam would save Dean from whatever the First Blade was doing to him.

"I know." Dean whispered.

And for the first time in what felt like months, Sam felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

They could do this—together.

Author's Note: This turned into a way longer story than I intended. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Please review if you have a second. Thanks!