all my grief says the same thing –

this isn't how it's supposed to be

this isn't how it's supposed to be.

and the world laughs, holds my hope by the throat

says: but this is how it is

-Fortesa Latifi


Blood gives Sam a specific high. It isn't floating or weightless. His bones never go hollow. There are no bubbles in the blood, no soft light filling up the empty spaces between his organs. If anything, it's the opposite.

For the first time in his life, Sam knows what it is to feel grounded.

The life of a hunter doesn't afford roots. Sam still remembers watching the other children in school go home at the end of the day with a sort of fond wistfulness. The kind of home with a fenced backyard and a big floppy eared dog and tacky pictures hung with nails on the walls.

And then Sam would find his way back to their motel of the week, four grimy walls with patches of black mold. Showers with no hot water. Loud strangers in the rooms next door. If they were lucky, the manager would be a gray life weary woman. If not, there were men with bright eyes and chapped lips and twitching hands. Sam never understood until he was older why Dean would sling one arm over his shoulder when the men looked his way. Why Dean drew him in closer, fingers like fishhooks twisted in his t-shirt.

That had been their life until academic advisors started to notice his grades, the ease in which he passed tests, the books he read between classes just to kill time. Until the college applications started pouring in and then Sam let himself hope that fate might have something more in mind than the short and brutal existence that of a hunter would entail.

His mind set upon it ravenously, claws digging in, jealously guarded against his father. He would study hard and get a scholarship and take Dean with him. Dean was resourceful, a good mechanic, a hard worker when he wanted to be. He could find work anywhere. And if not, Sam would make enough for the both of them. In the end, it was Stanford that came like a lifeline. Full ride, everything he imagined it would be. And all the hard work, all the sleepless nights, all the fights with his father had been worth that letter that spilled out congratulations and the chance of something new.

He spent the winter imagining what it would be like to grow roots. He and Dean could go months without stitching each other up. No blood and no salt. They could drive to the beaches in the California heat, the windows of the Impala rolled all the way down, the sound of Metallica blaring as they sped down the twisting gravel. They would see just how red Dean would get when he burned because his skin had a natural defiance against tanning. How dark the freckles scattered on his shoulders and nose would become. It would be perfect, nothing but wind and sea and palm trees. But more importantly safety and a fresh chance for the both of them.

In the end, California was beautiful, picturesque even, all that Sam imagined it might be.

But there was no Dean.

Dean hadn't come. Had said no with those cutting green eyes that begged him to stay, begged him not to do this, not to run away again. But he wouldn't stay and Dean couldn't leave and Sam hated everything around him for that fact alone.

It had been different with Jess until it wasn't. Even that small slice of normality had been torn away.

Sam hadn't protected her. Wasn't strong enough back then. But here and now, with the dark blood flowing through his veins and with Dean at his side, he is connected, attached to everything. Can feel the shudders that run through the ground. Can feel his brother, a living beating pulse, the heat of his body, the smell of his skin.

And up till he had killed them just moments before, Sam had felt the demons like shards of sunlight in his eyes. Blaring and oppressive.

A small respite of shade and Sam can breathe again. He lays on his back, ground cold and muddy beneath him, waits until he catches his breath and only then does he begin to drink. He tries to start small, to keep it neat but that never lasts long. The thirst kicks in, vicious with a vice like grip deep inside his bones and there's nothing at all to slake it but drink deep and long. The world goes away for awhile and when Sam comes back to himself, hours might have passed. It's still dark but for all Sam knows, it might as well be the next month. He checks his watch, makes sure he hasn't lost days instead of hours. 3:58 am. He still has time. The building he sits in is deserted, a bad part of town no doubt and the police won't find the bodies until he and Dean are states away. There is glass on the floor, blood drying on his face, shadows waving on the walls.

He comes back to the room once he is able to shove the shakes far beneath his skin where he can feel but not see them. Dean is a snoring lump on the bed, messy hair the only thing peeking out from beneath the covers because in the cold months, Dean likes to burrow. Sam wipes the blood from the window. The cut on his hand has already healed, nothing more than a faint red memory. Salt lines are still good. Sam double checks them just in case and then a third time because with the Winchester luck, you can never be too sure.

And then because Sam doesn't sleep anymore, he sits on the bed, stares up at the ceiling and listens to Dean breathe in and out. Sometimes when he's gone too long without blood, Sam wishes he could still sleep. Longs for the bliss of unconsciousness to wipe everything away for a few hours. But it's an empty wish and he finds new ways to keep busy.

The sun is still hours away but Sam closes his eyes and feels the world waking, small ticks that are impossible for others to see. The heater rattles in the wall. The air vents puff out dust. An alarm sounds five rooms over. The cars on a nearby freeway pick up speed. Sam's heartbeat skips and scatters, not content to keep to a pattern. He still hasn't gotten used to that, still holds his breath and waits for the inevitable when his heart seems to fall asleep when the rest of his can't. Oddly enough, that might be the worst thing. The taste of copper that is impossible to brush off his teeth, the subtle scent of sulfur that he catches when his anger spikes, the black outs of lost time, those are tough but Sam deals. His heart not being able to decide if it wants to give up or keep going is a bit more off-putting.

He sighs and sinks against the pillows, taking a moment to catalogue any injuries. The demons had put up more of a fight than he'd expected. It was still child's play, over before it even began but his desperation made him clumsy, made his grip on them slick and fumbling.

The lower ranking demons were consistent at least. A flair of his presence, of the power their blood afforded him and they tried to flee. The older demons, the ones with more strength stashed up over the years, were drawn by Sam. By what killing him would mean.

Demons were stupid that way.

The bed is too soft, too suffocating beneath him but Sam doesn't move. Tries to settle the pounding of his heart, tries to focus on the heaviness of his limbs, the course of strength pumping through. There is a smear of blood on the sheets and Sam sighs, bringing up his knuckles for closer inspection. One thing that demon blood didn't cure was pure human clumsiness. Sam had killed them without a scratch, without breaking a sweat, but he had tripped walking down a back alley filled with broken beer bottles during the initial high. Scraped his knuckle raw.

He pulls the sheets from the mattress and stuffs it into a bag. Dean grumbles from his place on his bed, hair sticking up in every possible direction and fixes bleary eyes on Sam. "Whswrng?"

"Just avoid the bathroom for an hour or two." Sam tries to joke even when that feeling was yawning up inside him. The one that warned his blood was a bomb ready to implode. Too soon. He'd come back too soon and the shakes hadn't left yet. He needed to get out before Dean saw. Luckily his brother seemed to still be half asleep, a bit of drool on his lips, years younger in the dark, looking strangely childlike. Sam felt his heart give a nasty tug, resume its pace. He pushes away the images that flood his mind, images he knows would invade his dreams if he still slept. Dean bloody and torn. But no, Dean is here. Dean is safe. Dean is not in Hell. Sam got him back. It's been months and Sam still has to remind himself that this is real. Dean here with him. Whole.

"You ok?" Dean asked and there was that sound of concern, more familiar than anything else in the world.

"Probably just those tacos you brought back last night."

Dean humphed and buried his face back in his pillow, muttering things under his breath, already succumbing back into the pull of sleep.

And then just as the first traces of sunlight appears on the far wall, Sam slips from the room with the keys to the Impala.

He finds a little cafe a few miles down the road, deserted but for one red eyed employee yawning behind the counter. He buys Dean two sandwiches and a muffin stuffed with chocolate chips and throws at least twenty packets of ketchup into the grease soaked bag. Two of the biggest coffees he could find, Dean's black and Sam's swimming in cream and sugar. He tries not to think too much about the food that Dean considers perfectly acceptable, mainly anything loaded with salt and fat. He tries every once in awhile to replace the burger and fries with something green. Not that Sam thinks he has anyplace to judge. After all, his diet is comparable to that of a vampire these days.

But Dean deserves more and it still huts that their father didn't even try to instill some sort of healthy habits in them. Maybe he didn't think they'd live long enough to need it. The scent of sulfur and Sam swallows, counts back from a hundred and then starts again.

By the time he arrives back at the motel, the smell is gone, leaving nothing behind but the waft of leather from the Impala and the shampoo from last night's shower.

He is in the middle of juggling breakfast, car keys in his teeth, bags shoved between the door and his hip, coffees in one hand and hotel key in the other when Dean emerges from the bathroom. A fog of steam escapes behind him but his brother is already rushing forward, relieving Sam of the coffee. Before Sam can warn him that it's hot you idiot, Dean takes a drink from one without looking, face immediately scrunched up in distaste.

"No idea how you drink this stuff dude." Sam starts at Dean's voice, at his words, because Dean can't know. But he just lays Sam's drink on the table and quickly snatches the other, making a satisfied sound when he chugs that next. A little of the tension bleeds away. "Much better."

There are stains on Dean's clean shirt, dark splotches from where the water in his hair dripped down but he's distracted as always by food, noisily tearing through the bags. The muffin is gone in seconds. If Sam were to add another wonder of the world, Dean's metabolism just might top the list. He sits across from his brother and watches him make short work of breakfast and this is a balm against the world if there ever was one. Nothing else comes close to making Sam feel human than Dean in his space, being the typical annoying, messy older brother. And nothing else could make Sam stray as far as he has from actually being human. Nothing and no one else could turn him as far as he has.

"Sam."

Pulled from his reverie, it takes a minute to figure out what Dean's looking at that has him so spellbound. Sam glances down, follows his gaze to where he is anxiously rubbing his knuckles, skin that is still split open, bruised and dirty around the edges. Knuckles that weren't bleeding when he went to bed the night before.

"Sammy."

He doesn't want to look up, afraid of what he'll find there. But it's Dean and Sam has never had any choice when it comes to his brother. Sam glances up. "Yeah?"

"I-I just wanna make sure you're with me." Sam tries to look innocent even as a shard of cold cuts straight through him. "If- if anything were wrong, you'd tell me." Dean might not mean it as a question but that's sure how it comes out, a little too unsure, a little too vulnerable.

"Yeah, yeah of course." He smiles, cutting his eyes away, fumbling through the bag like he is starving when the scent of food turns his stomach even further.

Dean opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Then he grinds his jaw and gives one short nod.

"Good." He says but Sam knows that he doesn't believe him.