Authors Notes: Okay, so this is my first iCarly fanfic. It's… well way too dark for the show, but it's what came to me. R&R Oh and for once, no yuri warning! :O

Disclaimer: I don't own anything in relation to iCarly. I sort of own Sam's stepfather character, but I'd rather not claim him…

iNeed My Blanket.

It's three-forty-two am, your hair's wet, you haven't slept., you most likely wont but that doesn't matter right now. Right now you need your blanket, god if Freddy… if anyone, anyone could hear you now how they'd laugh. But you don't care, you're falling apart, you need your blanket. You need to shove someones head through a wall, but you can't. You can't. You have to prove, you're not like him. You're not the best, the most beautiful, the smartest or the most hardworking but you're not like him.

That's why you need your blanket.

Not that thick dead weight of a duvet that has no cover because your Mom never bothered to wash it and you only have the shakiest grasp on how to use the washing machine and the Laundromat's always too crowed to do heavy loads and besides you have food to buy with your allowance, not paying for stupid clean bedding.

So you need your blanket.

It was tangled up in your bed sheets last time you saw it, last time you slept in your own bed. Which, admittedly was a while a go, you don't take your blanket to Carlys, she'd laugh or think less of you or even worse, she'd pretend to understand. Understand in that strange mistaken way that people who haven't had to raise themselves do. Like when they think they can relate to you because their Mom left them without a babysitter once. But you don't tell people anyway. Well you do, but in a way that it makes them think you're joking, or you don't care, but you do. It hurts, no one's there for you and it hurts, that's why you're big and tough now. Because you learnt, it doesn't pay to be weak. He taught you that. You're not weak, you're just having a moment, one of those moments that seem to be getting more and more frequent these days, a moment where you need someone.

No one's there so you need you blanket.

You can't find it and now you're getting frantic. You've found a half eaten cookie, your favourite sweater that you just gave up looking for months ago, plates with food residue caked in that defiantly should have been washed weeks ago, empty soda bottles and glass, lots of glass. You completely forgot about the glass, it's been there weeks, you've cut the palms of your hands with it and the stinging sensation tells you your knees have suffered as well. But it doesn't matter. It's not like cuts and bruises are new to you.

God do you need your blanket right now.

You need it more than you need jerky and you could really really use some nice dried meat products right now. It's not in your room, and neither is jerky, that much is clear. All this searching is making you hungry, but you know all you have in is welfare cheese and sour milk, oh and his lean cuisine meals but that barely qualifies as food. You find the imitation meat so unreasonably insulting. It's not that you like the idea of people slaughtering animals for a source of nutrition that's also pleasing to the taste buds, in fact when you were five you were a vegetarian. Five-year-olds are foolish. You were foolish. You thought everything was fine, that it would stay fine. But it didn't, it couldn't, it never would be again, not after him. Mommy's dealer, lover, other half. Your substitute father. Daddy loves you Sammy, so much, more than the other Daddy's love their daughters. You remember that. You remember scrubbing so hard but you were never clean enough again. You'll never be clean enough again.

Now you really need your blanket.

You're in the kitchen and you know he's defiantly here, in your house, in your mothers bed because you've stood in his dogs mess. Beautiful. Wonderful. It's always you. Now you have to scrub your toes in the kitchen sink, thank god you're even slightly flexible. The water's cold, it numbs your foot almost completely, but you know it wont matter if you turn the hot tap on or not. She hasn't paid the bill this month, just like last month, and the month before and every month since time began. Okay you're being overdramatic but it feels like it, it feels like you've been spending your entire existence learning how to manage her, or rather without her. So your blanket isn't in the kitchen clearly. You should probably clean up the shit, but you'd rather leave it for him. You hear a noise, you really hope it's your mother stumbling still half baked to the bathroom. But as your luck dictates, it's not, it's him. And he has your blanket. "Hey Sammy." He coos softly. You hate him, you hate him, he hurt's you just by living. You want to hurt him, you want to smash his face into the dirty cream wall. But you don't. Because he scares you too. You don't say anything. You don't move. You're not strong, angry Sam Puckett anymore. You're terrified, weak little Sammy. His Sammy. You hate his Sammy. He snorts something like laughter, you want to kick him in the man bits. You want to hack his man bits off, gouge his eyes out and lacerate his vocal cords.

But you want your blanket more.

"Gimmie my blanket," You snarl with your eyes fixed on the floor, you feel his intense emerald eyes boring into you. You hear him walking closer to you. Your heart wants to kill you. It's trying to kill you. You can feel its desperate attempts resonate in your ear drums. You see his feet, hairy big toes with yellowish nails and all the trimmings. You feel his sweaty hands on the back of your neck. You smell that rancid mix of stale sweat and three day old beer all mixed off with subtle deodorant undertones. You want to kill him. You want to die.

You want your blanket.

He says nothing. He does nothing. He's just stood there with his sleazy hands on your neck making you feel so sick. He's breathing all over you and you feel so wrong. He has your blanket and that's not right. His left hand stays on your neck, his right caresses your cheek. You want to throw up. It's happening again. He's doing that thing again. That thing were he wants you. That thing were he's inside you and it breaks you. He has your blanket. You can't hold back the tears. You're not strong like they all think. You don't sob because he doesn't like it when you do that. But you can't stop your eyes water bleeding. There's so much wrong it has to ooze out of somewhere. You want your blanket, you want it, if you hold on it'll be over and you can have your blanket back.. One day you'll hurt him. One day you'll kill him. Chop his junk off and stir fry it. Except you wont. You don't want to be near him. You don't want to be in this room, in this house.

He stops.

You're numb.

He drops your blanket beside you.

You hold it close to you and you crawl all the way back into your bed. You don't even want the blanket anymore. He's touched it. It's all dirty. All dirty all over. Your face is cold. You want a shower. The blanket doesn't matter anymore.The water's cold and the name power shower is totally ironic right now, but you don't care. It doesn't matter. You soap yourself up. You lather and rinse. You scrub till you bleed. But you're not clean, you'll never be clean. Never.

You punch the shower wall.

The tiles smash.

Your knuckles bleed.

But it's not real.

It doesn't matter.

You're too filthy to matter.

You want to go home. You want a hug. You want your Carly. You need your Carly. You need her to want you. Not in that sick twisted way he does. As a friend. As a something. As a someone. You once told her she's your best friend because you're a loveable person. You know that's not true. You know most people are either afraid of you or dislike you extremely, or a mixture of the two You can't really blame them though. You're aggressive, you're mean, you're a bully. You're him! How could you turn into him without even noticing?!

You really need Carly.

That's why you're walking half clothed and wearing stupid pink flowery flip flops in the pouring rain to her house. You need someone to tell you you're not awful. That you're wonderful and they love you just the way you are and you don't have to try and please them. It's not true but you need to be lied too so bad. Just one empty lie to stop you from throwing yourself from an overpass onto on coming traffic. Not that there's really all that much traffic at a quarter to five in the morning. Wait! Is that watch even telling the truth?! You've been walking twenty minutes already?! You hope Carly wont mind you waking her up. What will you tell her? Will you tell her anything? Does she have to know? She'll wonder why you didn't tell her before. She wont be able to look at you in the eyes again. She'll call the cops and you'll be taken into foster care and your life will get so totally fucked… you can't even think about it. You need to think about the more likely scenario. She wont believe you. No one ever does. Because Sam tells stories. Sam lies. A lot. Sam's a bad girl. Sam probably wanted it. Sam probably started it. But you need this. You need her to believe.

You need someone to believe.

What are you doing? You're crazy. This is crazy. You're a wreak. No one can see you like this. You've worked too hard for too long to keep this away from her, you can't blow it all now. But you need someone. You need someone. You're stood at her front door. You want her to be that someone. But you can hurt her like that. She's your best friend. You can't let her know you've been hurt like that. That you're still being hurt like that. That you've lived fourteen miserable years and still not figured how to make him stop wanting you. It was different when you were really little and he used to hug you afterwards. He'd kiss your forehead and tell you that you're so special. Now you're so confused. So confused. And god why are you crying on Carly Shay's doorstep like… like fucking Freddy!

"Sam…?" His voice startles you. Your tear streaked face startles him, probably more than he did you. He lowers himself to sit opposite you. He's in Spiderman pyjama's. You'd mock him if you weren't breaking. And you really must be breaking to not want to mock Freddy Benson. "What's wrong?" His voice sounds so rich with concern, care. Warm. Home.

"I-I, it…uhm…I… p-pork?" You manage unintelligibly in-between barely muffled sobs. He smiles slightly, he seems relieved, as if you talking about food makes everything okay. It doesn't make everything okay. It makes you fat.

Author Notes: I hope that wasn't too suckish :). Please R&R. :P