Sirens of the Blood

Chapter Four – Alcoholics Anonymous


Underwater ringing. That's what it felt like. A moaning ring echoed to certain parts of his brain on a constant loop, unable to breathe, unable speak. On pause. He felt this before – assuming the vessel of Lucifer role was like being on a perpetual pause.

Only this time wasn't about any kind of angel.

"Sam, I can explain everything. Just, just calm down." Caroline was saying, in some mediocre attempt to soothe him. She even looked a little sad. In the long run, Sam knew he was acting childish, but damn. Why did this always happen to him? He stood up, hands large in defeat. He couldn't.. couldn't handle it any more.

"Sammy," that was Dean.

Sam found it impossible to bring himself to even say another word. The room was smaller. Where had all the air gone? The ringing got louder. He had to get out, get away. He ran through the room, sending waiting staff and customers squealing to avoid him. Soon, he reached it. The ink blotted hand before him came into contact with the door in a surprising burst of pleasure. Doors meant a lot in symbolism, his year at college had taught him, they meant new beginnings. Freedom. Rebirth, all that crap. But one thing stuck in his mind as his throbbing palm applied more than enough pressure to the smoothed out metal surface and flung the door open. He recited the thought over and over. The wind picked up but the tender sun could still be felt upon his broad shoulders as he took a single step outside. His friends may have called to him, but he couldn't hear them over the waves of betrayal. He couldn't hear anything but that one dull, useless bit of information he could remember: Janus, god of the past and future, doorways, was often depicted with two-faces. Two-faced. Just like Caroline Forbes, or Amanda, or whatever the hell her name was when she hooked up with his brother. Why was it always Dean?

Sam kept walking, kicking invisible gravel along street after street. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders rounded. He felt like a teenager again. The skin around his nostrils tensed, widening the air passages and this erected his chin. It always hurt when he liked someone, someone he even began to trust, and they stabbed him in the back - which in itself happened far too many times. Overeager; that was his problem. Never loved, so loves too much like some kind of sick joke. His life was a joke. What the hell was he doing? He didn't even know the first thing about teaching. These kids couldn't tell them anything the internet wouldn't. They were more or less idiots. Harmless, but idiots. Or maybe that wasn't the problem. Maybe the problem was that Sam was still hanging onto little Sammy after all this time. That Sammy who had stood, amazed, when a kindly teacher had asked him what he wanted to be when he was older. That Sammy who fought with his elder, stronger brother over the last bowl of lucky charms. The Sammy who had dared to argue with his father, dared to dream, dared to want to be normal. Dared to want the life that his mother had wanted for him; but his mother was dead. She had died a long time ago. Was he disappointing her, or himself? Either way, he was doing something wrong. He must be, to be punished with so much loss and fear and outright pain. It wasn't that he was upset about Caroline-Amanda, it was the idea of her; sweet, innocent, kind and beautiful girl helps new, young teacher in those rare moments of weakness. It sounded like one of those chick flicks Dean never let him watch. And now even she was gone -

"You lost, big guy?" Sam looked up, finally resurfacing from under the water of his mind. He had walked to a part of town he and Dean hadn't looked at yet. It was quieter, the houses and gardens were much bigger and even the road was wider. Ubiquitous features lined the road – he stood in a shadow cast by an impressive tree. It was about a hundred feet tall with the strangest leaves, they were a light green but flayed out like children's grabbing hands. His changeable brown eyes searched the empty area in front of him for the source of the voice. From nowhere, a small man was a few feet away from him.

"I said, are you lost?" The man repeated. Sam nearly laughed at the sight of him. The dude, he could have sworn he had seen him from somewhere before, wore a ridiculously tight black top and dark jeans and dark shoes. Even his hair was dark. The guy's eyebrows practically met in the folds above his glabella and nose - in fact his frown was so tight he was almost pouting. Sam felt his own eyebrows lift and his mouth widen. Don't laugh.. don't laugh...

"Um, yes actually. I was just, erm, admiring your tree?" He wanted to hit himself, as an afterthought he pointed pathetically up at the tree in question. The other guy seemed to relax – he released his poor eyebrows from their monster grip anyway – and smirked. Sam had to physically hold himself back from laughing at this point.

"Oh, right. Well, all I know is that it's a tree. Wood. Bark. Whatever other tree-related puns possible," The guy leant against the tree and stuck out a hand for Sam to shake. He was like, what, five foot ten or something? Definitely smaller than Dean and Bobby. Even smaller than Garth, and Sam didn't know a single guy smaller than spot-welding, hunter Garth. Adorable. "Damon. Salvatore."

"Oh, erm, Sam Winchester." Damon froze up at the mention of his name. Was Sam Winchester a household name already? Whoa, that was fast. The moment, however, went as soon as it came and Damon was back to being the standard image of Virginian kindness. "New around here, huh, Sam?"

"Um, just arrived yesterday."

"I see – would you like to come in for some Salvatore famous bourbon? It's a delicacy." Damon came behind Sam and almost forced him to walk the driveway. Sam let out a tittering laugh, he could handle a little guy like this after all – he barely came to his shoulder for God's sake. And to be honest, if Sam had enough muscle to take on some demons? Yeah, he could totally watch himself for a miniature sized male.

"Sure, so you're family made bourbon then?" Sam asked, trying to fill the silence.

"Oh, god no. We just drink it like we did." He couldn't say he'd ever been in this situation before but he was sure this Damon guy wasn't too bad. And.. free whiskey. He could do with some strong, cold whiskey. Sam soon reached some well-manicured grass. It was sure a dramatic house – there was no other way of seeing it. Regal. It was a huge 'L'-shaped building, with the two sides near the bend joined by a diagonal brick wall. It had slight turrets and sticking out parts, it was imperfect. A cross between English Tudor and American Suburbia. All browns and wooden and cross-hatched windows. Sam had never seen anything like it and he loved it. He must have gasped or something because Damon added, "Great, isn't it? Been in my family since the 1800's but it's just me and my brother now."

Damon was now stood to Sam's side and they walked together around the circular grass that formed a round-a-bout sort of thing that broke the driveway into two. Damon had a brother. Maybe he would understand...

"A brother?" he asked. Damon nodded towards the porch-like wooden ornament at the diagonal wall. There, Sam now saw, was a teenage guy stood with his hands behind his back. And, surprisingly, Sam recognised him as one of the guys in his class. Salvatore... Salvatore... stiles? Steve? "Stefan."

"My baby bro. Annoying punk, but you gotta love them, right? Excuse me a sec, he seems to be more brooding than usual. Let yourself in, though. Bourbon's in a crystal bottle on a table by the fire-place." And off the guy went, running up some brick stairs and soon he and Stefan were walking around to the back of the house. The brothers were soon out of view. Whiskey. Sam quickly jogged up the right set of stairs, taking three or four at a time easy, and was soon inside. It – like the Grille – had a dark, wooden feel to the place yet airy and homely. Sam wondered what it was like to have a home, a home like this. A home where you could shut the heavy, protective door and walk into different levels of a living room. Learn all the nooks, all the crannies. That creaky floor board just at the lower left-hand corner of the Persian rug covering the floor before the roaring fireplace. Sam did just that, imagining himself carrying out these actions daily, getting more regular. The Men Of Letters bunker was okay, Dean sure liked it; personally Sam knew there was more to life than military maps and books and records and Dean's burgers and beef jerky. Here. This place- where the fire burned even during the day – where the leather seats angled towards the fire slightly smooshed as he lowered his body into it – where the heat and the warmth made you feel safe and secure.

Sam, now finally feeling built up knots of muscle and nerves untangling in a bitter-sweet pleasure that made his eyelids struggle to stay open, reached for the crystal bottle Damon had described. It was cool in his hand as he watched the liquid swish in circles. He braced himself and solemnly brought the glass to his aching lips. He sipped. The flavours exploded in his mouth. It was obviously an old aged whiskey – from what Sam knew from his many experiences with alcohol. He wasn't afraid to admit to himself that he did drink way more than the average healthy person, but it was so much less than Dean used to and if anyone had an excuse to, who did more than they? He just tried to think about nothing but the taste of the Bourbon whiskey in his mouth and the heat of the fire on his skin – try to be like when he didn't have his soul. At least back then he couldn't feel. Stop it, the hunter told himself. The whiskey. Whiskey. It was creamy, smooth, ancient. It tasted as though he was eating wood. A fallen branch from a tree, cracked along the ridges of the naked core, unnaturally exposed at one end to the evil of the world. He could imagine he bent down in the woods over this dying branch, sniffing the end like an addict to heroine. It was his friend, his family, and the only thing that understood him.

Sam heard a light shuffle from behind him, up on the slightly elevated level of the room. He looked back, annoyed that he was broken from his trance, only to find no-one there. Back to the bourbon. He smelled it, attempting to reach the woods once more only to have his dream shattered by a screaming blonde.

"DAMON, NO!"