What the fuck am I going to do, Sam? I am constantly watching you and fearing that I will do something that will give away something. I am always tense. I shake at the possiblitiy that it will happen again. I fear demons less than this. Dammit!
Sam, I need help. You would know the answers or where to get them. Shit, this would kill you if you had any idea. I can't deal with this alone, but I can't let you find out, you have too much to deal with as it is.
It's not your fault, Sam. I see the questions in your eyes. I know you wonder about me, what has happened. You try to ask but back down when I give a flippant remark or sarcastic smirk about it, telling you to drop it. Part of me wishes you would push, demand, desperately wanting you to help, but most of all I want you to leave me alone.
Sam, you are not very good at lying to me, pretending to take my smartass lies as the truth. Hell, I am not very good at lying to you. I see your eyes following me when I move away from you when you get too close. I feel you waiting on me to fall asleep just like I wait on you. I bet you don't know that some nights, when I am not exhausted, I sneak out after you drift off and sleep in the car too afraid that it will happen again, then sneak back in before daylight, praying that you did not have a nightmare.
Dammit, Sam. We talked about this the first time it happened. It was supposed to be sleepwalking for fuck sake! I hope you have forgotten that conversation since neither of us has brought it back up agian. How long ago was that? Five weeks since last time, two months from the time before, two months from...shit, have I let this go on that long? Nearly six months -- I have to find the answer, I have to help you --
Fuck, the plan is not working.
