The drive was pretty typical—Def Leppard in the stereo, John bringing up details of the new case every so often, a bright sun that lulled Sam into a nap before too long. They stopped at a dilapidated rest area for lunch, and almost hit a bison at a state route junction. Thankfully the brute didn't seem to take offense. The older cuts on Sam's arm began to itch.

They made it to the town after only having to stop once more for gas. They located a motel before even needing dinner. John quickly put the boys to setting up shop

"It's still early. I'm going to do a little preliminary canvasing while Dean picks up a hot meal for us," he rapped out.

Sam straightened hopefully. "What do I do?"

"Stay here, start researching. The signs didn't start appearing until a number of bodies were already stacked up. We need to hit the ground running."

"But I wanna help you—"

"Don't talk back to me, Sammy. I'm not taking you out in the thick of it until we know your head's back where it should be. End of discussion." John ran a hand through greying hair, and swiped his keys up from the table. "Come on, Dean."

Dean threw Sam a sympathetic look, following their dad out the door. As soon as the Impala's engine came to life outside, Sam kicked the heavy night stand by his bed. This order wasn't unusual, except Sam was eager to prove he was trustworthy again.

Until his head was where it should be?

His dad saw him as a liability, even though he was brought along instead of being left at Bobby's. What was the point, then? To keep an eye on him? To make sure he didn't go off in search of demons to drain? Fat lot of good that intension was, if Sam was going to be left in the motel most of the time. It wasn't fair!

Still, Sam did as he was told, and more. He hooked the cranky old laptop to the motel's internet cable, looking for any local historical records of interest, articles about the recent deaths, the town's library hours. When Dad and Dean had yet to return, he decided to shower. The day's car ride, with leather seats to lounge on, left him feeling sticky. Besides, the sting of hot water on his healing arms gave him a new boost of purpose. He would kick the demon blood to the curb, showing Dad he was wrong.

The sound of the Impala didn't return until well after dark. By this time, Sam was stretched out on his bed in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and his flannel, channel surfing on the crappy TV. His dad and brother came tromping in, rain-soaked, with the smell of hot chicken.

"Having fun," growled John, though his voice was more tired than angry.

Sam pointed at the closed laptop and a page of notes on the table. "Already did my part. There's plenty to go on. I assume I'm not so unreliable that I can't go to the library tomorrow for more?" He couldn't help glowering slightly through his damp bangs.

"Watch your tone, boy. Yes, you can go to the library. I don't want to push things while you're still dealing with demon blood, is all. It's for your own good."

"When has any of this been for our own good? You drag us around our whole lives, putting guns and knives in our hands, and teaching us that every nightmare we could dream up is out to kill us!" Sam didn't know exactly why he was snapping now, but he was. "How many other kids have to do that? Come on!"

"I'm doing the best I damn well can—"

"And look what happens! We go out chasing monsters, but I'm the one who's in trouble because I got kidnapped and fed magic blood by one? It wasn't my fault!"

"Now you listen here, Samuel—"

"No, you listen! I'm sick of this!"

Suddenly John flew against the closed motel door. He looked like a baseball bat had hit him between the eyes, he was so shocked.

Sam froze. Dean looked between him and their dad. They all knew what had happened. Sam's emotions had driven a response from his blood-fueled powers, whether intended or not. And it terrified him.

Before anyone else could react, he sprinted to the bathroom, locking the door. For good measure, he pushed the wooden linen shelves against the door. Maybe Dad was right. He was a dangerous liability. Tears blurred his vision.

No! No no no!

He had to get rid of it—all of it. The razor remained nestled in his shower bag, which was on the bathroom floor. Deaf to Dean's shouts and pounding on the door, he dug into his forearms indiscriminately with the blade…