The euphoria of the high was beyond amazing and Sam knew he needed to chase this feeling. He was still on Crowley's couch, leaned back, feeling the drug lighten him. He wiped the white dust from his nose and gave a lazy smile to his dealer as a 'thank you.'
He took the orange bottle he paid for, smiling to himself at the sound of the pills tapping around inside, and pocketed it before leaving the house. It was a poor idea to try to walk home high off his ass, but who cares? He certainly didn't.
There was a time when Sam didn't have any interest in drugs. When he thought he would never even smoke pot because he didn't like the idea of losing any kind of control or awareness, perfectly aware of how hypocritical that was seeing as he did drink. There was a time when pot seemed like it would never happen, then when it seemed like he'd never do more than that, then when he was sure he would absolutely never inject anything.
And he hadn't, but that wasn't the biggest victory out there. To not mainline drugs was never where his original bar was set.
He didn't remember how long he'd been back at Dean's house or how he even got there—he hadn't done Oxy long enough to know if that was a side-effect or if it was something else wrong with his memory. But fuck if the couch wasn't comfier now that he was melting into it.
He was long asleep when Dean caught up with him and returned home. The older brother was happy to see Sam had showered and changed his clothes, and he didn't appear to have been crying or irritating his scratches or bruises.
It brought hope to Dean that his baby brother was getting better. He couldn't stand seeing his brother suffer. Yet, while he was glad to see Sam napping in the open and not hidden away, he was worried. Something tugged at his gut but he couldn't place the fear on anything but the general unease of the situation.
He decided he would take Sam to Ruby's apartment when he deemed his brother well enough to see her again. They would need to collect Sam's things to make it a cleaner break between the two exes.
Dean looked down, attention on his sighing brother. Sam kept his eyes closed and slowly stretched out each limb as he eased into being awake. He was startled when his eyes popped open to see his brother standing there, watching him.
Sam was ready to shoot upright but tensed up instead, instantly remembering the bottle in his jacket pocket. He couldn't move too suddenly—the last thing he needed was for Dean to hear the rattling or to see the bottle fall on the floor. Then Dean would give him some disappointed look, soon replaced by anger and screaming when he discovers it was illegal narcotics rather than some therapist-prescribed happy pills.
"Morning, Sammy," Dean said gruffly, taking a seat by Sam's limited leg space.
"Dean," Sam replied, pushing back the jitters and smoothing his pocket to be sure the pills were safe. "What time is it?"
"Past five, sleeping beauty."
At least he had a nice nap, Sam told himself. "Uh, how was work?"
"It was alright," Dean replied. He debated bringing up going to the apartment but decided it was still too early. "How are you doing, Sammy?"
Sam clenched his jaw and did his best not to give himself away by breaking eye contact. He felt tense but tried to appear relaxed. He would do anything not to appear suspicious. "I'm… fine. My eye stings a little, but I've had worse."
Dean looked just past Sam's bruised face. "That's good. I'm glad you're doing better."
"Me too, Dean."
The bottle in his pocket never felt heavier than it did right then.
Dinner that night was celebrated with some beer. Dean said it was because of the wonderful day at work leaving him in a good mood, but Sam knew it was to celebrate his own alleged improvement. He didn't want to ruin his brother's high spirits and sipped from his own bottle despite how sick alcohol made him feel these days.
It didn't go unnoticed by Dean how little Sam had eaten, but he ignored it for now. He'd address it if Sam kept it up. For now he would blame it on recent events and slow recovery time for the abused.
Sam had felt sickly trying to keep up the act of improvement. He promised himself a treat that night once Dean was asleep and he was safe to lock the door and chew another pill… or crush up a line. The thought of snorting it again was bitterly exciting to his tired mind.
That night he was all too eager to get to bed and wait until he could hear the soft snoring of his brother on the couch. He wasn't sure why he was so eager for more, whether it be addiction, habit, or the need to destroy himself in some way now that no one else was there to do it. Maybe it was all of the above. He didn't care at the moment.
It was his first night at Dean's house with his new pills and he didn't want to get caught straight away. Sam chose to chew this time, disappointed that he was being 'responsible' enough not to be loud and crush it up.
When he was done and had the orange bottle hidden away in his bag, he laid still on the bed. Shadows danced on the ceiling from the cars passing by his window. He felt the numbness set in and the euphoria dancing behind his eyes. Here he was: safe, warm, high, and with his brother.
Sam missed feeling stray hairs against his shoulder and the warmth of Ruby curling into his side. Their time together wasn't always badness and yelling and hitting. There were days when she was all hugs and kisses. She would play with his hair or kiss him sweetly before reminding him how much she loved him.
Sometimes they would go out together to buy an ounce of pot together from one of the neighborhood kids and they'd spend their entire weekend baked and watching movies. Sam forgot why he was always so stubborn about going with Ruby to get Oxy or coke from Crowley. Why did he even care if they did the harder stuff? Why did he used to be so goody-goody?
It's no wonder Ruby got so mad. He could smoke from her bong but he wouldn't do a simple line of cocaine? Why did he have to be so difficult? Ruby wouldn't have to hit him if he just—
Sam coughed and sat up, uncomfortably numb. He knew he needed to stop reminiscing about her and he needed to stop this kind of thinking and self-blame…
But it was right, wasn't it?
She never forced him to start that life. She never held him down and pushed those pills past his lips. She never asked him to be so fucking impossible to deal with when it came to upgrading to a better dealer, to Crowley. She wasn't the one who always came home late, who always spent his time talking to his brother, who smoked the last bowl when she always liked having the last hit.
Dean would be so disappointed if he could hear everything Sam was telling himself. Sam knew he couldn't be realistically blamed for the abuse inflicted on him… but in his mind he was guilty. He was the bad guy. It was his fault and he deserved it all.
It was lucky to find the local high school burnouts just a few streets from Dean's house. If Sam was going to make the Oxy last while avoiding sobriety, he would need something to stretch it out. Alcohol would have been great to drink while he was high but he couldn't risk the memories making him sick. The last thing he needed was to be sick, high, and constantly in Dean's sight.
It was a school day so of course the local seventeen-year-old dealer was home, listening to loud rap music and walking around the yard with his phone and portable speaker. He was taken off guard to see Sam, a six-foot-four-inch giant with more muscles than the local football team, approaching him. The teenage drug dealer was noticeably surprised to see Sam when his usual buyers were other kids from his school or some older neighbors who agreed not to report him to the police for a discount.
Times like now Sam appreciated his outward appearance and how his height alone was intimidating. The kid, a lanky white boy with some scattered acne, took a step back before trying to act like the intimidating thug he was online.
"W-what do you want, dawg?" he asked, voice ready to crack.
Sam rolled his eyes and swiped some loose hair behind his ear. "Yeah, alright, Snoop. Here's how this is going to go: I have money and you're a loser with no real job. I won't rob you and beat you senseless if you can go get an ounce right now before I get mad."
He hoped he sounded convincing and that his words matched his exterior. Sam had no intention of hurting this kid but he was in a poor mood and just wanted to go home and forget who he was. The kid took the bait and stumbled over his untied shoes before running inside the house. The teen returned minutes later with a kitchen plastic bag filled with greenish, fuzzy looking miniature trees.
"Seriously?" Sam asked, inspecting the bag. "This looks like it's half shake. Are you trying to fuck me?"
The kid's chin trembled and he gulped. "It's all I gave left, I swear! There's a school dance coming up and all my buddies cleaned me out last week for their dates!"
Sam stared through the kid, counting in his head, wanting to remain the same scary figure in case he needed more from the teen later on.
"Fine." He threw a wad of money over and turned around to walk home, pressing the bag inside of his jacket. He grinned to himself. He still had the magic touch—that is, his ability to lie through his teeth and pretend to be someone else.
He remembered the first time he bought weed for Ruby. How nervous he was, looking around in all directions, unable to stand still. Muttering what he wanted, stuttering when asked questions. Now look at him—hustling a punk kid just to avoid waiting an extra ten minutes and asserting dominance.
He was going to have an excellent smoke break.
A/N: We're easing into the drug abuse. Classic Sam.
Teen dealer is based off that one burnout we all knew in high school. Classic burnout. If you're still in school, look out for him. He skips class most of the time and always smells a bit like weed.