A/N: For the few original readers who missed the edit in chapter 1, I've decided to make this a chapter story and replaced Jessica with Ruby (for plot purposes).

WARNING: I added drug abuse. This won't just be about one kind of abuse, it seems.

It wasn't unusual for Sam to be more on the quiet side, to sit deep in thought while Dean would do his own thing. It was different now, much more unsettling. The young man would sit in silence, stare at nothing, and completely zone out. He didn't care when Dean caught him checking out or when Dean gave him tired sighs.

The phone had been hidden since Dean caught him with it after the first couple days together. Sam was like a deer caught in headlights when Dean walked in on him in the kitchen, at nearly four in the morning, with the cracked device in his hands. The drawer he found it in hadn't been closed yet, meaning Dean caught him as soon as he discovered it.

Since then the phone was hidden behind a few spare napkins in the glove compartment of the Impala. He knew Sam wouldn't find it there—Sam refused to even leave the house. He was like a scared puppy, only lashing out when he felt cornered by Dean.

Dean wasn't used to dealing with abuse victims. He couldn't, for the life of him, understand why Sam was blaming himself for what happened. He didn't see why Sam didn't leave Ruby the first time she hurt him. He couldn't fathom why Sam was so desperate to go back and see her.

He didn't know if he should ride this out with Sam—the sleepless nights, the breakdowns, the sickness replacing appetite—or if all he was doing was rubbing salt in the wounds Ruby created.

While Dean worked, Sam would aimlessly wander the house to stretch his legs. He always stopped by the mantle where there were framed family pictures. He would pause to look at the old family portrait of his late parents. Why couldn't he have this with Ruby? Mom and Dad were always happy—why couldn't he have that? It hurt to see and he walked away, knowing he would make the same stop the next time he was too restless to sit still.

He tried to eat and be strong for his brother, to prove to himself he's not as weak and pathetic as he was made to believe, but he struggled when it came time. The piece of bread he tried to eat sat hard in his stomach and came up minutes later when his mind inevitably drifted back to her.

He didn't have it in him to pretend he could be strong. Sam chose, instead, to stay on the bathroom floor, surrounded by the stench of his bile on the floor. He'd clean it up later and he'd make himself look presentable before Dean came home. For now, he would sit. He would sit and he would feel the sting of the acid in his throat.

Sam certainly wasn't making things any easier. It hurt Dean to come home to find his baby brother had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor looking like a bullied high school kid. He made to clean up the dried mess around his brother's feet. When he was done he tried to wipe Sam's chin, waking the boy in the process, making him redden and rush to leave.

Sam was dizzy and his eyelids were heavy and burned. He didn't make it far before Dean caught up with him and made him stop, turning him around to stand face-to-face.

"Sammy," Dean said, voice strained. "Oh, Sammy…"

He didn't know what to say or what to do. He just forced his rigid brother into a hug until it was reciprocated. Sam held on tightly. They broke apart, Dean leading Sam to the living room and handing him a few different remote controls in varying shades of grey.

"TV, box, DVD player," he said, pointing to each one. "Put something on. I'll go get dinner."

Sam was ready to protest but gave in when Dean gave him a rare pleading look. He flicked the TV on, glad for some small reprieve from his mind. He tried to ignore the lingering memories of sitting with Ruby on the couch when they had first moved in together, flipping channels, avoiding their unpacked boxes that littered every corner of the house.

Dean sat with him, gently handing over a half-filled bowl of soup. Heat rose to Sam's neck when he realized Dean had, in fact, noticed his (obvious) poor eating habits since arrival. They sat together, mindlessly watching whatever came on the TV. Dean's deep chuckles helped Sam to remember where he was. That he was with his brother. That he was safe.

He shouldn't have to feel safe away from her… He had at least a foot on her and quite a few pounds in muscle. How could he let—

"Sammy, eyes on me," Dean's voice cut through his thoughts. Sam could feel a moisture building in his eyes he hadn't known about. "I'm here."

Sam nodded and wiped the tears on his sleeve. Dean reached over, pulling his brother to his side. He would get his baby brother through this if it meant doing this every day for the next year. He wasn't going to let Sam suffer like this.

Sam felt better with Dean sleeping next to him. He would panic when he was alone, waking up sore and alone. He'd be confused, wondering where Ruby was and if she was about to come back, fucked up and mad. The lingering pain made Sam think he, too, was some level of fucked up and freshly battered.

Now he woke up and saw his brother. It tethered him to reality and reminded him he was out, he was with family, Dean wouldn't hurt him. The itches would set in when he realized he was here with Dean. Ruby was nowhere to be found and neither was the stash.

How Sam hated himself for letting his life come to this. He knew what he'd do in the morning, once Dean was gone for work. Dean would be happy to know Sam was out of the house and taking a walk out in the open air and in the warm sun.

Dean never has to know Sam was aching for his next hit. In his mind he knew it was wrong to manipulate Dean like this and let him think he was just an abused, fragile man. Dean would be so disgusted to know he was harboring some drug-addicted, abused, freak.

And like he promised himself, Sam got ready for a day out and about as soon as Dean was gone. He showered, minding the cuts that weren't healed yet, and found a fresh pair of clothes to change into. With a quick check to make sure he did, in fact, have his wallet, Sam was out the door.

The walk did feel nice. Sam used to like taking morning jogs and walking to the farmer's market, neither of which he was able to do since…

The sun felt good. That's all that mattered. The sun, the warmth, and the incessant shaking of his hands. Thank the lord he could hide his withdrawal from Dean, who probably assumed every little thing was another side effect of the abuse. The guilt Sam would normally feel for deceiving his brother, even by accident, was long forgotten. Everything was becoming overridden by the need, need, need to get more relief.

There it was: The House. The decent-enough brick house he had seen so many times already. He approached the front door and gave it a knock before stepping back and anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot. The door creaked open and he looked down at the shorter man with dark eyes and an uneasy aura to him.

"Sam Winchester," the man recalled. "I see you've come alone. Shame, really."

Sam bit his lip. "Can I come in or not, Crowley?"

Crowley, his dealer, smirked. "But of course. Nice black eye, Sam."

Sam grimaced but slid past the shorter man and into the house. It was nicer on the inside, which was curious to Sam, seeing as Crowley was a dealer and would seem to be a target for robberies. There seemed to be one rule in the streets: no one messed with Crowley. There were rumors and there were well-known stories by the local stoners; anyone who tried to pull one over on Crowley either went missing or suffered a rather traumatizing accident.

The mere thought of the man he was working with made a chill run down Sam's spine.

"What will it be this time?" Crowley asked, taking a seat on a red couch, motioning for Sam to do the same. "More Oxy?"

"Yeah," Sam said with hesitance. He passed some money over and resisted the urge to punch that smug look off of Crowley's fat little face. He knew better than to lose his cool, especially now. He waited, foot taping the floor, as Crowley left to retrieve the much-desired drugs.

When the dealer returned, he had an extra few pills lose in his hand. Sam was ready to question it when Crowley laid it down on the table instead. "Think of this as a… gift. I saw Ruby recently and it would seem you two don't run together anymore. Shame, really. I liked it when she used to have to drag you to me."

Jaw clenched, Sam closed his eyes. "Make your point, Crowley."

"It's a welcome gift to my newest, hopefully loyal, customer," he smiled. "I'd hate to send such a nice young man out without something to get him going."

With that, the older man began to crush up the pills right there on the table. Sam swallowed hard, a nervousness replacing the need. He had only just began doing harder drugs with Ruby before they split up, and even then he didn't snort it, he chewed! It made him nervous and feel guilty.

Crowley made neat lines of the powder and motioned for Sam to take the first hit. Dean would never know, no one else would ever know. He needed this, he was damaged, he needed this. Before Sam knew it, he was leaning back against the couch, coughing lightly into his fist, feeling the high he had been craving. The pain was gone. He was relaxed.

And Dean would be so disappointed.

A/N: I've never been addicted to anything, everything is based on what I read during research. Feel free to PM me if there's a blatant mistake or if you have experiences to talk about.

I do have some experience with abuse, just not on the same level as I've given it to Sam.

This was originally just some one-shot because I felt like writing about Sam and now he's on drugs. What a magical world we live in!