Everything ached, which was partly due to hunger pains and bed sores alongside the sick feeling of withdrawal. Sam still refused most food in his bouts of paranoia that came and went like his headaches and cramps.

The broken man would soon find that his miserable state would be what led to his freedom.

Dean paced around outside Sam's door, brows furrowed from what he was hearing over the phone. "Damn it, Bobby! I told you, he won't eat anything… No, if I try that he'll just bite my fingers like a fucking rabid dog… That's a hell of a lot easier said than done!"

He had tried to get Sam to eat every day, every moment he saw Sam was in the least distress. It got on his nerves that half the time the refusal was less out of fear and more out of spite. Sam wouldn't even take tea or soda or anything! Just water, sometimes followed with a plea for something for the pain.

As if. Dean would see pigs fly before he trusted his brother with any form of medicine. If he wanted Ibuprofen then he shouldn't have abused OxyCodone.

But the pale and shaking state of his baby brother was adding more stress to the mountain Dean was faced with. He could take Sam to a hospital and try to get him force fed by doctors but he didn't want to be so harsh—nor could he afford a bill just to feed the boy. The best chance he had was to either wait for Sam to want food… or take him to a rehab center.

That was a last resort. Winchesters were much prouder than the average men and, while convincing an addict into rehab is never easy, it would end in a bloodbath for Sam.

A moan of pain echoed through the closed and locked door and Dean clicked the phone off. He was getting that boy to eat, damn it! Everyone loves food!

Dean unlocked the metal latch and entered the room to his starved-sick brother in the usual curled position on top of his sheets and blankets. With a silent prayer, Dean moved forward, ready for negotiations.

"Hungry, Sammy?"

Sam cracked a glassy eye open. "Go to hell," he grunted.

Dean rolled his eyes and sat beside his brother, to Sam's dismay. "Look, man, I know I'm the devil and all I do is crash the parties and find new ways to make you miserable," he said, treating Sam like an unruly teenager caught with beer. "But you need to eat. You haven't eaten in almost three days and, man, it's only making you feel worse than you already do."

Sam groaned again but refused to agree with the statement.

"So let's talk about what's in it for you."

Sam opened his eyes again and watched his brother curiously. "What do you mean?"

"If I bring you something to eat, and you eat it, then you'll get something out of it."

"Like what?"

Dean mulled over some possibilities in his head. "What do you want?"

Did he really just ask the addict what he wanted? While Sam knew he wouldn't be getting what he truly wanted, he felt this was a small victory. He wore his brother down enough to leave him an opening—to fucking make demands! Finally!

But then the trickster side of Sam's personality kicked in. He could get Dean to leave him alone and Bobby was at work—he'd be truly alone. He could have time to plot and make his great escape.

Sam closed his eyes again and acted like he was thinking it over. "Can you…" he hissed at an imaginary hunger pain and bit his cheek to not crack a grin at the worried expression dart over Dean's eyes. "Can you get the picture from my box?"

Dean tried to think back to what was in the box but couldn't remember exactly what picture Sam was asking for. "Yeah, sure, Sammy. Which one?"

"The one with mom and us. It's in a black frame. Please, Dean…"

That was the exact moment Dean's heart broke. His poor brother must be missing the comfort their mother used to provide for them when they were sick as kids. She was always the best at making the pain go away. Now Sam needed her the most and all he had left was a piece of paper.

"You got it," Dean said in a near-whisper. Sam watched as he got up to leave the room, forgetting to latch the lock before leaving Bobby's house.

Sam smiled to himself. He just needed to wait now.

Standing was a dizzying affair and Sam barely made it to the doorframe before he had to grab onto the wall for support. Dean was right—he should have eaten something before. He assumed Dean intended for a trade-off with the picture for food, leaving before even getting his end of the bargain.

He was ready to bend over and throw up the few drops of water in his stomach by the time he made it to the porch and into the daylight. The sun felt much too bright and sickening but it was a sign of hope.

Another bout of dizziness hit when he reached one of Bobby's many junkyard cars that littered his large yard. He knew which cars were useable for the short distance he planned to use them for. Hotwiring the car, on the other hand, was a tediously long affair as he'd only ever done it once.

Ruby taught him so much in their time together.

The sound of the car kicking on brought a weak smile to his face and he took a few deep breaths to calm the aching and heat flashes before driving away from the house and into the world again.

"Moose? What the hell is—"

Sam leaned back onto the glass of the phone booth and winced at the waning withdrawals. "Shut up, Crowley."

"What did you just say to me?"

"Look, I've had the worst week of my life, just have some shit ready for me, I'm coming over."

There was a chuckle. "Ruby told me you were taken away by your brother. I see you didn't tell the big, mean Dean about your prescription?"

Sam bit his tongue in an attempt to subdue his irritation. "I swear to god, Crowley, if I live one more day in withdrawal I will find you and I'll rip your goddamn heart out!"

The threat didn't bother the dealer in the slightest. "Whatever you say, Moose."

The line went dead and Sam tapped his forehead into the glass. The pains were returning and he needed to get to the short man immediately. He needed to get his shit and he needed to get the hell out of dodge, maybe skip town before Dean even knows he's gone.

Speaking of Dean, fuck that guy. How could he do that to Sam? Locking his brother away like some animal so he could lay alone in agony. Who does that to their own family? And all the while he acted like Sam was the bad guy!

The pain continued but Sam didn't care. He got back in the stolen car and sped off in the direction of Crowley's house, speeding through yellow lights and taking sharp curves like Dean would in an emergency.

The sight of the house as it came into his view was breathtaking. There were drugs inside. It nearly brought a tear to Sam's eye.

He opened the door and let himself in without knocking. Crowley raised his brows and gave a look as if to ask 'really?' It went unnoticed by the giant and he got right to business.

"More."

Crowley rolled his eyes at the simplicity. "What's the magic word?"

"I'm a foot taller than you and I can beat you to death."

Crowley smirked. "Where's the payment, Moose?"

Shit. Sam knew he forgot something. The instant wave of regret and nausea washed over him and nearly knocked him flat on his ass. Lucky for him, Crowley had a job in mind.

"I figured. Let's make a deal then—you get what you want, I get what I want."

"I'll do it."

There was no hesitation, no questions asked about the vague request. Sam didn't care if he had to throw a sack of kittens into a river—he needed more.

They walked to the couch Sam had sat in for his first time snorting drugs. His hands were shaking and he was just as damaged by the anticipation of the hit to come as he was by the withdrawal.

"I need you ready to go, so I'm letting you have a little upfront," Crowley said as he casually marked up a few powdery lines on the coffee table before them. He was actually prepared for Sam, meaning he had a few pills crushed and ready to go. "I don't need you fucking it up because you can't go two days without being high."

The hint of disgust lacing the last words was curious to Sam—what kind of dealer judged his own clients?

Two lines were ready to go. Sam took a few more deep breaths to calm his clenched stomach and leaned forward to inhale every grain of Oxy he could. The change was instant—or so it felt.

The world was getting hazy and he returned his attention to the man beside him. "W-what do I have to do now?" He asked, more interested in getting more than helping the Brit.

There was something about the dark look in Crowley's eyes and his lopsided smile that should have set off red flags had Sam's mind not be recently numbed.

Dean dropped the bag in his hand which had contained the photograph and food from his trip to the grocery store. He immediately saw the front door was left ajar but brushed it off, thinking he forgot to close it in his haste to get Sam what he needed.

It was he saw Sam's bedroom door, wide open, that he knew it was time to panic.

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean ran around the small area around Sam's room and called out with desperate hope that Sam was just in the bathroom or feeding himself.

"Sam! SAM!"

He knew. Sam was long gone and it was entirely his fault.

Dean dug his phone from his pocket and dialed Bobby, cursing to himself. He felt fidgety and couldn't stand still, constantly pacing and looking for some kind of clue as to where Sam had gone off to and how long he'd been gone.

"Dean?"

"Bobby! Sam ran away!"

It turned out that driving while numb was a terrifying idea… or it would be, if Sam hadn't been lulled into such a relaxed state. He was cruising around in Bobby's car and trying to figure out where the hell he was since he seemed to nod out every few minutes.

He knew, deep down, this was one of the worst things he'd ever done. He shouldn't be high, he shouldn't have tricked Dean, he shouldn't have agreed to 'run an errand' for his drug dealer, and he sure as hell shouldn't be driving a stolen car. It was all in the back of his mind and locked away for the next few hours.

The most fucked up part: he didn't question Crowley during any of the explanation of his job. That's right! Sam Winchester, the Stanford graduate who had dreams of becoming a lawyer, who had always been the logical and level-headed brother, didn't even blink at Crowley's request that he drive to a house for a quick robbery.

Crowley got word that there was a competitor—some punk who didn't work through him had moved into town and began dealing out and hurting the profits Crowley had worked so hard for. This kid had the gall to just uproot his business like this and apparently had yet to learn that you don't cross Crowley.

Everyone knew better than to get on Crowley's bad side.

It was just some college kid—Adam?—starting up a few miles into the city. He was costing the sells of Crowley's usual younger customers and those were the highest this time of year. Sam didn't see the problem with breaking into the kid's home and taking everything he had to sell and then some.

He also had no problem with beating the kid's ass if he should come home earlier than anticipated.

There was no luck in finding Sam. Both Dean and Bobby were on the search for the runaway since his absence was discovered nearly an hour ago. Concern was welling up that Sam was doing something stupid and dangerous.

Ruby hadn't seen him, and Dean knew it to be the truth. The woman was irritated to see the Winchester but wasn't defensive about Sam not being there. All the doors in her apartment had been wide open and there was no sign of the giant brother. As a bonus, she told Dean just how much she wanted to have nothing to do with either of them.

After circling the local park for the third time, Dean realized there was a name he had forgotten to check out—the only other person he knew to be in association with Sam during his drug-hazed recent months.

"Name's Crowley. I'm a friend."

"I'm a friend of his. Ruby introduced us, actually."

Realization hit Dean like a train. Crowley knew Sam and Ruby, Ruby introduced Sam to drugs—Ruby was dealing, for Christ's sake! The only logical conclusion to the worried-sick man: Crowley is Sam's dealer.

And Crowley was going to die.

The search for Sam was feeling hopeless for Bobby. The boy wasn't at home, he wasn't at Ruby's, he wasn't anywhere they knew. He called around and asked for "a tall man, over six foot, has long hair and might look sick" but got nothing helpful. No one he asked had seen Sam. There was no sign of him anywhere.

When Sam wanted to get lost, he got lost.

A weight dropped in Bobby's gut when he drove past a river that held a large bridge overtop for cars to cross. There was a drop from the road and down a steep incline to the water, which had always been littered with trash or blown tires. This time, however, there was an addition to the usual trash.

At the bottom, close to the structure of the bridge, was a crashed car. Smoke still seeped out of the crushed hood and it was beyond totaled. The thing is, Bobby recognized the car… it was one of his that he had been fixing up at his house.

The mechanic shut his car off and hopped out, rushing to the bottom of the incline to inspect the car. Before he could find who he had been searching for, he heard a weak moan and saw the splatter of blood across the shattered windows.

"Sam?"

A/N: lol fuck Sam.

Now to figure out how the next chapter will play out. Tragedy? Probably tragedy.

Hopefully I can get a few more decent chapters out of this story. I honestly don't see this one being too long.