Sam stared hopelessly at the door to the panic room. "Dean?"

When no reply came, he clenched his teeth against a groan and pressed his face into the pillow, hot tears seeping into cold sweat.

Withdrawal's next onslaught came as bugs. Tiny invisible feet marching over him, burrowing into his ears and nose, worming their way past the flimsy protection of his eyelids.

Frenzied, he scratched his arms and face bloody and, when the attack finally ceased, sagged bonelessly back onto the thin mattress.

He'd have sold his soul for a gun, and a single bullet.