The lighter left on the coffee table was the first thing to set off a warning alarm in the back of Dean's brain. Neither he nor his brother smoked—he didn't even own candles. Dean had his own lighter, a metal lighter that was refillable. He even kept an extra little canteen of gas for it under the kitchen sink. He knew Sam had one like it, likely left at Ruby's after they split. What worried Dean was that it was some plastic lighter, like the kinds his work buddies bought in packs of three and had out during smoke breaks. It was new.

There was a weird smell to the house but Dean wasn't sure what it was, whether it was tobacco or something weird Sam brought from the outside world, like a potted flower or whatever crap he was into.

"Sammy!" He called out, ready to ask Sam what was going on. He wasn't an idiot, he knew something was off about his brother. Sam was acting so relaxed and carefree half the time—the rest of the time he was moody and just wasn't himself.

The tall form of Sam emerged from the bedroom, hair disheveled from the nap he had been taking. He rubbed his eyes and approached his brother. "What?"

"Care to explain to me why my house smells like pot?"

Sam couldn't stop his reaction, the widening of his eyes and raising eyebrows a dead giveaway to his shock of being caught. He felt embarrassment to be caught so quickly and he felt shame, like he had been too stupid to hide the one drug every other teenager snuck into their bedrooms to smoke at night.

"Uh," he muttered, trying to think of an excuse or something to say that would make Dean less pissed. "Pot?"

Dean's face was hard and his eyes narrowed. "Don't give me that crap! You look like you were caught with your hand in the freaking cookie jar!"

"I'm sorry, okay?" Sam bit back, anxiety flooding back into his system. He forgot why he tried to sneak around Dean now that he was faced with the enraged man. "It's weed, not heroin!"

That only seemed to only further anger Dean. "Jesus Christ, Sam! I don't care what it is, you can't be doing this shit!"

Then it hit Sam: the perfect excuse. The same excuse. It would be consistent and it wouldn't entirely be a lie. He took a breath and tried to compose himself to seem solemn. "It helps me… not to think about her."

Dean's face softened a fraction.

"I know it's not okay to do, and I feel bad… but it's hard to sit here alone all day. I hear a noise, like the air kicking on, and I don't know. I forget I'm not with her and I panic, like, 'why is she home early? Is she mad?' I'm sorry, Dean."

It was the puppy dog eyes that finally broke Dean. He turned his head away and crinkled his nose before saying, "It's okay, Sammy. Just… try not to do it again."

Sam was too overjoyed by his small personal victory of tricking Dean to even consider how far he'd fallen to manipulate his brother into allowing his drug abuse to happen. It didn't register with the younger brother that he was becoming a liar.

He still had most of the ounce left over and chose not to smoke it, nor would he throw it out. It wouldn't be hard at all to sell it to some idiot newbies for way more than it was worth. The money would go toward his preferred medication.

Sam couldn't eat much of his dinner that night. He felt nauseous, which made no sense to him—there was no beer to remind him and he had assumed he would be able to eat more than enough after smoking earlier that day.

Across the table he was being watched closely by his brother, who was on his second servings of food while Sam could barely eat a third of his own plate.

"I thought you were supposed to have the munchies," Dean said with a touch of sass.

Sam glanced at his uneaten food and to his brother while breathing as deeply as he could in a futile attempt to calm his stomach. "Shut up. Jerk."

"Bitch."

He couldn't stand being near the scent of food much longer after that and left the table to lay down in Dean's bed. It was uncomfortable with his upset stomach and the messy, lumpy blanket and bed sheets. It was uncomfortably warm and awkward to lie in with the uneven masses of the old, bumpy blanket under his legs.

His heart hurt. Sam felt uneasy and like he was about to get in trouble for something. At first he thought he was worried Dean would find his pills and kick him out. The more he thought about it the more he realized he couldn't care less if Dean found the pills—he didn't care if he was kicked out so much as he cared about being alone.

Like when he left Ruby's apartment.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself, cringing his face into the pillow. The uneasy feeling intensified to a throbbing pain in his chest and he knew why he was feeling terrible. While the drugs were a fun way to detach from the situation and his brother provided safe place to stay, he couldn't ignore the problem forever.

Sam was still in love with Ruby. He knew he was messed up and it was her fault in one way or another. It was plain as day that it's wrong to hurt someone and it's wrong to stay when you're being hurt—the finer details didn't matter to him. He loved her and now he can't be near her.

She hurt him but the good times balanced it out. He could talk to her and they could work it out! They could figure out their issues and fix it! It can be done and there's no reason they couldn't still be together!

Sam rushed to get out of the bed and ignored the head rush from the movement. He stopped inches from the door, hand braced on the wall, eyes screwed shut. His vision was filtered with black stars edging in from the corners.

"Head rush," he groaned to no one.

It soon passed and he continued to the door and out the room where he was met with the sight of Dean folding some laundry on the couch, the plates from dinner still on the kitchen table in the next room. His brother's face was filled with suspicious confusion at the sight of Sam struggling to leave the house.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sam averted his eyes and tried to get to the front door and run out before Dean could ruin his life again. He was grabbed roughly by the arm as he tried to pass by the house and jerked to a stop, almost falling on his ass in the process. His stomach turned and he just barely kept his dinner down as he braced himself against Dean.

"Sam," Dean said, tone stiff. "Answer me."

"Let go of me," was all Sam could say. He was struggling to separate himself from his captor. He couldn't tell Dean, Dean wouldn't understand, Dean would stop him!

"Look at me—damn it, Sam! Look at me!"

Dean grabbed Sam's other arm and forced him to stand face-to-face. Sam's own eyes were shut tightly and he gave up struggling, turning limp in his brother's hold. He tentatively opened his eyes, regretting doing so when all he saw was Dean's furrowed brows and darkening green eyes.

"You're not leaving."

Sam swallowed hard and felt heat rising in his face. Great, he thought. He was seconds away from breaking. Again. Being an emotional wreck wasn't nearly as glamorous as the movies made it out to be.

Dean didn't know what to say or if he should start accusing or comforting. He chose to lead his brother to the couch to sit down and, maybe, talk it out. He hated talking but he wasn't going to let his baby brother run back to the psycho bitch.

"You were doing good," Dean said. "What happened?"

Sam wouldn't look him in the eyes or even in his direction. His head was down, face clouded with shame. "I don't know."

"You were going to see her, weren't you?"

Sam winced and Dean had his answer. "I miss her."

"How?" Dean couldn't stop the irritation that one notion gave him. "Man, she really messed you up!"

The angry response he expected never came. Sam didn't snap or try to defend her this time. He just sat there and accepted his brother's cold words like a punishment he felt he deserved. He was too tired to cry but that didn't stop the stinging in his eyes.

Now that Sam was turning his head away, elbows on his knees to make himself smaller, Dean saw what he did. He made it worse. Guilt rose in his chest and he cleared his throat, stalling for a second more of time. Dean was afraid words would make it even worse—he had a habit of speaking bluntly and without consideration of delicate moments. So instead he reached an unsure arm out and placed a warm hand on his brother's back.

"I'm sorry," he said with a low voice.

Sam didn't respond.

It became a habit of Sam's to take long baths or partake in other leisurely activities while Dean was at work. It meant he would run out of his fix faster but he didn't care as long as he still had money for more. He wasn't about to give up the only thing that made him feel better, even if the lost rational part of his mind knew how dangerous it was getting.

The grey counter of the bathroom sink was covered with a small line of crushed Oxy, neatly lined up with the razor Sam stole from the cabinet. It seemed a shame to only get the one hit that day but he ignored it, thanking his lucky stars he even had it. The water was running to fill the bathtub and he was already undressed, standing completely naked by his near-empty orange bottle and the powder line.

Sam leaned forward awkwardly to reach his nose to the counter, holding a finger to his nose as he inhaled the line smoothly. His hands braced the countertop and he shut his eyes for a moment to adjust to the high setting in. When he was ready he looked up into the bathroom mirror and took in his own appearance.

His hair was getting longer, bangs grown out past his nose. His face seemed to be thinning out and making his cheeks hollow. His body still held its natural tan and muscles, though it was becoming clear his eating habits was beginning to take a toll on his body.

The sight didn't please him and he left to take his well-earned warm bath. He eased one foot at a time into the water after turning the faucet off. He already felt like he was on top of the world from the high and the soothing water sent an innocent pleasure through his skin.

Images danced across his imagination as skewed memories of his last home. Altered visions of Ruby and him being happy, making love, turning their apartment into their home. Then he saw Crowley and those magic pills and the red couch. Sam smiled at it all and sunk deeper into the water as his mood improved.

Bobby was a close family friend to the Winchesters and also Dean's boss. With no one else to talk to, Dean sat with Bobby at lunch and spilled his guts about what was going on the past few weeks. He admitted to being too harsh at times as well as his fears of going home to find it empty.

"One minute he's fine and the next he's trying to go back to Ruby," Dean said tiredly. "I don't get it! Why would he do that?"

Bobby tapped a finger on his cup and hummed. "The boy needs time."

"He snuck pot into the house. Since when does Sam smoke pot? I bet that bitch did that to him! She got my Sammy acting like some rebellious teenager!"

Bobby rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Dean. He's a grown man. You can't blame his mistakes on peer pressure or whatever it is you got in your head."

"What am I supposed to do? Huh? He's a freakin' mess and he spends all day doing god knows what!"

"Give him time. You can't really help him if he doesn't want it and you need to accept that it might take longer than any of us would like for Sam to get back to normal."

The idea was a hard one to embrace. Dean held his head in his hands and took a shaky breath. He was going to get Sam's stuff back and speed up this process in any way he could—Sam was not going back to Ruby and Sam was going to get better, damn it! When he was off of work he had a goal in his mind: go to Ruby's, rescue Sam's stuff, and try not to be arrested for homicide along the way.

A/N: Sam's reactions are a mixture of the lingering effects of abusing Oxycodone as well as his mental state after just leaving an abusive relationship. While he's the one who left, that doesn't mean he's having any easier of a time dealing with it.

It would sure be a shame if, say, Sam got a little too dependent on his Oxy...

I love Sam but he's gotta suffer.