Two weeks later, Sam helped Dean maintenance their equipment. He was relegated to oiling the individual gun pieces (Dean disassembled and checked them), owing to his shaking hands.

"You holding up okay, tiger?" Dean asked.

"It's not nearly so bad," answered Sam, his voice wavery. "But it's still been three days. My head and stomach are starting to hurt."

That was the process. Each dose got smaller, the time between them longer. Sam did his best not to be reduced to a quivering mess in the meantime. He wanted to prove he was still a Winchester, or as much of one as he could be. That didn't mean it wasn't hard, though. He could never completely shake the pain, the desire, the tainted feeling inside.

"See if we can get this done, and then I'll ask Dad about giving you a little bit." Dean wasn't entirely successful at disguising his opinion of feeding Sam demon blood himself. Unfortunately, their Dad was in town for the moment getting groceries, and they couldn't very well let Sam do it on his own.

Sam swallowed hard. "O-okay. I just…I just need to use the bathroom real quick…" He got up and headed to the spare bathroom they shared on the second floor.

He couldn't decide if this was worse than drinking the demon blood. The idea of keeping a secret from Dean certainly didn't feel better. But he didn't seem to have much other choice. He reached in the medicine cabinet for a clean razor among a number of forgotten items.

If he had demon blood in his veins, then he could bleed it out, right? Sam was determined to be rid of the hated substance as quickly as possible. After all, it was the reason Dean and their dad were so stressed.

The first slice elicited a noise between shock and pleasure out of Sam. In the blade's wake, a glistening line of red joined other fading pinkish lines on his left forearm. He discovered this solution quite by accident—last week, as he hefted the garbage out for Bobby. Something had broken among the trash, and nicked Sam's arm when he shifted the weight to throw it in the dumpster. The temporary shock, the quick pain, the blood…that's when he realized he could do something about the whole awful mess.

Two days later, he found the old straight blades, sterilized them, and hid them.

He had to be careful, however. Too much at one time, or in one place, could tip someone off. At this thought, Sam switched to his right arm, which was as yet untouched (he felt clumsier handling the blade with his left). Nonetheless, relief mingled with a soft exhilaration. The tension and hunger leeched away with each cut he made. Sam made sure to randomize the direction somewhat, to hide the self-inflicted nature of his wounds. With a junk yard surrounded by woods, any number of explanations would work.

Only a few marks did the trick; he could return to helping Dean without being driven to distraction. But first, cleanup. Sam gently swiped his arms with damp toilet paper, made sure all the bleeding stopped. These wet scraps got flushed down the toilet. He dabbed antibiotic ointment to keep the cuts from getting infected. Lastly, he stopped by his room to put on a hand-me-down flannel shirt.

"You must've really had to go," Dean commented to Sam's returning footsteps. He didn't look up from the half-reassembled gun until Sam sat down. "You feelin' okay?"

Sam shrugged. "Just got a chill. With the windows open and the sun on the other side of the house and all."

"Well, there's plenty still to do."

Thankfully, Dean didn't notice that Sam's hands had stopped shaking for the time being.

The back door opened and closed noisily. Their dad appeared, arms laden with grocery bags. "'K, boys, we got supplies to pack up. We're leaving in the morning—new case."

Dean stood up to help. "That's a lot for us, isn't it?"

"Some of it's to pay Bobby back."

"Oh. And hey, it's probably time for another dose."

John froze for a moment. Then he leaned around the corner to appraise Sam. "Is that right?"

"Y-yes sir," Sam replied. "I mean, well, it's getting there…"

"Hmm. You don't look too bad. I say let's hold off until before we leave. That way you'll hopefully be decently useful when we get there. It's just down in Colorado."

"Yes sir."