Sam kept me awake ALL FREAKING NIGHT with his bitching about the last chapter!
"Lots of action," he said. "Great drama. But what about the ANGST? I am FAMOUS for my angst!"
Little shithead. He's right.
So here you go. Just a little something to keep Sam off my back while I work on the next chapter.
Next thing you know, he's going to start campaigning to be the one to ring Crystal's chimes and you just KNOW what Dean's going to have to say about THAT!
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
thrump, thrump
Sam's head hurt.
thrump, thrump
His leg hurt.
thrump, thrump
His ass hurt.
thrump, thrump
His mouth tasted like day-old vomit.
thrump, thrump
He opened his eyes.
thrump, thrump
A ceiling fan turned above him.
Confused, groggy, a little frightened, his eyes tracked around the small, familiar room.
Iron walls. Ceiling fan. Mirror on the wall. Table. Jug of water.
Big door, closed.
The peephole in the door, also closed.
Oh, God.
He was in Bobby's panic room!
Nonononononono!
Why was he here? What had he done? Had he – had he –
Sam closed his eyes, trying to control his rapidly accelerating breathing; pushed down the rising sickness within him, tried to remember, remember . . .
thrump, thrump
Demon blood, he must have drunk demon blood, why else would Dean lock him in here again?
No.
A moan of desperation broke out of him.
No.
Oh God, no, not again, please, not again. I can't go through that again, I'll die if I have to do that again, die, die, I'll die . . .
thrump, thrump
A tear ran down his cheek, then another, at the thought of the long hours and days of dreadful torment in front of him. The pain, the burning, the burning -
Oh God.
Dean!
He must be so angry with Sam, so hurt and disappointed. After the last time, Sam had sworn never, never to touch that damned poison again, had promised he'd die first! And here he was again, the same damn thing, same damned thing!
Dean would never forgive him. Not again. This must have been it, the final straw, the final betrayal. His brother had probably already gone, left Bobby to deal with Sam; this last treachery too much for even Dean's seemingly limitless capacity for forgiveness.
He was alone now.
Sam closed his eyes, dug his teeth savagely into his lower lip, tried to pull himself together.
He could fix this. He could. He had to.
Maybe he hadn't drunk a lot, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
Maybe Dean would come back, would forgive him.
Dean . . .
Sam sat up, swaying dizzily, a little shocked that he wasn't tied down. He had to tell Bobby, remind him that he needed to secure him; he wasn't safe, he might hurt someone.
Hurt someone? Hurt someone. Had he - Did I –
Dean!
Panic-stricken, he tried to get up and a bolt of pain tore through him, his thigh sizzling with shock and insult. Choking back a cry, Sam clutched at it, staring in dumb confusion at the bandage on his thigh; rode out the jagged aftershocks trembling through him.
Once the pain subsided, he peeked a little hesitantly under the bandage and saw Dean's familiar stitch work. They were red and tender, showing unmistakable signs that they'd been stitched, torn open somehow, and then re-stitched. He sighed shakily. No wonder it hurt.
At least Dean had stitched him up before he left. That had to mean he still cared about Sam, didn't it? A little?
Maybe he would come back. Maybe Sam could still win Dean's forgiveness.
Maybe not . . .
A cold shiver of fear snaked through him. Before it could lay claim to him, Sam lay back down and grabbed the sides of the cot, hard.
He could do this.
He wouldn't give in, not this time.
He'd stay here, right here.
When Bobby came, he'd remind him about the restraints. And when the withdrawal symptoms started, he wouldn't give in. He'd hold on. He'd beat this.
Trying not to think, Sam settled in to wait.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
There is no cure for an angst addiction. Once you take that first dazzling, seductive sip, it's all over!