Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your kind reviews. They're all I get for my writing, and I can't express my appreciation! I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm still building up to the exciting stuff, but I don't want to rush it. Let me know what you think! :-)

SPN

Since moving into the bunker, Sam and Dean hoped to put their itinerant lifestyle behind them, but just in case, they always traveled with emergency go bags. Nothing was ever permanent, and sooner or later, some new crisis was bound to uproot them. They had to be ready. Therefore, when Sam ditched the Impala, he was able to carry a durable backpack filled with essential supplies, compact weapons, and a change of clothes—plus some extra loot from the trunk.

He was actually running. Like a fugitive.

He tried stopping himself. He loved the bunker—it was the closest thing to home he would ever have. More than that, it was an opportunity to find himself—to become the person he was really meant to be—a Man of Letters! Hunting was all well and good, but he never chose that life. He never wanted it. He never belonged. The bunker offered him the chance to flourish as he never had before; it meant the world to him. So how could he leave?

But he had to leave. He couldn't help it—he was so thirsty! And he had to escape his brother. If Dean found him, he would drag him back to the dungeon, chain him up, and force him through withdrawal. The very thought made him nauseous. No. No way. He would rather die quickly. He couldn't… Dean didn't understand—would never understand!

"It won't be that bad. You only had a few drops."

Yeah, right.

Stealing a Toyota Camry, Sam took off in a random direction. He had to put as much distance between himself and his brother as possible. He had to get away. He had to drink. He was so thirsty…

Dean would find him. Dean always found him. The last time this happened, back with Ruby, Sam did everything he could to shake the stubborn bastard, and Dean still found him. He was like a bad penny. Right now, Sam's best strategy was to cover his tracks and keep moving. Consequently, he made his way to Wichita (the largest city in Kansas) and left the car in a public parking lot. He proceeded on foot, fully intending to buy a bus ticket out of there.

But first, he had to drink.

He had to.

It was all he could think about.

Of course, tracking a demon was no small feat. He didn't have the patience to search for omens (crop failures, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms), and would much rather summon one. But where? It was the middle of the afternoon! True, he could always afford a cheap motel room, but since he wasn't planning to spend the night, it felt like a waste of money.

Oh, screw it. He wasn't above breaking and entering.

Perhaps recklessly, he veered across the street towards an ungated apartment complex with multiple two-story buildings. The amenities were lacking—the pool was disgusting—but the tenants compensated with friendly welcome mats, wreaths on their doors, and plants on their balconies. It didn't take a genius to figure out which units were occupied and which were vacant. Selecting a target, Sam scanned his surroundings, and when the coast was clear, he made his approach, picked the lock, and slipped inside.

The apartment was dark and cold, with only an island separating the kitchen from the unfurnished living room. Sam dropped his backpack on the counter and pulled out chalk, five short candles, matches, a bowl, and three small apothecary bottles. No time to waste. He was so thirsty!

As quickly as possible, he sketched the Sigil of Baphomet—a goat's head in the middle of an inverted pentagram—directly on the island's surface. He placed the five candles on each point of the pentagram, with the bowl in the center.

He shouldn't be doing this. He had no idea which demon would turn up, or how powerful it would be. It might kill him.

Just to be safe, Sam slid Ruby's knife from its sheath.

He lit the candles, opened the bottles, and dumped the herbal ingredients into the bowl.

"Attenrobendum eos, ad ligandum eos, potiter eos, coram me."

He caught his breath, waiting in silent anticipation. No going back. He moved around the island into the living room, where he had more space to maneuver. This was sure to be violent and ugly. He'd have to suck the blood from his victim like a freaking vampire! Of course, the demon deserved it. The demon deserved worse! But what about the human host?

What about Cindy McKellan, the nurse he bled dry—all for the sake of power? He thought he was gearing up to save the world, but in reality, he nearly destroyed it. He broke the final seal. He opened the Cage. He was a monster. He would never atone for killing Cindy, but at the very least, he could respect her memory by fighting his thirst. Right? If he just called Dean…

"Hello, Sam."

He whipped around.

There, in the corner, stood a tall white man dressed in a charcoal suit with a red tie. Obviously middle-aged, he had a clean face, salt-and-pepper hair, perfect teeth, and a cavalier attitude. No trace of fear.

Sam shied back, holding up the knife, sweating nervously.

The demon clucked his tongue. "What's the matter, son? No big brother? No devil's trap? You've seen better days."

Sam hesitated. If he was careful, if he paced himself, he only had to drink enough to quench his thirst. Then, he could exorcise the demon, treat the man's injuries, and let him go. No harm done. Right?

The demon stepped towards him.

Sam shuffled back.

The demon smirked. "Oh, come now. Don't be coy. You called me, remember? So how can I be of service?"

By now, Sam was shaking. He couldn't go through with this! Nothing good ever came from it! He had to stop! Where was Dean?

Oh, God…

Dean! Help me!

Losing patience, the demon rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist, fully intending to propel Sam across the room. But it didn't work. Sam held his ground.

At first, the demon looked confused. "What…?"

Then it clicked.

"Well, well, well…" He laughed, crossing his arms. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Don't get too excited," Sam growled. "I'm going to kill every last one of you."

"Sure. If that's what you need to believe."

Still extending the knife, Sam focused on all that power, all that anger, bubbling wildly beneath the surface. If he could just channel it from his core and direct it out through his arm, he could overwhelm the demon.

But the power would not be bridled. The more he tried to harness it, the more it eluded him, exhausting his energy. All too soon, a crushing pressure was wrapped around his skull. He could smell the blood oozing from his nose. His knees nearly buckled.

The demon was laughing again. "Someone's a bit rusty! What do you say, son? Shall I take you in for a tune-up?"

Gasping for breath, Sam folded, dropping his arm to his side. He couldn't… He was still too weak… Sweating… Shaking… Panting…

The demon licked his lips. "Oh, Sammy. I can't wait to see the look on her majesty's face when she sees you like this."

Her majesty?

Abaddon.

Sam braced himself, watching the demon warily. He was obviously no match for a Knight of Hell—and God willing, he never would be.

In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Chuck's voice.

"You went, like, full-on Vader. Your body temperature was one-fifty. Your heart rate was two hundred. Your eyes were black."

And that was just to kill Lilith. What would it take to kill Abaddon?

"Come on, son," the demon coaxed with fatherly concern. "Why don't you put the knife down? You're in no condition to fight." He took a small step forward, holding out his hands, just waiting for Sam to drop his guard. "We can help you. We want to help you." He took another step forward, and Sam let him come. Soon, they were face to face, and the demon reached out to gently pluck the blade from his grasp. "Thatta boy…"

Sam promptly kneed him in the groin.

The demon gasped, doubling over while Sam yanked back his knife. He plunged it in the demon's shoulder—it wouldn't kill him, but he still screamed, flashing with golden energy. Then, before he could recover, Sam removed the knife, knocked him to the floor, pinned him down, and pressed his mouth against the injury.

The demon cursed.

Sam drank.

As the blood flowed down his throat, power coursed through his veins.

He was alive again!

He was free.

SPN

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