Withdrawal Symptoms

By GhostOfRattmann

They were times- unpredictable, sporadic and usually hitting at the worst moments- when Sam let it get to him. He supposed it was like the moments when an addict relapsed, or you gave into the pure, bad desire of something you knew you shouldn't do. Or maybe looking for comparisons was pointless and stupid. No one in the world could relate to this feeling, no one could ever possibly understand.

He often ends up doing stupid things- getting drunk, wandering bad streets at night, loading his guns when he knows he's in no fit state to use them. Accidents may happen... No, it wasn't always like that. More often that not it was stupid and nonsensical. He'd turn the iPod Dean so hated up to full volume and listen to 'Stairway To Heaven' over and over and over, or he'd just go around the motel room and turn on every single light until the room glowed enough to make his eyes hurt, and yet it still seemed so very dark.

Or course it was dark. Everything was dark when you'd seen the brightest light in all the world. That light was inside me once. He chokes out something between a laugh and a sob, staring straight into the blazing bulb of a desk lamp and considering how inferior it was.

Sometimes he had stupid, bad thoughts, like that he hated Dean, hated Cas, hated everyone who had ever taught him to do what was right. Where had that got him? Here. Alone. With a great big, gaping hole inside of him.

He reached out and fumbled for the beer bottle, bringing it to his lips only to find it empty. I'm empty, too. ...God, that was a stupid metaphor. He groaned and half-heartedly threw the bottle to the floor where it didn't even have the courtesy to smash, instead rolling slightly over the grimy motel carpet before coming to a stop.

He knew, really, that he shouldn't be doing this. He was acting crazy and Dean would be back soon. He hated when Dean came back when he was like this. He hated himself for the horrid disappointment he felt when it was in fact Dean that walked in through the door and not-

"You're loving this, aren't you?" His voice is slurred and hardly more than a whisper, but he knows he's heard. Listening, always listening. To anyone else, it would seem like he was talking to himself, but hey, he kind of was, wasn't he? "Two halves made whole..." Half of me is missing. He hated seeing all the other people on this damned planet, complete within themselves while he was broken. I'm missing half of myself. Do you have any idea what that's like?

Of course they didn't. People were... Incompetent (somewhere in the back of his mind he knew of a much harsher vocabulary reserved for describing them), and he wasn't like them. He'd thought he was once, back when he thought a lot of stupid things, like the silly delusion he lived on that he wasn't missing anything. Then that gap had been filled and-

No. No, don't think about that. Don't remember. Even in his most delirious states, he tried not to let himself think about it. That would really be pouring salt into the would, to remind himself of that short time when he'd been complete. Don't think about it. Don't think about it...

Burning, white spots were eating away at his vision as he stumbled away from the stupid, dull lamp to collapse back on the bed. With his sight temporarily disabled, he let himself turn away from this horrid material world and through the spiritual regions of his mind, until it was like he was staring at himself. And himself stared back and smirked and said "I've missed you, bunk buddy".

Missed you, too. God, I miss you.

Ironic choice of words, but what did it matter? By the next morning he'd deny every having had these thoughts, but for now he chose to stop caring and wallow in them. Everyone had their breaking point, but it didn't have to all come crashing down in one big mess and drama. Instead he preferred to spread it out, occasionally letting the cracks show before sewing them back up again. It was an endless cycle and probably not very healthy, but it was better than breaking down completely. Because then people would see, people would know, and people wouldn't understand.

"You understand, though. You've always understood me."

The room remained painfully silent in response. He opened his eyes to find he had somewhat regained his vision, staring out at a blurred world he didn't really want to see anyway. He turned his head lazily to the side, feeling the scratchy fabric of the motel bed sheets meet his cheek. If he squinted and refused to focus, the shape of his jacket hanging on the wall looked almost like someone standing there. He liked to pretend stupid things like that. Maybe when Dean returned he'd just decide pretending was more fun and keep squinting and refusing to focus and cheerfully greet him "hi, Lucifer".

...he'd said it, hadn't he? He tried not to say- or think- that name. It usually slipped out one way or another. One time, he'd totally lost all resilience and ended up screaming it. In his most fantastical moments he had such stupid beliefs that he could somehow call him back. "You let me in". He did- once. He could do it again, maybe. Maybe...

It was some point late into the night. Though the lamps in the room were still blazing, it was dark outside. What did that clock say? One am? Two? His vision was still all funny, either from the lights or the excessive alcohol consumption. Did it really matter which? What were details in a state of insanity? What was he thinking about again? Oh right, the time, because he needed to know how long he had to pull himself together again. Before Dean came back. Right. He should really switch off these lights. They weren't even bright anyway.

Now, if he could only manage to get up. Right now, he couldn't even work out which was was up. Stupid alcohol. But there was more in the fridge that he'd probably end up drinking regardless. Stupid alcohol wasn't as stupid as these thoughts he needed to block out. And if all else failed, well, his best gun was right there on the table.

"You know where to aim, cowboy," he told himself.

At some point he managed to roll over, nearly falling off the bed but by some miracle managing to stumble to his feet in time. He swayed, walking in anything but a straight line over to the desk lamp and clicking it off. Then the one in the small kitchenette, the light in the mini fridge went out as he closed the door after taking another beer, the overhead light was last and he was in darkness again. It's always dark.

He'd only just sat back down on the edge of the mattress, beer in hand, when the door opened. He looked up and silently cursed that he clearly wasn't drunk enough yet to hallucinate, before abruptly remembering that he was supposed to be sober by now, otherwise Dean would be looking at him like... Well, like that.

"Sammy? Sam. What the hell?"

He can only imagine the state he must look. Drunk and bleary-eyed and- hey, 'what the hell'? He laughed. Oh Dean, if only you knew.

"Sam?" His brother was looking all concerned again. Next would come to the demands to tell him what was wrong, the vigorous attempts to understand. You don't understand. Because you're not... You're not...

Maybe it was that he was too drunk, or not drunk enough to pretend, but unwittingly he finds himself laughing again, choking out something almost as bad as his previous idea. "Hey, Mr. Helpless. Pull up a six-pack, buddy."

And Dean just stares. Because Dean doesn't understand. It's okay, he wants to say. Of course you don't get it. It's a private joke.

A/N:

Well, that was kind of depressing. Based on my firm belief that Sam does miss Lucifer and a random urge to write poetically (yeah, I probably failed that part). For anyone who hasn't memorised Lucifer's every single line in the show like me (what do you mean obsessed?!), "Hey, Mr. Helpless. Pull up a six-pack, buddy" is what Lucifer says when Dean first walks into Sam's hospital/mental ward room.

Anyway, thanks for reading and comments/thoughts welcome :)