Author's Note: This is a direct continuation from "What Power", and is also a sequel to "The Shadow Proclamation". So I'd very much recommend reading both of those before reading this one.

This is a short, three-part prelude to the next big multi-chapter story in this 'verse. Let me know what you think!

Someone to Visit

Another cheap motel in another town. As usual.

The blue phone box in the parking lot was doing its best to blend in, but the man who stepped out of it made no such effort. So little so that in the parking lot, two young men enacting a drug deal and a man soliciting sex from a prostitute decided that the parking lot wasn't necessary such a good place to be anymore and postponed their various affairs.

The man was glowing faintly, golden with brilliant white motes in the aura.

The Doctor was dying.

Well. Inasmuch as the Doctor could die. The radiation was killing him, and any moment now, his body as it currently existed would begin to shut down for the last time. He would regenerate, yes. But this body, this Doctor, would die.

And this Doctor, in this body, wanted to find out what had happened to Samuel.

So he'd come here, to 2008, to find out.

It wasn't that he didn't know. Not precisely. He suspected, and he was clever, so his suspicions usually ended up being the truth. But he wanted to believe in Samuel a little more than that. He wanted to be wrong—something he so rarely wanted to be.

Though Samuel didn't know yet, they'd had so many adventures together. Samuel and his brother had become as close as Companions to the Doctor, and the Doctor could really see them. And he knew that something had happened, between the affair with the Shadow Proclamation and Dean's return from Hell. He'd checked in on Samuel a few times during Dean's ordeal, but he'd never managed to find him doing anything more untoward than excessive drinking.

Drinking wouldn't have opened his mind up like it had been opened.

The Doctor could hear the gaping, screaming space of it from the parking lot. The neurological defect that made the boy's brain crave the creation of new synapses was being triggered by something, and there were few things that could activate it. He had to know. Before the end, he had to know.

He stepped in front of the window into the room that Samuel had rented for himself, and peered in.

Ah.

The understanding came like a blow to the stomach. The Doctor looked away quickly, not to give Samuel privacy, but because he truly could not bear to see it. To see Samuel's lips stained with the creature's blood, to see the desperation, the want, the need in his addict's eyes as he pressed her arm to his mouth.

A hard knot of anger formed in his chest. He'd told him. He'd warned him specifically that the introduction of extraterrestrial substances into his system could trigger the Time Lord biology of his brain and leave him open to attack. He'd even used demon blood as an example. And yet.

The fists that his hands had clenched into relaxed, and he passed them across his face. His body was beginning to ache. He'd had to know. He knew. He didn't have the time for self-indulgent emotions. He couldn't do anything to stop Samuel—it would be crossing his own timeline. It would create a paradox. He couldn't do that. Wouldn't do it.

Especially, a small, grief-filled voice in the back of his mind whispered, not to the Winchesters. Not after everything.

It was a testament to how long he'd lingered, and how far gone he was, that he didn't hear Samuel come to the door. That he barely heard the door open. He looked up with effort as Samuel whispered, "Doctor?"

The Doctor smiled wearily. "Samuel."

"Doctor, what's wrong?" Samuel asked, sounding panicked. The Doctor considered briefly how he must look. Pale, surely. Exhausted.

"It's not important, Samuel," the Doctor said. He glanced over the boy's shoulder, where the demon hung back by the bed, watching him with wide eyes.

Samuel frowned, and turned. He froze when he saw the demon, realized that the Doctor knew. He turned back with an agonized expression on his face. "Doctor—"

The Doctor shook his head, his eyes closed. "Don't," he said. "You don't—it's your life, Samuel. And I'm in the wrong order."

Samuel paused, then furrowed his brow. "I don't...know what that means, Doctor. Look, just come in, we'll figure this out." He put a hand on the Doctor's arm, intending to guide him into the hotel room, to fix what was wrong. To do his damnedest. It was the Winchester way.

The Doctor put his hand on top of Samuel's, stopping him. Samuel looked at him, confused, helpless. "It's all right," the Doctor said softly. "Samuel, it's all right."

"There's something wrong with you," Samuel said, breathlessly. "Doctor. Please. Come in. Let me help you. I'll call Bobby. Whatever's going on, we'll make it right."

When the Doctor didn't move, Samuel's voice dropped further, until he was barely audible as he breathed, "Doctor, I can't lose anyone else." He swallowed hard, and glared down at the ground. "I just can't."

The Doctor watched as Samuel's eyes reddened, as he fought tears. "You're not," he said. Sam looked back up instantly. "You're not losing me, Samuel. You'll see me again very soon. I'll be dropping by in a few weeks. I was just...coming to check on you."

"Why do you look like this?" Samuel asked. He was never one to let something go easily. "You're...glowing. You look really sick, Doctor. And you feel...wrong. In my head."

The Doctor raised an eyebrow at him instead of yelling.

At least Samuel looked embarrassed.

"I have to be going," the Doctor said. "But...don't mention this, the next time you see me. Just pretend it didn't happen."

"Why?" Samuel asked.

The Doctor decided to ignore the question, instead gripping Samuel's shoulder with a strength he hadn't been positive he still possessed. "Please be careful," he said. "Take care of yourself. You deserve better."

"Yeah," Samuel laughed softly. "Let's not talk about the things I deserve."

"You," the Doctor said fondly, "are impossible." He let his hand fall from Samuel's shoulder, and he pressed his temples. Samuel was moving to catch him before he even swayed, grasping his shoulders to keep him from falling, and the Doctor looked up at the young man as he recovered. "You shouldn't be in there," he scolded. "It's a mess."

Samuel shrugged, not looking repentant. "Can't make out much in there anyway," he said. "Too many thoughts for me to sort out, Doctor."

"You're telling me," the Doctor retorted. He straightened with Samuel's help, and looked the Hunter in the eyes.

He wanted to say something that could comfort Samuel in the hard days to come. He wanted to say something that could soften the edge of his pain, something that could give him what he sought at the bottom of so many bottles, inside that creature's veins.

It was not long ago, not at all, that the Time Lord Victorious might have said something—warned Samuel of what would happen, were he to continue down this path. Changed his future. Changed the future for all of them.

But he'd learned his lesson with Adelaide.

So he put his hand on Samuel's arm and said, "Trust yourself, Samuel. You're better than you know."

He turned to limp off, and stopped when he heard Samuel's voice behind him. "Doctor!" He didn't turn, but waited. Samuel's voice came again, more hesitant: "I'll...see you around."

He winced. I've never seen two people so alike. So he gave Samuel the same response he'd given his brother. "Yes. You will."

He didn't, couldn't, turn back to look one last time at the wonderful, brilliant, brave boy whose life his blood had ruined. Who held no grudges. He limped back to the TARDIS, closed the door behind him, and leaned heavily on it.

There was not time to rest, though.

Before it was over, he had to see a transdimensional caeloform wavelength about a boy.