The smell of blood is stronger like this, even while it still runs under skin. But Dean's concentration is all on Sam's face, the anger he feels, how it threatens for him to lose it, is all on watching pain turn to confusion over Sam's face. He wonders if his brother will even care when he does find out about how he'd just stood there, how he'd just watched and-- and let that fucker turn him, just like that. There had been no effort from Sam to stop it, none and that hurt more than the knowledge of what he'd become thanks to it.

"You, Sam." His grip tightens then, knuckle white and trembling almost with the sheer force he keeps him against the wall, words gritted out with every inch of self control he has.

"You're the reason I'm like this, you--" Of course, what he'd seen had only been a fraction of Sam, a heartbeat's moment where anything could have happened, where hesitation could have caused his brother to falter. Nothing more, nothing less. But with his sleep and hunger deprived mind it's so much easier to place blame, especially since they always watch each other backs, always.

And yet, here they are.