Fields Of Jasmine
Chapter 5 ~ Starved
It was an apartment building.
A real huge one, Sam figured. Even if he couldn't remember ever seeing one in his life, he knew that he could call this one huge. It took up almost an entire block among blocks of apartment buildings.
Sam followed the delicate woman who guided him hastily across a massively trafficed street towards it. Once safely arrived on the other side, she aimed straight for the grey buidling's entrance. In there, they walked towards an elevator, where she pressed the up-button.
"So ... you're Sam. Not talkative at all, huh?" she asked and blinked up at the tall omega, her nostrils flaring as if she was scenting him.
Sam's forehead furrowed and his eyebrows rose a bit. "No."
She nodded and nudged him in the side with her elbow.
Sam bit back a groan, though couldn't help the whimper that pressed thorugh his lips.
Amelia didn't seem to notice anyway.
"Well, don't you worry. We'll deal with it, kid, you'll see." she smiled. But she looked stressed. So stressed.
Sam wanted to believe her, but he couldn't. He saw it in her face. She high likely wished that she'd have enough time, but she wouldn't. She couldn't.
He gave her a sad knowing smile. "You shouldn't lie to me - I know you are only doing this because a firend of sheriff Mills told you to. He's maybe your boss or something. That's why you'll check on me every day for a week. Usually you wouldn't, would you?" He still smiled, but it wouldn't reach his eyes.
Her face fell and something in her eyes changed. Sorrow maybe ... or something else that meant that she was pitying him.
A "ping" was heard and the doors of the elevator slid aside, revealing a small cabin.
She stepped inside and Sam followed. When the door closed, she pressed the button with the number 17 out of 21.
"You are right. Currently I have about forty clients, ten of them in intensive care," she told him.
Sam looked at the led-numbers above the door rising.
"And I am only checking on you for the first week each day, 'cause I have to. Because honestly?" She cast her look up at Sam. "I'm working about seventy hours per week to keep up with my schedule. But I tell you what: We're gonna make the best out of it, okay? I'll try to help you as good as I can. I'll organize appointments with doctors and I will have someone of our organization drive you there. I will help you get food and things, open an account at the bank for you and we'll go from there on." She smiled softly, reassuringly. "What do you think? Sounds like a plan?"
Sam smiled back a bit. "sure." He gave Amelia a nod. "So ..." He looked upwards for a moment. "... I will have my own apartment?" A very subtle way to change the topic but it'd do it.
Amelia nodded. "Yeah." She seemed to understand instantly. "It's nothing big, Sam. But it'll be enough for you – I hope. You'll have a living room with a kitchenette. Toilet and bathroom. A small bedroom. It'll do until you're ready to get your own ... when you find a job or something. You'll see."
Sam nodded, his smile vanishing slowly.
When the elevator's doors finally swept open and they stepped outside, a long, dark corridor revealed itself to them. It didn't look like anything that was supposed to be called home. The walls were of a dark green and grey and the tiles beneath their feet had a weird touch of brown and yellow.
Sam hoped his new "home" wouldn't look anything like that. So he found himself torn between fright and anticipation. Then again ... he didn't have any options. If he didn't want to live on the streets and starve, he needed a place to stay. Even if it was as creepy and filthy as it looked at first sight.
The omega was pretty surprised when he saw his own apartment. Amelia was right. It was small. But it also seemed clean and the light that came through the windows illuminated the entire living room and a small kitchenette, with a tiny table and two chairs to his left.
There was also a couch with pillows and a coffee table on which a small TV stood. On the right side of the room were two doors. High likely the bathroom and bedroom.
So far he hadn't seen the other two rooms, but this one was pretty awesome. There wasn't a lot of space, but that also meant that he wouldn't have a whole lot to clean up.
Amelia showed him the bathroom, which was also very neat and and compact. So was the bedroom. Once back in the living room, Sam dropped his bag on the couch and looked around a bit more. The first quarter of the walls from the floor upwards were painted in plain white. Then a thin decorative strip followed and the remaining upper three quarters were painted in a light blue.
"It's nice," Sam said with a little smile on his lips, without looking at the petite beta by his side.
"Good." She beamed at him. Sometimes people weren't that easy to satisfy. "The fridge's filled. I hope you're not allergic to anything?"
Sam shook his head.
"Fine. You'll make yourself a home and I'll stop by tomorrow afternoon again. Until then I've hopefully arranged some of your appointments - You'll need to see a doctor, who's going to tell us what else you'll need." She smiled at him friendly. "That's where we'll be going from."
Sam only nodded. "That's fine," he said, but didn't mean it. He really didn't.
It was nice here – it looked nice. But it didn't feel like home – yet. And he wasn't sure if he'd be able to anyway. Though, he figured, as long as he didn't NEED to get into contact with any other inhabitants of this building it'd be okay.
At least not just yet, within a week or two. Maybe it'd take a bit until he'd get used to everything.
When Amelia had left, he slumped down on the couch, staring at the black screen of the TV. Beside it, his gaze landed on a phone. Beside the phone was the charger and a sheet of paper.
Sam didn't bother though. Whatever the woman couldn't tell him when she was still with him, could surely wait until tomorrow too. The only thing he wanted was a shower and the comfortable looking bed.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean rubbed over his face, gulping down another glass filled with amber liquid. He put it back down on the bar and sighed heavily at the thought of Sam – and that he high likely was in his new place by now. Hopefully comfortable.
The omega's scent seemed to cling to the upholstery of his baby and his clothes. He could still smell him, as if his odor had burned itself into his nose. Dean had even put on an extra-load of aftershave.
It didn't help anything.
He hated it.
Not that he smelled like Sam. No. He hated the decision he made for himself. Dean Winchester even caught himself hoping that Sam wouldn't be able to stay on his own there. So that he HAD TO pick him up from Columbus and make room for him. So that he had a reason to do it, and not just because he wanted to have him there with him.
The ex-hunter sniffed and ordered another shot. And a beer. Followed by three Tequilas and another beer. What followed after became pretty soon pretty blurry.
What he could actually remember was waking up in a familiar bed, on not so familiar sheets. Though, the beta's body which lay nestled beside his own felt pretty familiar too. Even the scent and slender arm, which was drapped over his middle.
Dean groaned. He could also remember hangovers like this ... He just hadn't had one as bad since after a particular hunt gone wrong. Another groan fell from his lips and his face screwed up in a mixture of disgust and confusion, when he felt the nipples of a pair of breasts – very soft breasts – poke into the sensitive skin of his flank.
Dean took exquisite care to not wake her, as he crept out under the waitress, who had been serving him last night – obviously in more than just one way. Dean bowed over and smoothed her hair back as she stirred at the change of position and went to collect his clothes and put them back on.
Of course he made as little noise as possible, while he tried to get in his boots without losing his balance or toppling over. Well, Dean Winchester failed miserably. There were a couple of heavy thumps and knocked over items in the process, but he finally managed to get out of the house without being noticed.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Three weeks later ...
... Dean Winchester was a mess. Besides the day when Sam had left, he hadn't gone to the bar again. He hadn't drunk either after the third hangover. He didn't even want to get up out of bed. He was sleeping in each day, and he wondered how long Bobby'd tolerate his behaviour.
How long he'd keep watching his younger friend acting all off and lost.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Amelia had called in sick seven days ago. She had reached Sam over his new phone and told him that she wouldn't be around for a couple of weeks. That she tripped and fell down the stairs where she broke her leg. She had promised Sam, that there'd be one of her coworkers stopping by on wednesday. Brady Random ... or so. She had promised that he'd be a nice one. That he'd take good care of him and that he'd take him out shopping.
Sam had told her that it wasn't a problem at all. But in fact it was. He actually knew Amelia a little bit by now. He had started to kind of trust her ... and now she was just gone.
Miserable as he felt to be depending on someone else, he made his first attempts to leave the apartment for shopping (with the money Amelia had left him). And had failed miserably. Hell, he hadn't even made it to the elevator without having a severe panic attack.
And it was getting worse with each passing day. As if the events from the past year came crushing down on him now – all at once. Sometimes he had real bad nightmares about Henry ... so he figured that if he didn't sleep he wouldn't have them.
What was actually true.
But then there was sleep-deprivation. A nasty thing and it dumped his mood into the gutter. Sam started to feel bad about things. Practially everything.
He didn't even notice when Wednesday passed by without a counselor knocking at his door to check on him. His phone abandoned on top of the microwave in the kitchenette.
The only thing he craved was safety. The want to feel safe. The urge to wrap himself up in a tight cocoon of fabric as if it'd make things better.
Sam had searched for Bobby Singer's number. And he had found it. He had even considered calling him. It had taken a couple of days until he brought himself to dial the number. But he hung up each time before the other man would have a chance to pick up his phone.
So here he was. Without actual food. Without anyone to rely on. Without people who cared.
Well, at least he'd managed to get take-out. Telling the delivery-guy to put the food in front of his door and he'd push the money through the slit under it.
Which had worked pretty well. At least as long until he ran out of money too.
What didn't bother him that much anymore after the second day, since he felt sick each morning and wouldn't even get up from bed until late noon, when the nausea would have subsided. Not to mention the headaches he became on a regular basis now.
Sam laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, calling out in his thoughts for someone. For god. For angels. For anything that'd be able to help his aching mind and heart.
He pulled the comforter high above his shoulders and neck and snuggled back into the pillow, turning on his side.
Anyone who thought that hunger would dare someone as scared and frightened like the omega to leave his safe haven were wrong. There was nothing Sam was able to do to keep the panic attacks away. Nothing that'd help him through it either.
Sure he had an appointment with a very nice lady two weeks ago. She had encouraged him and reassured him that together they'd be able to work on it. To make things better.
And now he was alone. With a raging turmoil of emotions and memories he couldn't cope with. And he was alone. So alone.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut to hold back the tears once again. He was an omega, but he also was male – at least the bigger part of him. He just needed to keep it together.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Another week later ...
... Dean Winchester couldn't take it anymore. He had phoned Jody, had told her that he'd like to have Miss Richardson's number, so that he could ask her how Sam was doing and ask her about his address. Because he wanted to visit him. He needed to visit him.
Jody had called back a couple of hours later and had given him Amelia's number.
Dean had called the counselor immediately. And she hadn't picked up. So he tried it over and over again, every couple of minutes, leaving messages on her voice mail.
What felt to him like years later, she finally called back, just to tell him that she hadn't seen Sam in three weeks since her leg was broken. But she gave him the number of a guy named Brady. Who seemed at least as busy as she was.
THAT guy didn't even bother to call him back last night. Though he must've heard that the messages Dean had left him were urgent. He made sure the guy knew that.
Dean Winchester didn't sleep last night. Not a single minute. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, making him feel miserable.
He waited until seven in the morning. Then he took a shower, got dressed into a set of fresh clothes and packed his duffel bag. It was before eight, when he dialed Amelia Richardson's number and laid the phone to his ear.
This time she picked up at the third ring.
"Amelia Richardson. What can I do for you?" Her voice was sleepy, but friendly.
"Hey. Dean Winchester. I can't get a hold of your coworker. Maybe you could give me Sam's address?" he asked casually as if there was no need to press things.
"Wait. - I need to look that up," she murmured. "He's got a phone too. You could call him yourself," the woman suggested. "I'll give you his number?"
A faint smile flashed over his face. "That'd be great."
Dean heard her put the phone down. The rustling of clothes followed. Then the phone got picked up again. It took her about five minutes to get from her bed into the kitchen, where files lay sprawled out all over a big table.
"So ..." A sigh followed. "For the number. It's 004623 – 55555. His address is: Summerlane Avenue forty-seven. Seventeenth floor, Apartment thirteen."
"That's mighty nice of you," he cleared his throat. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Just ... don't push it, okay? If he doesn't pick up at the first try ..."
"I won't. Promise." Dean ended the call, pocketed his phone and grabbed his duffel, repeating the address in his mind over and over again, until he found himself in front of Bobby's doorstep.
He stopped there for a moment and fumbled out his phone, dialing the number Amelia had given him. - It went straight to voice mail."Fuck it," he grumled frustrated and pushed it back into his pocket.
The ex-hunter went inside and into the kitchen, from where he heard noises that led on, that Bobby was already up and about and preparing breakfast.
"Up this early, son?" His voice was sleep-rough and wrecked as if he hadn't slept either. Only when he turned around, Dean saw that it had to be just that.
Dean smirked at him. "You sound like shit, old man."
His friend turned around to face him, eyeing him curiously. "And you look like shit too, boy." He took him in some more. "You headin' somewhere?"
The ex-hunter's face softened a bit. "Yeah ... Columbus." His face softened further, it even lightened up slightly. "Checkin' on Sam."
Bobby tried to look surprised, but his eyes gave away that he had already figured it out. "Huh. Well." His eyebrows arched up. They nearly made a line with his scalp. "You think something's wrong?"
Bobby tried to keep his face neutral.
Dean sighed and shrugged as he pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed over it. "Nah. Just wanna have a look. See how he's doing ... All that." ... If they are treating him right. If he's got the support he needs. If he's got everything.
The older man didn't believe him. His lips twitched and the expression in his eyes shifted. "You mind if I come with?"
Of course Robert Singer would never admit that he'd like to see the kid again too. He'd never tell anyone how often he had thought in those past four weeks that it may have been better to leave him on the Salvage instead of letting him go with the counselor.
Rather surprised, Dean's eyebrows went up and his jaw dropped – At least for a second, before he put his poker-face back on. "Sure."
"Good. We can pick something up for breakfast on our way - I'm ready in ten." Bobby brushed past his younger friend while he talked and thumped up the stairs.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean waited with the running engine in his baby beside the porch.
Exactly ten minutes later, Bobby emerged, locked his house up and took his place in the passenger's seat. The two of them shared a short glance, before they took off. Gravel giving away under the tires as the car pulled away from Singer's Salvage, southwards.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Amelia Richardson didn't go back to bed no matter how tired she had felt before. Now she was wide awake, turning her phone over and over again in her hands. She had tried to call Sam's phone a couple of times, but he wasn't picking up.
What could be because he was still in bed and asleep of course. Or because he just didn't want to talk. OR because he couldn't – because he didn't feel good, or was hurt or ... or something else completely ridiculous. After all there was Brady who'd check on him once a week since she couldn't.
Amelia eyed the file before her. Sam's file. She bit her lower lip, rubbing up and down on her casted leg, her gaze flickering at it every now and then.
Though she was sick, she felt responsible for her clients nonetheless. She always had. Even when she didn't have a whole lot of time – at least not the amount she wished she had – each and everyone of them was important to her.
A heavy sigh fell from her lips as she scrolled down her contacts on the phone until Brady's was underlined blue. For a moment she hesitated. After all it wasn't her job. Not right now. And yet it was.
Those people were her responsibilty. Sam was her responsibility. At least until he'd be able to care for himself. So she dialed her coworker's number.
As it went straight to voice mail, she glanced at the clock behind her, craning her neck painfully.
It was shy before nine. Brady wouldn't even have stopped by at the office just yet. He might be with one of his clients – even before his working hours would've started.
Impatiently, she waited for the minute hand to strike twelve. After five minutes she gave up at waiting and decided to get dressed – what was quite a challenge with the cast and crutches. She brewed herself a cup of coffee and opened a yogurt before she went back to the kitchen table, her gaze immediately caught on Sam's file.
Amelia called her coworker right at nine a.m. again. This time succsessfully. After about the sixth ring he picked up with his name.
"Hey!" she said.
Brady greeted her cheeringly, the noises of a busy office in the backround.
"Hey, I'd like to know how Samuel T. Harvelle's doing. Tall scrawny guy. Shaggy hair. Hazel-green eyes. Picked up in Sioux Falls." She gave him some of the basic information, so he might not have to have a look into his files.
She could practically hear Brady's forehead furrow through the phone. There was a beat of silence from the man, before he cleared his throat. "You've got his ID-Number handy?"
Of course he wouldn't know who Sam was. After all her cases got split in half. One half for Brady and the other one for Anna – at least as long as she wouldn't be able to drive and make her visits, since she was capable of doing paperwork from home.
"Shure thing." She gave him Sam's number.
The rustling of paper was heard, a curse, and more rustling of paper. "Gotcha." There was a pause. "Okay. Give me a minute here." Again, there was only Brady's breathing and background noises. Obviously he was skipping through the records, searching for a picture or something that'd help his mind to remember the man he should've visited once a week.
There was some more breathing and noises. Until the breathing stopped and Amelia could hear Brady gulping down a strangled breath. After all those years of working with him in a team she knew by now what he looked like when he sounded like this.
She also knew, that this wasn't a good sign at all. Not at all.
"What is it?" she asked after giving her coworker another moment. "What's wrong?"
Brady cleared his throat. "Well ... I might have a problem now," he murmured hoarsely. Again the rustling of paper. "When did you pick him up from South Dakota?"
"Brady," her voice low and dangerous. "Four weeks ago. Nearly five. - What is it?"
"I ... I wasn't there," he breathed into his phone. "I ... I haven't visited him ... Somehow ... I – It must've happened when I matched my appointments with yours. Oh god ... Amelia I'm sorry. I'm so sorry ... I didn't-" Brady started to babble.
"No," she breathed, her eyes wide in horror. "He didn't pick up, when I called," she murmured. "Brady. We need to get there. If ... Sam's not leavin' the aprtment. Not by himself. I left him a hundred dollars the last time I was there, taking him to the doc. He must've ran out of food and ... Oh god. C'mon. Get your ass over here and pick me up."Amelia's voice turned comanding.
"I'd be faster If I'd drive there on my own. It's a detour when I've to leave Columbus and-", he started to explain, already gathering his coat and car-keys together.
"I don't care. You pick me up. We're driving to his apartment and I hope he's okay. For your sake, Brady. I honestly do." She knew failures could happen. They were all only human after all. But this? Forgetting about someone who needed their support as bad as Samuel Harvelle? THAT was a big mistake to make. Specially since the man was an omega. Specially in the situation that man was. "You gotta pick me up, 'cause I can't get there on my own. - 'cause he's been through a lot, which you'd know if you'd have had a look into his file at the beginning. He knows me. You – on the other hand – are a stranger."
There was silence.
Some more silence.
"I'll be there in thrity minutes. Wait in the drive-way," his voice echoing, as if he was already in the parking garage. Then the line went dead.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean Winchester's fingers thrummed against the steering-wheel in impatience, his gaze glued to the road.
Neither – he nor Bobby – had said a single word since they had taken off from the Salvage two hours ago. Not even the radio was playing. It was a long-stretched, strained silence between the two of them.
The closer they got to Columbus, the stronger the pull on Dean's chest became. It wasn't something he could possilby explain to someone else. Only his body and his mind sensing that he was supposed to be somewhere else. That he shouldn't have been waiting for so long to check on Sam and the closer he came to his destination, the clearer it got. He hadn't been supposed to let Sam leave with this woman in the first place - No matter what anyone thought.
It was a nameless feeling, that made his chest tight and his gut twist into tight knots of discomfort at the very thought.
That was when he realized, that he – somehow – didn't care that Sam was an omega. That it didn't matter. That he was what he was. After all Sam T. Harvelle hadn't been the one who had set their house on fire all those years ago. He wasn't the omega who had killed his mother.
What had he been thinking anyway? His mother had been an omega too. She wouldn't have been able to hurt a fly.
So what the hell was going on with him? Why had he seen every single omega as his foe all these years?
Why did this one change his point of view without him even being around? Without talking to him? How was it possible, that Sam had turned him into a softy just by looking out of a window?
Well, he'd figure that one out later on.
If he'd ignore all the speedlimits further, he'd get to Columbus half an hour earlier than he was supposed to.
One thing was for sure: He'd take Sam back to the Salvage with him. No matter what. If there was just the tiniest sign that he didn't feel comfortable there at all, that he wasn't mistaken that the omega may have liked it in Sioux Falls better, he'd get him in the car and drive his ass right back there.
And if not? He'd do it anyway.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
The drive through the city slowed them down, since they ended up smack in the middle of rush-hour.
Amelia and her coworker weren't much better off too, though they had about ten minutes on the two men in their black Chevy Impala. Amelia Richardson fought with her crutches as she sturggled to get out of the car a block away from where Sam's apartment was.
She cursed audibly when she nearly tripped as she put her crutch into a puddle and her broken leg nearly gave out on her. Brady, who usually would've at least chuckled, was pale and seemed as he was feeling a bit nauseous.
"You've got ya' phone?" she asked him, as they crossed the street side by side.
"Yeah." Brady breathed.
"You've got the keys to the apartment?" she wanted to know next. Her voice strict. Her face unreadable.
"I've got it, Amy. - Okay? I'm sorry," he murmured back.
"Stop apologizing. What's done is done. I only hope that this doesn't cost someone else's life," she ground out through gritted teeth.
~ 67' Chevrolet Impala ~
Dean squeezed his baby in between a giant pick up truck and a Mini right in front of Summerlane 47.
"Ain't this a clearway?" Bobby spoke up, his voice hoarse, as he pointed at a sign. "Except for those who're livin' here?"
The younger man grinned at his friend and pointed at the glove compartment, before he reached over and opened it. He rummaged through it and finally pulled a certificate of disability out, which he stuck in between the windshield and vent on the driver's side.
"You ain't disabled," the hunter exclaimed gruffly.
Dean gave him a look.
Bobby gave him a look back. "Well ... maybe you are," he shrugged and pushed his door open. Dean followed shortly after. He scanned the front of the building with a dark look as he narrowed the entrance.
Once inside, the knot in Dean's gut tightened painfully at the sight of the ugly looking walls ... and freaking puke-brown tiles. Nothing about this place was anything like the Salvage. Of course, Bobby's house reeked a bit like old books, herbs and what he imagined a grandma's closet smelled like.
But this? THIS? In a district like that one?
They sure as hell had to do better than this ...
Dean pushed the thought aside, as they reached the elevator. His jaw was set tight, when his hunter-friend looked over at him with an at least as pissed expression on his face. He sure wished he wouldn't have sent the oemga away too.
Once inside with Bobby, Dean hit the button with the number 17 on it and then they were on their way. The elevator made curious squeaking and groaning noises as if he was about to just stop, or rather fall.
The small hairs on Dean's neck rose at the very thought.
When it finally stopped and the doors opened, both hunters made hasty steps into the corridor outside, lucky about having survived a ride in the killer-elevator. Both men imediately caught the movement down the corridor, where a female and a guy stood in front of a door, knocking and talking.
At first, the both of them didn't recognize her, but the closer they came, the more precise the two appeared.
"Amelia?" Dean and Bobby muttered surprised in unision.
Of course, the strong scent of an alpha wasn't lost on the two by the door and they looked up curiously, to find Dean Winchester standing beside them, his head tilted slightly to the side and his jaw pushed forward.
The feeling that something had to be wrong set off a range of emotions and white hot anger.
"You guys have the keys?" he asked coldly. His gaze promised cold-blooded murder if they'd tell him no.
Brady glared at him and before he could open his mouth to snap at the hunter, Amelia rose her hand to stop him. "Sure we do - It just looks like there's a key in the lock on the other side," she explained shortly. "We're waiting for the lockout service." Her voice was calm, but her face contored in worry.
Dean shooed the two aside and shared a glance with Bobby. The older man pulled a small case from the inside of his jacket and handed it to Dean.
The ex-hunter glared at the two from the councelor services.
"You guys are morons," he ground out through gritted teeth. Of course he knew that they surely had a bunch of work, but that didn't justify that they'd neglect one of their clients. Specially not this one. Not Sam. Not after what he had been through ...
Dean fumbled with the set into the lock, pursing his lips slightly when he felt a resistence from the other side. Though, he knew how to handle this – He had handled locked doors for years. And not a single one had stayed shut, that much had to be said.
A second later a click was heard and he pushed the door-handle down, nudging it open.
Instantly the smell of something rotten crawled up their nostrils and let everyone hold their breaths after the first lung full of old air and Sam's scent.
To the ex-hunter's surprise, the apartment didn't look as bad as the corridor. It even seemed acceptable – except for the mess.
Dean gave the counselors another glare. Warning them to just say a single word that could set him off. The odor of anger streamed in thick waves from the ex-hunter, as he limped inside first. He looked around, taking in the small living room with a kitchenette on the opposite side.
That was one hell of a mess. Take-out boxes littered the counter. There were two huge plastic-bags in the corner on the floor stuffed to the top with more boxes.
Sam hadn't brought the garbage outside - He couldn't ...
Dean's nose screwed up and he growled deep down in his throat. Actually growled and threw a deadly gaze over his shoulder towards the both counselors. He didn't bother to inspect the room any further since it was obvious that Sam wasn't there.
"Sam?!" he called out while he walked to the first door and opened it.
Bathroom. No one home.
"Sammy?" he asked as he walked up to the other room's door. "You in there kiddo?"
He waited a few moments, that stretched into a long agonizing minute. Everyone stood still in the room. Except for Bobby. He was sniffing into one of the chinese take-out boxes from the counter and pulled a face at the green-yellow fungus growing inside of it.
Dean didn't knock, even when he thought about it for a second. It took him everything to not just rip the door open and storm inside, crying bloody murder for not answering him. Instead he opened the door slowly and lurked inside.
The bedroom wasn't big. There was a cupboard under the window on the oposite side of the door. It enlightened the whole room with daylight, since the curtains were drawn back completely. At the right wall was a bed and a nightstand. Nothing else.
Dean's eyes widened. The bed was definitely occupied. "Sam?" he asked, his voice all of a sudden hoarse.
The omega wasn't dead. He knew that. He'd feel it, wouldn't he? There wouldn't be that pull in his chest, literally dragging him over to the bed and making him fall to his knees beside it.
The figure beneath the comforter was completely covered by it. There wasn't a single inch standing out from under it.
"Sam. - 's that you?" Of course he knew that it could just be him. Who else'd be in the omega's bed. Besides, he didn't smell anything else besides OMEGA.
Dean's fingers curled around the top of the comforter and he ever so slowly drew it down from where he figured that his head had to be.
Dean sucked in a sharp breath at the sight before him. Pale skin. Dark circles around closed eyes. The smell of someone not having showered in days. Soft stubbles along a sharp jaw and the labored rise and fall of a chest ...
... to be continued
I'm sorry, folks. I had to stop right there or this chapter would've become a whole lot longer.
