They woke before dawn, and dressed in silence. Between sleepiness, his renewed ache for demon blood, and the revulsion that he still needed it, Sam didn't feel very well.
As he and Dean finished breakfast, their dad came in holding a tipless syringe and that loathsome jar of thick red liquid. Only a quarter of it was left. All three of them tensed up.
"We're only taking some of this with us; the rest stays with Bobby for research," John said flatly. "I expect you to be able to tough this out soon, Sammy."
Sam nodded, swallowing hard.
"Open up."
He obeyed, though every bit of him wanted to refuse. He almost gagged as the coppery taste hit his tongue. Dad was right. He needed to get the stuff completely out of his system ASAP. The relief his body felt when he swallowed made him shudder.
"That's that," rumbled John. "Go get your stuff."
I sure will, Sam thought, rinsing his breakfast dishes. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth again."
"Make it quick. We're leaving in fifteen minutes."
Sam had to resist bolting to the bathroom. The razor, dutifully cleaned and hidden, awaited him. He had to use his right arm again, with the left one still healing. After this time, he would need to leave the tortured skin alone for awhile. Only enough time for a few—he could afford to make them a little deeper to compensate. Sam relished the way the disgust he felt inside dripped away with his blood. No, not his blood. Not really.
"Sam?" Dean's voice called from the living room.
Sam hurried to clean up, brushed his teeth (he honestly had intended to do so), slipped the razor and a couple spares into his shower bag, and rejoined his dad and brother.
"Go ahead and load the car," their dad instructed. Sam noted his fidgety demeanor, as if this comment was a hasty change of subject. "I've got a couple last minute things to discuss with Bobby." He disappeared to Bobby's study.
"Look at him, he can't stand to stay in the same room as me for very long. It's like he's given up on me," Sam grumped.
"You know that's the farthest thing from the truth. He's just worried about getting you back to normal, that's all. Don't say things like that," Dean quietly exclaimed. The boys grabbed their bags.
"You see how shifty his eyes get, how he can't quite look at me. I'm never going to be normal again, if I even was to begin with!"
"Sammy…" Whatever Dean's response was supposed to be, it apparently failed him. Instead he tried to juggle too big of a load at once.
"I can take Dad's. That way you can grab the weapons."
"You sure?" asked Dean. When Sam nodded, his older brother tossed the duffel at him. He fought a wince as the weight jammed his rough flannel sleeve against his fresh cuts. "You okay, Sammy?"
"Would you stop fussing over me? I'm fine, it just hit the crook of my elbow weird." Sam brushed off waspishly.
"Okay…get going before Dad catches you wasting time."
Sam lugged the bags out to the Impala. His arm stung badly, but he took satisfaction in the pain. It made him feel stronger that he could resist it, even if he had to give in to the craving for demon blood.
Dean followed him out, and popped the Impala's trunk.
"What about that truck Dad bought?" Sam queried. "What's he going to do with it?"
"Leave it here for now, I guess. He said we're all driving together on this trip," shrugged Dean. "Wants to keep a close eye on us. But I for one hope it means he'll start letting us tackle our own jobs, while he tackles others. Dunno, little bro—hey, what'd you do?"
Sam's head whipped up to meet Dean's gazed, which in turn pointed to Sam's right sleeve. Little red spots had appeared on it.
"N-nothing! They're from the other day, the bag must've—"
With expert reflexes, Dean caught Sam's wrist and tugged the sleeve up. Both of them froze. Dean's face paled. Then he checked Sam's other arm. After confirming the Bobby and their dad weren't around, he hissed, "What the hell?"
"It's nothing, none of your business!" squeaked Sam. He shoved the fabric back over his scored flesh.
"That's not nothing! You're—you're—" Dean could only splutter, half-furious, half-scared. Packing forgotten, he sank to his knees in front of Sam, holding both of Sam's wrists.
"I'm making things better!" Sam insisted. "Face it, Dad can't stand me like this! The only reason he's taking me along is 'cause he doesn't trust me to be out of his sight. The sooner I no longer have demon blood, the sooner things go back to the way they were. Dad'll stop looking at me like I'm gonna turn into a monster."
Dean looked like he could cry. "God, Sammy…not like this, please not like this. Dad doesn't hate you. I mean, yeah, the demon-blood-psychic-thing was a lot for all of us to wrap our heads around. But slicing yourself open like this is dangerous. At least tell me you're taking care of them."
Sam nodded as emphatically as he could without getting dizzy.
"That's a relief. The last thing we need is you getting sick on this hunt."
This time Sam shook his head. "No way. And it's just until the demon blood is gone. That's all I want. No more after that."
"You bet your skinny ass no more. Period. Or for once I might be worse on you than Dad." Dean sighed, rising again to start loading the car.
"And Dean?"
"Hmm?"
"Please don't tell him," pleaded Sam. "I know he wants the problem to go away. It's going away."
Dean pulled him into a one-armed hug. "You know, by rights I should be running to tell him. Hurting yourself isn't right in any situation. But I know tattling won't help things. Just promise me you're done. We'll get the demon blood out of your system, bud."
Sam remained silent.
"Get that stuff covered, and change your shirt, quick. I'll get the rest of the bags." Dean handed the first aid kit to Sam before heading inside for another load.
He finished just in time. As the last of the gear went into the trunk, Bobby and John emerged.
"Let's hit the road; we're burnin' daylight," announced John. He shook Bobby's hand, then strode around to the driver's door of the Impala. Bobby gave each of the boys a quick hug, wishing them good luck. They piled into the car as well, Dean in front, Sam in back.
"What happened to your other shirt, Sammy?" their dad asked over the guttural start of the engine.
"That was my fault," Dean cut in immediately. "I didn't check the gun oil as we packed. It spilled a little on his shirt sleeve, and he didn't want to keep wearing it."
"Well, be more careful." They headed out to the open road.
