Day One

11:30 AM

I'm tired. My eyes don't want to open. I leave them closed. Breathing feels like too much work, but my body seems insistent. There's a soft shuffling noise to my left. Somewhere in the fog, I know that it's him. I reach for him, but the command doesn't get from my brain to my hand. I say his name, but the words don't arrive at my lips. There's a dull throbbing feeling in my chest that I can't place. If things were clearer, if there were less fog, I might call the sensation pain.

Yes, I think. This is definitely pain.

I must have convinced my body to move, because I feel his hand on my forehead. It's warm and gentle. Soft "shush"ing sounds float into my head, and I know they must have come from his mouth.

The fog is tugging at my consciousness again, and it's too much effort to struggle.

Day One

4:50 PM

This time when the fog lessens enough to let me out, I open my eyes. The fog might have cleared slightly, but all it has done is create more room for the dull throb of pain to manifest into a hot searing stab. I manage a small, pitiful whine. There's movement, again on my left, but it's different from before.

I shift my eyes from the ceiling to the figure next to the bed. His back is to me, and he looks…off. I call his name, but nothing more than a croaked whisper leaves my throat.

"Hold on, hold on," he says roughly, but it's quiet and urgent. I hear water splashing, and suddenly the desert in my throat comes into raging focus. I'm sure I'm pleading desperately, but there are only strangled gasps in the room.

There's a hand on my chin, unfamiliar and firm, and finally something sweet and cold and wet glides over my tongue. The glory of that feeling is almost enough to distract from the heat radiating in molten waves through my chest.

"Slow, take it easy, it ain't goin' nowhere," he reassures me. I furrow my brow at the sound of his voice, that wrong voice full of gruff and gravel, but my confusion isn't enough to lessen my want for more water. I try to drink slowly, careful sips instead of frantic gulps. It's not quite as satisfying, but eventually the sand subsides.

I take a cautious breath, then croak out his name again. "Sam."

"Shh," that dishonest voice whispers.

There's more shuffling, and I feel a hand on my arm. A tiny sharp bite. Then there's warmth, flowing up towards my head. I can feel the fog closing in again.

Day One

10:45 PM

There's a small lamp on the table next to me. The light it casts doesn't reach the corners of the room, where shadows round the edges. Something pulls at my memory.

"If you have to leave the room, turn the bedside lamp on. Don't let her wake up in the dark."

I smile at that, although I'm sure it looks more like a grimace. Maybe it's both. He had left that instruction because the nightmare always started with the cold and the dark. Demons with grabbing hands and ragged claws raking the flesh from my body. I had screamed when it was happening, and I still scream now when the terror of the darkness gets to be too much and it drags me back to the place where he had found me. Sometimes the warmth of his body beside mine is enough to diminish the fear. When he leaves on a case, he takes his warmth with him. So he leaves the light on.

He left that instruction because…he had left, with his soft voice and careful hands.

I struggle to sit up, ignoring the agony in my chest. I want to get out of this bed. I want to find him. He can't be far, somewhere in the bunker. I can manage those few steps to the common room. Yes.

There's a sigh from the door, and the heavy footsteps tip me off that it's not him.

"Lay back down," comes the coarse command. "You're gonna rip out stitches, and I'm gonna have to put 'em back. Unless you want me jabbin' a needle and thread through you, I suggest you chill."

I drop back down the few inches I had managed to raise my head. I'm not wearing a shirt, but I'm covered, my chest wrapped in bandages. There's a small spot of blood just off-center. I finally turn to look at the man addressing me like I'm a small child, and accept that it's not him.

"Sam," I say quietly. He understands it as the question it is.

"Sam," Dean answers, just as quietly, sitting in the chair to my right, "went out to get some more drugs. We didn't have much to start, and with you hurt like this, we didn't have a choice."

"Sam. Went. Out," I reply slowly, testing the words. He nods. "Out…there," I choke, turning away from his tired green eyes.

Dean clenches his jaw. "He left about noon. Been gone almost 11 hours. Shoulda been back in 3."

There's a stab of pain through my chest, and I turn scared eyes back to him. I carefully raise my hand as much as I can, pointing to the bandage wrapped around me.

"Did they…am I…oh god," I slap my hand over my mouth, hoping to stem the wave of nausea rolling over me.

"No," Dean answers quickly. "You got stabbed on our food run this morning."

A frantic, cackling laugh comes out of my mouth. It sends razors through my middle, but I can't stop it. When I finally stop giggling like a madwoman, and Dean gets me more water, I take a wary breath.

"Not bitten," I say, closing my eyes.

"Not bitten," he repeats.

"Just stabbed. You know, no big deal." I fight the giggles down.

He rests his hand on my arm, stilling me. I just stare at it.

"I wouldn't move around too much," he warns wearily. "We're out of meds."

Day Two

3:20 AM

I can't sleep. There are no more drugs in my system to construct a haze to pull me down. There are no more drugs, period. Sam isn't back yet.

I try to sit up again, inching myself slowly, scooting the pillow up behind me as I go. The wound in my chest gives a sharp throb, then relaxes into a dull pulsing ache.

I manage to push myself into a halfway upright position and breathe out a sigh. I close my eyes, sending myself back to yesterday morning.

We had set off early, it couldn't have been later than five, Dean, Cas, myself. Sam had stayed behind.

We had needed supplies: food, mostly. Gas, if we could find it (for the Impala; the generator for the bunker seems to be running on some sort of power supply of its own. Dean has taken to calling it "Supernatural Fusion." Cas insists that doesn't exist. Sam and I stay out of it.).

We had driven about 15 minutes, until 150 hit Highway 281, then parked the Impala in a mostly hidden grove off a driveway of a boarded up house. It was long empty. We'd sacked the place three weeks ago, but apparently whoever had been living there had known enough to take whatever canned goods they had in their pantry before they fled for the hills.

A quick jog a mile and a half further, and we had come across a small grocery store that seemed (mostly) intact. The glass in the automatic doors was busted out, and I had climbed through first. The shelves of the canned food aisle were bare, but we found a few boxes of cereal and crackers scattered through the others.

"Someone's clearly been through here already," Dean had grumbled, toeing his boot through the junk strewn about the floor. "Cas, stay here with Caitlyn, I'm gonna go check the back."

He'd been gone about 3 minutes when we had heard a triumphant shout. Cas had beamed at me, and headed off to help Dean with whatever it was he had discovered. I had turned around to pick up the bag I had set at my feet to fill with Lucky Charms, and had found myself with a very large, very unfriendly knife in my face.

"Gimme the bag," the guy had growled. I had apparently had a large dose of Stupid for breakfast, because I clutched my treasures closer to me and took a step back. "I said gimme the bag, you dumb bitch!"

He had lunged at me, and as I tried to take another step back, I stumbled over an Oreo display that had been tossed aside. I landed on my back, the wind going out of my lungs. The knife-wielder fell on top of me, one hand reaching between us for my bag. I had opened my mouth to shout for help, but couldn't get any sound to come out.

The boys must have heard the struggle from the back, because they had come running out, Dean gun-first. The guy with the knife hadn't wasted any time, and had jumped up and ran like hell. Dean had followed him out the door, but my eyes were on Cas as he knelt down beside me, his focus on the knife sticking out of my chest.

There had been a muffled pop from outside, and Dean had come running back inside, hitting his knees beside Cas.

"Did you get him?" I had asked. Dean had nodded grimly, shoving an arm under my shoulders. "Cas, bags, we gotta go, now."

I open my eyes when I hear someone come in: Dean, with a small tray of what I hope is something delicious. There's a small bowl, and something in it is steaming. A plate next to it holds what I am certain is a grilled cheese sandwich. My stomach growls.

Dean holds the bowl out to me, his face a question as to whether or not I can manage to feed myself. I take it, and am happy to find what appears to be chicken noodle soup, and even some crackers.

"You can thank Stabby for that," Dean said casually, nodding at the bowl. I raise my eyebrows as I blow on a spoonful. "Took it out of his pack."

I eye the sandwich. It is definitely grilled, and it is definitely oozing cheese. He takes a huge bite, and smiles at me. "That too," he says, mouth full. "Velveeta. Never goes bad."

He must notice the sadness on my face as I realize the sandwich is not for me, and he swallows before saying, "Maybe lunch."

I nod, and dive into my soup.