Here it is at last, my long-awaited (by me, at least) Sam one-shot…I'm putting this as a missing scene to OTHOAP, but the psychological journey goes beyond that episode. It's fairly dark (for me, at least), but it's something I've been working on for a long time. A bit of a writing experiment. So, hope you guys enjoy it!

EDIT: I've decided to make this a three-shot (that's a word, right?) with the other chapters dedicated to two other episodes, from both points of view.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, I just like to have fun with it…

Rated for quite a bit of language and overall…darkness. Implied Hurt!Dean. Generally unhinged! and Dark!Sam. Written before The Rapture aired, spoilers for nearly everything before that.

Addiction

He lowers his hand and there is fire, everywhere, inside the demon and all around him - he can see it, behind those dead, white eyes - and within Sam, as well. But the fire doesn't burn him, it…fills him up, he can feel it in his veins, hears a rushing sound in his ears. The demon is dead.

He hadn't been sure, hadn't been certain until the moment Alistair challenged him. But the moment the words were spoken, he knew it was true: Now I can kill. The power, like a monstrous beast, bent to his will and did his bidding, his palm flat in commandment.

Castiel is watching him, he knows, but Sam feels nothing. Nothing can reach him, he is the fire…his pulse races, and he hears a ringing in his ears. He opens his eyes, looks at the angel. Sees fear, understands it, speculates, wonders…wonders if the angel will try anything. Then wonders, deep inside himself, if the fire is powerful enough to smite the angel as well. There are no limits, nothing to quench the unmistakable yearning, the need…

Dean.

The desire disappears as if jerked from his mind by an unseen hand, or shed like a second skin. He feels the shock run through him like a physical pain, and he turns around to his brother as if doused with frozen water. Castiel is still watching him, he knows.

"Help me," he says, breathing heavily for the first time. His hands are trembling, the adrenaline leaving his system (among other things, perhaps), and he crouches beside Dean.

He has known for a while that his brother is a broken shell, a shadow compared to what he's been before(and will be again? Please?), and now he's as motionless as a corpse. But Sam will not weep, knows that his brother must be still alive, or else wouldn't he have felt something? (Wouldn't he?) No, there it is, a pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath two of his fingers.

And so, and so…he gathers his strength (and something else, perhaps?) and gathers his brother's body and gathers himself to his feet. He won't look at Castiel, can't bear his gaze right now (at least Dean's eyes are closed), but wonders how long the angel will remain now that his masterful plan has gone awry. Sam turns away, his brother slung across his back, but he isn't heavy – Dean is never heavy.

He never looks back, walks with Dean to the Impala and lays him gently in the back seat, because his brother looks more like a broken toy than anything (a seriously fucked up toy), but he's still alive and that means that it's okay, that Sam did the right thing. That makes everything alright, the burning and the desire, the blood, the killing, Castiel's eyes upon him.

He gets in the car, looks briefly in the rear-view mirror out of reflex, and his heart jumps into his throat. He chokes, looks again…no. His eyes are hazel; they're normal, that makes everything alright. Sam swallows hard, wonders again where Castiel is. He knows he has to hurry, Dean needs the hospital, but at the same time the empty silence gives him the sensation of floating. As if he were in limbo, as if they were both dead (what's dead should stay dead) and he's just going through the motions, acting for the sake of acting. When has acting ever done him any good, after all?

Dean.

Sam rubs his eyes, trying to achieve clarity (He saved Dean. He acted.) The engine rumbles beneath him, a familiar sound, and AC/DC comes on automatically in the middle of the song. He has to turn it off, his head is starting to ache and the lyrics just get to him like nothing else right now.

Nobody's gonna slow me down…on my way to the promised land…going down, all the way down…

No, Sam can't take it.

And Dean hasn't moved, he hasn't moved – because he fucking is a broken toy, a – a marionette whose strings have been cut. And Sam wants to tie those strings back together, but he can't find a way (Dean won't let him.) The knots slip past his fingers; he's forced to relinquish control, relinquish memories of the past that makes his gut ache.

Sam passes the long (too long) drive in silent, cold lucidity, trying to keep his thoughts at bay, the ones that are always there whenever he's alone. He can't stand the solitude, ever since Dean's death, even if it forces him into awkward silences with his brother or the shit he gets up to with Ruby in the dark. He wants to be alone, but needs to have someone there…Sam can't let his mind wander, can't go back to the place he was forced to inhabit in his mind for those four excruciating months. There's very few safe places left in his thoughts.

He's told Dean what happened to him (mostly), but avoids the touchy-feely crap because there's too much…he knows Dean (Sam) can't deal. Because nothing could ever compare to Hell…because for the same reasons Dean doesn't expect Sam to understand those forty years, Sam knows Dean couldn't understand the four months. Knows that what he lived through wasn't worse, wasn't better, just…different.

Sam wasn't ripped apart by hellhounds, but he was forced to watch helplessly as they tore into his brother. He didn't have to crawl out of his own grave, but he had to dig one for the only person he was living for. He wasn't tortured for decades, but being trapped alone with his thoughts was torture enough, for the four months as well as the six given to him by the Trickster. Dean has nothing to be ashamed of, because Sam…he broke easily.

But now Dean accepts the angels because they're right in front of his nose, wonders if the Devil exists, believes in everything (everything) except his brother. Puts his trust in some jumped-up supernatural dicks dressed in human flesh (angels, yes, they're angels), doesn't trust that whatever Sam does could be the right thing, even if it ends this nightmare (ends Lilith). Because he's scared.

If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you.

Because, maybe, he has reason to be. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Now Sam is waiting outside the room, while doctors stitch up his brother and stick tubes down his throat and up his nose and into his ears and whatever the hell else. He's so tired of this, because his brother doesn't deserve to be hurt so badly, all the time. He understands (detests) why they can't escape into the plain old apple pie life he knows Dean craves, despite everything he might say. He can't bring up arguments Sam used at the age of eighteen – it's outdated, old news, utterly pointless.

It's funny how some of the things he used to believe so strongly seem that way now: silly, naïve, childish even. To think he had once banked on spending the rest of his life with a beautiful wife and a comfortable legal career. To think that all the terrible things he had seen could fade away into the background, nothing but a dream of the past, as if he had lived in two different worlds. To think that Sam had believed his brother was invincible, someone who would always be there through thick and thin (beyond the veil of death…)

To think he had once prayed to God and his angels for strength, for aid, for…redemption.

Now Dean's been to Hell and Sam is so strong (it scares him as well), and he's wondered more than once this year if it's possible to kill an angel.

There are no more illusions. Illusions are too easy, too comfortable.

Asking nothing, leave me be, taking everything in my stride, don't need reason, don't need rhyme…

Fuck AC/DC.

Thoughts, memories shift across his mind like an endless tide, and he begins to feel dizzy, overwhelmed. He is almost oblivious to what is happening in front of his eyes, with everything blurring together in a steady stream of colour and movement. He barely reacts when one of the doctors taps him on the shoulder with a friendly smile.

His brother is stable and so Sam sits beside him in the white room on the colourless chair and looks at the starched sheets and Dean's wan face, lifeless and yet far too alive. He can't stop thinking how screwed up it all is, that Dean is lying here because the beings that Sam prayed for for years have finally arrived…and they aren't leaving any time soon.

It just never seems to end. Azazel's death, Dean's return from hell – they should have been endings, signs of a return to normality (whatever that meant), but each one just brings new players and new problems into this cosmic…game. God, he wishes he could call it anything but that.

He should have known that his part would never be over – his mother's deal and the demon blood pumping through his (exhausted) veins make sure of that, no matter how much he prays. Even death itself can no longer be an escape for him, no matter how many times he contemplates how much easier it would be to quit fighting (He is just so tired…) As the tainted Boy King, Sam's fairly certain he has a one-way, non-redeemable ticket to take him straight to the pit (do not stop, do not pass Go, do not collect 200 fucking dollars.)

And so he has to make the best of things here on the mortal plane, try to end things before they became too dark and, well…end. A clear directive (end Lilith) is the only thing that can keep all his other thoughts at bay, keep him from drowning in it all…so his obsession (as Dean calls it, never understanding anymore) truly is the only thing that keeps him going, keeps him sane. He has nothing else…because there's a chance that his post-hell brother wouldn't be able to do that anymore.

His brother…Dean's case should be so much different than his. Human his entire life, enjoying human vices and human emotions…he was dropped into this selfless, unrewarding (in the ways that truly mattered) existence by a fluke - or in other words, because of Sam - just like his father. Sam's college years should have been Dean's, the beautiful woman Sam had seen in the dream-world should have been Dean's. He should be allowed to grow old, to feel his strength and youth gradually fade from his body, to be surrounded by a loving family and friends…

He should – well, really, both of them should – have this, not because of luck or divine favour or because they've fought so damn hard, but because they are essentially human. Humanity comes with choices, and mortality…and the choices that come with mortality. They're supposed to be the shades of grey in that same great cosmic game, the ones who can go either way in the end. No deals, no resurrection crap.

But for some reason beyond their control (he hates to call it destiny, that old cliché), the brothers are being pulled away from the middle ground, into the world of black and white. Sam is veering downwards into the darkness, Dean is being forcibly dragged into the light. Both against their will.

He can live, now, with them not being allowed to be normal. He can't live with them not being allowed to be human.

Sam shifts anxiously in his chair, needing to move about and away from all this, from his own mind. He watches Dean, because he has no other choice, but it's painful. The simplest, most incompetent of mistakes has put him here. Even though the fault isn't Sam's, the familiar guilt that has haunted him for four years is wafting through his overloaded system.

A shift in colour in his peripherals makes him look up towards the doorway. Castiel is watching him; but as their eyes meet, the angel turns and walks away. Sam feels the anger of a few hours ago take over his thoughts once again; he rises from the chair and follows his brother's supposed saviour. If Dean's puppet strings have been cut, then there must be something (anything) the angels can do – if Sam can't tie them back together, than maybe they have some fucking supernatural welder. They owe it to Dean (to both of them, really.) Bring on the righteousness, he's been waiting.

"Sam…" the angel initiates the conversation, perhaps even knows what Sam is here for.

"Get in there and heal him." His hands are shaking again, with rage (or something else). "Miracle, now!"

It is ludicrous that he should be giving an order, but no one ever seems to answer his prayers…

"I can't." Castiel is stern, with…perhaps a tinge of regret? Can angels feel regret?

"You and Uriel put him in there, because you can't keep a simple devil's trap together!"

"I don't know what happened," Castiel responds sincerely. "That trap…" He looks away, won't meet Sam's gaze.

"It shouldn't have broken. I am sorry."

"This whole thing was pointless," Sam snaps, determined to get some sort of rise out of him because, God, it feels good to be able to blame someone other than himself. "You understand that? The demons aren't doing the hits. Someone else is killing your soldiers."

"Perhaps Alastair was lying."

Oh, please.

"No. He wasn't." Sam turns and walks back to his brother's room. Because as surely as he knew he could kill Alastair, he knows now that the demon had not been capable of falsehood in its final moments.

He sits again in the chair by Dean's bedside, then immediately gets up again and begins pacing. His argument with Castiel hasn't gotten rid of the restless energy within him; Sam feels jittery and out of sorts. He contemplates running a couple laps around the hospital (Dean isn't going anywhere, to be honest), then realizes that the jitters are actually making him feel slightly dizzy. He returns to his seat, rests his head on his hands, but the disorientation doesn't go away.

Sam huffs out a deep sigh and leans back, blinking rapidly as spots begin to appear in his vision (what the hell?). He hasn't had a premonition in over a year, suspects this is only a migraine or whatever, but now his hands are shaking again and the pain and vertigo are escalating.

It's only when the fluorescent lights start flickering in time with the pulsations behind his eyes that Sam recognizes that he needs to get out of here. He raises himself unsteadily to his feet, grabs the keys and heads quickly for the door. The floor nearly rises up to meet him (you are not going to pass out in public, you are not going to pass out in public), but he manages to grab the doorframe just in time. Kneading his forehead with hard knuckles, Sam regains his balance and heads for the parking lot.

He isn't entirely sure what's happening but has a feeling it has something to do with killing Alistair and using Ruby's blood, which means he has to avoid the hospital at all costs. He needs to get this under control, knows he won't be able to see Dean while looking like a junkie in need of another fix…

No, this is different. He's not an addict, he just needed that boost of power after three weeks. It made all those new switches go on in his mind, he nee - no, he wanted that, so he could save Dean. It was a choice, not a necessity.

That makes it alright. As long as he doesn't really need it, that makes it alright.

He doesn't know how he makes it, but then Sam is in the car and driving somewhat erratically because his eyes keep blurring for some reason and God his head hurts so bad but there isn't really anyone else on the road at this hour and he can see the motel sign and it's too bright and he feels sick to his stomach and he's shaking all over and he just wants to lie down…

Doesn't need to lie down, just wants to…that makes it alright.

The car is parked and then he's staggering out the door and he almost forgets to lock the Impala and Dean would kill him even though Dean looks like he's dead anyway but it doesn't matter so he locks it but then he can barely get the fucking key in the keyhole and why is everything spinning?

"Just stay still…" he mutters, probably louder than he intended cuz there's a woman walking her dog who turns and glares at him because he probably looks like he's wasted out of his mind and where the hell is Ruby because he needs – wants her again, Sam can't deal with this by himself and somehow he's inside the room where so many hours ago he lost Dean into thin air and he's stumbling to the bathroom and he's emptying his guts out into the toilet even though it's been almost a day since he's eaten anyway so what the hell?

Time to pass out.

When Sam's got nothing left to give to the toilet he lays down on the floor of the bathroom because it's cold and for some reason he's too hot…his sweat is making the floor slippery but it's really not that hot so why is he so hot? Maybe the lights are too strong, there are too many and the amount of thermal energy they give out in comparison to luminescent energy is -

The migraine behind his eyes pulses angrily, as if telling him to stop thinking so much. He bites his lip to keep from screaming, because the dog lady would probably call the cops on him and their sirens are just too loud. The pressure in his head is building and he hears the light bulbs quivering and blinking just like in the hospital, wishes they wouldn't because that's just not normal and there's too much light –

There is a crash and a tinkle of broken glass all around him, and this time he does cry out in shock; the room is immediately plunged into darkness.

A half-hearted giggle escapes his lips, and he claps a hand over his mouth. Hysterics, wonderful.

With impeccable timing, his cell phone starts to ring. He fumbles for it in the dark, eventually finding it in his back pocket, but his hands are still overcome by tremors and it takes him a few rings to flip it open and press it to his left ear.

"H'lo?"

"Sam? Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, hey B'bby…"

"Your brother's awake but I think something's happened to 'im, he won't tell me what's wrong, just…where are you?"

He pauses for a moment, the cogs in his brain working furiously.

"Um…'m on th'floor…"

"What? Why aren't you at the hospital?"

"Umm…fel'…fel' sick…" Sam groans, so tempted to just hang up and embrace sweet, sweet silence again…

"You felt sick so you left the hospital? Are you out of your friggin' mind? What's the matter with you, boy?"

"Dunno…" His head is going to explode, but there are no more lights left…

"Sam, you stay put, I'm comin' to get you."

"N-no!" He tries to sound forceful and reasonable. "M'fine, you stay with Dean…'ll be there innabit…"

He hangs up, presses his face into the cold, slick tiles, and tries to think of nothing. He needs to think of nothing, doesn't want to…or, wait, isn't it the other way around? It's so hard to concentrate…

When he wakes up again he's on his back and there is something cold pressed against his forehead. Sam doesn't open his eyes but shifts slightly, leaning into the comforting presence; he remembers being sick as a kid and someone sitting beside him, a hand on his forehead and so…

"Dean?" he mumbles.

But Dean is dead – no, not dead, just not here. Dean's hurt. Why is Dean here? He's not – not here.

He opens his eyes halfway, but it's dark and how is it dark but it doesn't really hurt so he opens them all the way and he sees her and it's been so, so long since he's seen her that her name is almost lost to him…

White. All white, and so beautiful.

"Jess?"

And it's not real, it can't be real, he's not that far gone. But she's there, and she's smiling at him, and his heart jumps into his throat.

"Hey, Sam."

She always called him Sam, never Sammy, seemed to understand nicknames reserved for only one person. But Dean's not the only one who's called him Sammy lately, and when he thinks of her his stomach jumps into his throat as well (how is there room in there?) and he has to lunge for the toilet again.

But when the episode is over she is still there, not a ghost, more insubstantial than anything, and a different sort of need fills him until his very bones ache.

"Jess…Jess, 'm so sorry…"

"Shhh…" she whispers, pulling him gently to his feet and leading him to the bed, half-carrying him despite his size (but it's not real so what does it matter?). "It's alright, Sam. It's all going to be alright."

Then he's half-sitting, half-lying on the bed and she's still smiling and then Oh God Oh God she's lying down beside him and stroking his hands and kissing him so softly, so gently and he moans with longing and despair. He can't help but think of Ruby, how the sexual act has become a statement of his own self-loathing rather than an affirmation of life…to think he has forgotten tenderness, and a different kind of love…

"Shhh," she says again into his ear. "You'll feel better if you don't move, okay? We need to get your temperature down."

She puts a glass of water to his lips and where did it come from and this hallucination is way too detailed but he drinks just as his eyes drink in her sweetness and her delicacy and her perfection and when did he ever deserve this….

Another uncontrollable giggle escapes him.

"I'm losing my mind…" he whispers.

She only smiles, doesn't deny it. But he doesn't care, he just doesn't care anymore. She is his angel, he will never need the others. It's not like they're going to miss him.

One word, and I will turn you to dust.

"'M sorry," he says again, unable to tear his eyes away in case she disappears. "Should've told you…everything…"

"Shhh, Sam…it doesn't matter…none of it matters. Just sleep…"

It hurts like hell, but he shakes his head, nonono you can't leave me now…he knows he's crying now, first time in a long time despite all the shit he's been through lately, and her hands are there again wiping the tears away.

"Do you remember," she whispers soothingly, "the first day we met?"

He bites his lip, finds it hard to focus, shakes his head again because he wants to and needs to remember, but everything else is pressing in DeanhellRubybloodLilithdemonsApocalypseDEATH and he can't, he just can't…

"Second period psychology class. I saw you standing by the door like some giant deer in headlights, so I told you to come sit with me."

Sam smiles.

"You – you said I looked like I was being hunted or something."

"And then you seemed even more freaked out." She toys with the ends of his hair, kisses his eyelids, his nose, his forehead. He tries to quell his shivering, and Jess pulls the blanket over them both.

"And then…" he sniffles, the tears still coming, hot and fast, uncontrolled. "Then you – you walked with me to my next class. All the way across campus. You talked about – about nothing…and everything."

"I made you laugh. You have such a nice laugh, Sam."

OhGodOhGodOhGod

"Why don't you laugh that way anymore?"

He knows it's not really her, some extension of his subconscious maybe? No point overthinking it. But that means he doesn't know the answer to the question he's asking himself.

"I've d-done some terrible things…"

"Sam, it doesn't - "

"Jess, I'm drinking demon blood. And I've killed…I've lied so many times…"

"It doesn't matter." Soothing. But it does, oh it does…

"You c-can't say that, you c-can't…" He's shivering worse than ever, but his thoughts are lucid once more. He laughs darkly, murmurs into her ear. "Jess…I think I'm losing myself."

"No, Sam." Her eyes are wide, almost fearful. "You're still you. I can see it…these are your eyes, your hands - " She touches each in turn. "Your heart." She lays a hand on his quivering chest, Sam feels his pulse quicken, hears himself make some pitiful noise as if in denial.

"I know." Only the angels look at him as if he has changed on the outside, as well. "Jess, when I went to Stanford, I was trying to be a different person. But I was still me, all along…the same dreams, the same fears, the same…voice, inside me, that would tell me what was right and what was wrong…" He swallows hard, closes his eyes. "I was gonna ask you to marry me, Jess."

"I know," she whispers, and he looks at her and sees her eyes are tearful as well. "I found the ring in your sock drawer."

"But I left – I left you for just a little while and then you died…I was going to propose, but instead you b-burned…"

There's so much more that could be said, but their eyes meet and they acknowledge that nothing else needs to be said, everything is known. He makes that same pathetic sound, but keeps talking because he doesn't know how much longer she will be here and there's so much pain and why can't he fucking stop crying?

"But this – this thing – inside me…ever since Dean brought me back, since he made that damn deal…I can feel it Jess, I can feel it in my veins, I never could before. And whenever I feel angry, or – or - " There are no words to describe those four months alone.

"And the voice is gone, too, and I'm crossing lines I-I never would've crossed before, and I'm not scared of the blood anymore…and I know Dean can tell it's not really me now. But there's no way to get me back."

She's kissing him again, kissing the tears on his face. His own trembling lips respond, tracing a desperate path down her neck, but she's not real and he can't taste her sweetness on his mouth. He feels suddenly cold.

"You have to stop, Sam."

He knows.

"The blood…it's killing you."

"I have to stop Lilith." Sam has known for a while that any semblance of life he once had is over. All he can do now is make himself useful, exact his revenge. "I'm the only one who can."

"Sam, you're sick. Just talk to your brother…"

"No," he whispers. "No, he can't ever know. It's my burden to bear. Alone."

"He's going to find out eventually. Wouldn't it be better if he heard it from you?"

Dean will kill him. Or will he?

You have to watch out for me. And if I ever become something I'm not…

A half-formed memory. No, Sam. I would rather die. And then…

"You're not alone." But he is, he is…

Sam hears her breath hitch, and Jess begins to cry in earnest now.

"You c-can't keep this up, Sam. I love you. I w-won't let you do it. You're breaking my heart."

"You're not real. You're just in my head."

"Does it matter?"

He shivers.

"Yes."

The temperature of the room drops, or is it all just his imagination? His shaking increases dramatically, and he realizes the room is shaking too. The chairs keel over onto the floor, the television falls off its stand with a loud crash. Jess reaches out to him.

"Sam…Sam, your eyes…"

Then, all at once, she is thrown back against the far wall. She cries out and struggles to no avail; her body begins to glide steadily upward, onto the ceiling above Sam's bed.

"Jess! Jess, no!"

"Sam," she sobs, "Sam, please…."

"No, no…I'm not doing it, I'm not…"
"Please stop, you're hurting me!"

"Jess…"

She bursts into flames, screaming his name; Sam turns his face away, buries his head in the pillow and tries to block it all out. It's not real, any of it, it's not real itsnotrealnotrealitsnotreal…

He wakes up to silence. The sunlight streams through the window, reaching out to all corners of the motel room until Sam is finally forced to open his eyes. Everything is as it was before he left to save his brother.

His pillow is wet.

Sam realizes what caused him to wake when the frantic pounding on the door resumes. He groans, gets to his feet (he still feels dizzy) and makes his way over, turns the doorknob and opens in one smooth motion.

Bobby is standing there, his rugged features torn between fury and concern (an expression Dean has mastered over the years.)

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Hey, Bobby." He steps back, lets the older hunter in. "Um…I'd offer you a beer, but I think we're out…"

"You going to tell me what happened last night?"

He turns, looks his friend straight in the eyes. "I told you, I was sick. I-I had a migraine."

"What's wrong with your face?"

Sam blinks, scrubs one hand across his face, brushing away the wetness he finds there. He sniffles, squirming at the pathetic sound. "It's nothing. I...um…I slept a lot."

Concern has won the battle over Bobby's features.

"You sure you're okay, kid?"

"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, definitely. I need to get back to the hospital. Did Dean sleep at all?"

"They had to sedate him. Doctor said he might be outta there by tomorrow morning, though. I'll give you a lift, Sam; you look dead on your feet."

"Okay." He sticks the keys in his pocket anyway. "Listen, Bobby, I, uh, I gotta talk to the guy at the front desk. I'll meet you outside in two minutes."

"All right." Bobby turns and heads out, muttering under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like "damn idjits, can't take care o'themselves…"

Sam dials her number, leaves a brief but firm message. He's going to need more, he overdid it last night.

There's no point trying to deny it anymore. Because he wants and needs to kill Lilith. He wants and needs to save his brother. And despite everything that's said about revenge, Sam knows that he can only hold on to this world and all he has in it for so much longer. He has to face what has been coming for him all along (before he was even born), as well as what he has now created. There's no safe place for him to hide anymore; not behind his brother, not behind his faith, not even within his own mind.

There are no more illusions.

Lyrics: AC/DC, Highway to Hell