Sam was sick. Sicker than he'd ever been. He felt horrible, as though his insides were super-heating and drying his joints from the inside out. His stomach rolled. His very bones ached, and his knees and elbows and his back - they felt like bone rubbing on bone. In all his years of hunting, Sam had never hurt this badly. If he'd known, back then, that detoxing from demon blood would leave him feeling like this … well … it would have been overwhelming incentive to just say no.
But Sam hadn't fed again. Would never feed again. Once he realized what he was capable of under the spell of blood … no.
It had been a year since Ruby had betrayed him, and he'd broken the last seal. A year since he'd last heard his brother's arctic voice on the phone, full of hatred and promising him that he was only something to hunt now.
It had been a year since he'd had a drop of demon blood, and the withdrawal today was just as bad as it had been back then. No, actually, it was worse. A year of agony that grew sharper over time, but he deserved it for what he'd unleashed upon the world. Lucifer had risen because of Sam Winchester. He walked the Earth now, preying on the innocent, and it was all Sam's fault.
He thought briefly of his father and of how disappointed he must be, and Sam's eyes filled with tears. Another violent shiver wracked him, dislodging a broken sob before he could stifle it, making his hand quake and spilling his coffee. And in the booth behind him, two teenage boys laughed out loud.
"I think the junkie's gonna cry." one said, snorting. "Hey, you gonna cry, junkie?" The boy leaned over and dropped his empty sugar packet into Sam's cup. "There, now you got something to cry about, man." The boys chuckled as they rose and left together, Sam never meeting their eyes. Instead, he fished the used sugar packet out and took another sip from his nearly empty cup, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe up the drips.
He felt, rather than saw, the waitress pause at his table. Without looking up, he could see the coffee pot in her hand as she moved among the table topping off cups. He heard her sigh in exasperation and move away, skipping him all together. His lower lip trembled, but he hid it behind another shaky sip of the rapidly cooling coffee.
Sam knew how he looked, how he smelled. Living on the street would do that to you. He stopped in at the day shelter for a shower and to do laundry nearly every day, but recently, the shelter had been too full, too busy. There had been no room for him in nearly a week, and he knew how offensive he must be. At least it was cold weather, and not the hot days of summer. Sam had learned to count his blessings where he could find them.
Blessings. He snorted. Like there were any of those slated for Sam Winchester. He rested his temple in the palm of his hand and thought about home. He wanted to go home so badly. Home to Bobby. Home to … to Dean.
Sam pictured his brother sitting across from him in the booth, the way he had of making even the worst situations seem solvable. "We'll figure it out." Dean would say, motioning for the waitress to refill Sam's cup. And she would because no waitress anywhere would ever leave Dean Winchester wanting for anything. "We'll figure it out, Sammy. Just like we always do." Dean would wink and smile and return his attention to his pancakes, and just like that, Sam's world would lighten because he'd know it would be true. Dean would stuff a too-big bite of food into his mouth and commence chewing like a horse, and Bobby would snort and roll his eyes, and Sam would feel … safe. Safe and protected and looked after - like someone who had people who cared about him.
He missed that. Damn. He missed it.
It hurt so much to think about them that he tried not to do it very often. Bobby's house. The old salvage yard. The small, neat room at the top of the stairs where a pre-teen Dean had read bedtime stories to his 8-year-old brother as the smell of wild honeysuckle drifted in through the slotted window. He wanted to be that kid again. Innocent, hopeful, nothing but a promising future standing between him and old age. He'd wanted to be a writer back then, back before he ever dreamed of becoming a lawyer. He'd pictured himself as a writer and Dean as a mechanic, and they'd live together somewhere in some small town where nobody knew their names or what they were capable of.
Because Sam knew what he was capable of now. He felt bile rise in his throat. The things he'd done ...
He stared into his empty cup and longed for death. Longed to be back in that 8-year-old body. Longed to have never met Ruby. Longed to have never taken that first hit.
Longed to see Dean, to tell him how sorry he was. To let him know he'd been in the right all along. But Dean would kill him now if their paths were ever to cross again. Dean would kill him, and even though Sam was perfectly willing to die, wanted it even, he didn't want it to happen by his brother's hand.
Dean deserved better than to have to carry that burden through life.
Sam's arms shook as he made a move to stand and his back spasmed. And then he was on the floor, hearing the disgusted "tsks" of the family in the next booth.
And then the darkness came and nothing mattered again.
