Author's Note: Man, Sam is a lot easier to write than Dean and Martha. Those two are giving me fits. Thanks for all the lovely feedback on the last chapter, and let me know what you think of this one! We're starting to go places!

Edited to add: As the other chapter heavily referenced "What Power", if you haven't read "A Mission Before Dying", at least chapter one of it, I'd recommend that before reading this one!

It had been two days, just over forty-eight hours, since that dinner.

Two days, and practically all Sam had been able to think about was an endless loop of the same words in his mind, over and over.

Dean is alive.

His brother was alive and out of Hell. His brother was all right. His brother was back on Earth, potentially, if not effectively, within his reach.

He was going to hear Dean's voice again. He was going to ride with his brother in the Impala again. It was going to be all right. After all these months, it was going to be all right.

Saxon promised.

But the other thought that was stuck in Sam's mind wasn't quite so pleasant, quite so comforting. And it was less a thought than a feeling—less a feeling than a collection of feelings, building in intensity with each passing hour.

Sam hurt.

He could feel Ruby's blood draining from his system, could feel himself sweating out whatever it was in the substance that he needed. (Needed. Pathetic. What the hell was wrong with him? Sam Winchester wasn't a junkie. Except for the part where he was.) He knew it was going to get bad, and it was going to get bad soon. The aching was getting to the point where he couldn't ignore it, no matter how hard he gritted his teeth, no matter how much he tried to focus on Dean is alive Dean is alive Dean is alive. No matter how much he tried to turn all his thought to what am I going to tell Saxon. Because he still hadn't given the Time Lord an answer yet. He still hadn't agreed to join him; but he hadn't told him to piss off, either. He had allowed himself to be wined and dined, and then demurred every night, saying he needed more time to think.

Saxon was getting impatient, Sam could tell, but while the Time Lord might think he was being coy or trying to get a better deal or plotting something, he wasn't, he just really didn't know what to do. He didn't know what it would mean, if he were to join up with Saxon. Would it make it easier for Saxon to take over the world? Or would it just mean that when it inevitably happened, Sam could keep his family safe? He couldn't imagine he'd be a lot of help. A broken-down blood addict, no powers, no nothing. He figured that whatever Saxon was going to do, he was going to do with or without Sam's help. So what was the harm in joining him? What was the harm in trying to make sure that Dean didn't get hurt because of him, again? Maybe he could even stop Saxon from hurting Jack and the Doctor any further.

But something kept him from saying yes. He couldn't articulate it, couldn't explain it, but there was something in him saying no, Samuel, it's the wrong choice, you're stronger than that; he's manipulating you.

Apparently his conscience spoke in the Doctor's voice.

And to be fair, there wasn't a single part of him that was one hundred percent comfortable with the idea of joining Saxon. Any way he looked at it, it was an unpleasant but necessary compromise at the absolute best. A deal with the devil, if he decided to phrase it in the way that made him most want to vomit. And after all the grief he'd given Dean for his crossroads deal, how was he going to sit up here on this ship and make one himself? Just because his demon was a little more honest about his extraterrestrial origins, because he broached the issue politely over dinner and drinks, because it didn't require a ritual, was it better? Was it different, more legitimate?

Dean would kill him if he even knew Sam was contemplating it, was entertaining the idea even for a moment. We don't make deals with demons. Sam could practically hear Dean saying the words. Well, everybody else did, but not Sammy, not precious, untouchable Sammy. Sammy was the one you threw your life away for. He didn't get to throw it back. That was just a bridge too far.

A wave of pain wracked his body, and he arched against the bed, as though his spine were trying to escape it, as though it were a thing that could be fled. He gritted his teeth against it, his fingers clenching and his nails catching on the rivets of the metal floor, shutting his eyes tight as white flashed behind his lids and his world exploded into nothing but inescapable agony.

It didn't last long. A few seconds, maybe. A few seconds until the wave passed, until he could breathe again, until his body was his own. But those few seconds were eternity.

He scowled even as the thought occurred to him, because whatever withdrawal symptoms he was experiencing, his brother had actually volunteered himself for an eternity of agony, all for him, and now Sam was sitting pretty on the airship owned by the captor of the Earth and he couldn't even find the guts to tell him to shove his come to the dark side act because Sam Winchester didn't betray his own people.

And then all higher-order thought was interrupted, briefly, while Sam scrabbled for the small trash can in his quarters and was violently ill.

Once the heaving had subsided, Sam decided that sitting was far too much effort, and instead lay prostrate on the ground, his flushed cheek pressed against the cool metal of the floor. He was going to start hallucinating any minute now, he knew it. The nausea always came about an hour, two hours before the hallucinations. He might have a little longer because he and Ruby had gotten a little carried away the last time she'd dosed him, the night before he was taken to the Valiant, which was why he'd lasted this long without going through the worst symptoms yet. At least he'd held out through dinner, although he knew he'd looked pale, knew his hands had trembled. Knew he'd had a hard time making good eye contact with Saxon; knew he'd hesitated a moment too long, processing the Time Lord's words as though through molasses, before responding. He knew Saxon knew something was wrong.

He just hoped he didn't know what.

Sam hauled himself onto his bed—his cot, really—and forced himself to sit up, to stretch the aching muscles of his back. He pressed his back against the wall and sat cross-legged, holding his hands out in front of him. They trembled—no, trembled was a kind word. They shook. So Sam took a deep breath, squared his shoulders (or did the best he could), and glared at his hands.

He focused all of his energy, all of his intent, on not shaking. He wasn't surprised when it didn't work; the times in the camp that he and Ruby had been separated, he'd had to learn to do this to calm himself, to keep his hands steady enough to work without accidentally blowing up the camp. (Sam didn't know for a fact that he was dealing with anything explosive, but in the camp, he lived by the philosophy that he was better safe than sorry.) He knew it never worked immediately. The craving was too strong, too visceral, to be easily overpowered.

He paced his breathing. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Tried to pretend there was nothing to do but breathe, nothing to think about, nothing to worry about, but breathing. Out, two, three, four.

He lost himself in the breathing, and for just a little while, he didn't hurt. For just a little while, Sam Winchester wasn't starving for demon blood, he wasn't trapped on a ship with the creature that wanted to end the world, he wasn't grieving his brother's death or trying vainly to wrap his head around his resurrection. Sam Winchester was just breath. Out, two, three, four.

And then the door slammed open, Sam jumped, and everything hurt.

To be fair, the door didn't really slam open, Sam realized as he tried to calm his racing heart. Tish had opened it pretty quietly, but after so long (how long? Sam wondered) of absolute quiet, save the distant humming of the engines (where Jack could be in the process of dying, Sam thought), even the smallest noise sounded like a jackhammer. And now she hung by the door, startled by his extreme reaction to her entrance, holding an opaque cup and watching him with wide eyes.

"Tish," Sam gasped, steadying his breathing. Her surprise expression fell away, and she walked over to him. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I was...meditating, I guess. Or something. Sorry."

"It's all right," Tish said quietly, handing him the cup without ceremony. "Here. This is from the Master. Said he thought you might need it."

Sam took the cup, and knew immediately what was in it. It was disguised in some other liquid, possibly so as not to alarm Tish or cause any suspicion among anyone else on the ship, but Sam knew what it was, and it made the hurting even worse.

Tish wasn't leaving. Usually she just left, quickly, not making eye contact and not saying any words she wasn't ordered to say. But this time she hovered by his bed, watching him—not quite steady eye contact, but much closer than usual. He tilted his head to try to meet her eyes, and smiled a little. A vague invitation, or permission, or something.

At this point, anything for a little bit of human contact. Anything for a distraction.

She didn't say anything, still, her features tight and her lips pressed together into a thin line, her hands nervously worrying her apron. Her eyes flicked from his to the wall to anything else that wasn't him, then, finally, back to his. When they landed back on him, he said, softly as though afraid to startle her, "You okay, Tish?"

Tish stared at him for a moment, her eyes too wide, too fearful, and then she took the final few steps up to him and knelt.

For a second, just one, awful, hubris-filled second, he was really scared that the Master had been telling people something about him...something about his empire, something that seemed entirely too much like being Azazel's boy-king. He was about to tell Tish to get up, to stammer something humble and embarrassed, when she gripped his arm with cool, strong fingers, and pulled him down. The contact, the quick movement, it hurt like hell, but Sam managed to suppress the whimper that wanted to rise out of his throat. Managed to suppress the whimper that thinking about the pain brought because thinking about the pain made him think about the cup that he held in his hand made him think about the relief it contained made him think about the way it burned burned burned as it went down but how it soothed away every ache and every sting once he was done how it made him hang on a little bit longer and...

"Have you seen my sister?" she breathed, and Sam, startled back to reality, realized that she was just getting close to him, to be able to speak as quietly as possible, because Saxon was listening everywhere.

Pride goeth before the fall, he thought grimly and not without shame.

"Your—" he said, trailing off.

Tish seemed irritated by his response, and whispered, "Martha Jones. Martha Jones is my sister. Have you seen her? Back on Earth?"

Sam hesitated, then shook his head. Tish's face fell, but she didn't look surprised. "I'm sorry," he whispered in response. "But I was in a labor camp since June, in the middle of South Dakota. I didn't see much of anybody other than the other workers. But I heard about her."

That brought Tish's eyes back up to his, and there was a light in them he hadn't seen these last few days. She'd seemed so broken, so dead. But maybe it was just an act, because a smile crept onto her face. "Yeah?" she breathed. "You heard about my sister?"

"Everybody has," Sam replied, and Tish nodded, pleased. "Everybody knows that if anybody's going to save us, it's Martha Jones."

Tish smiled wider. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, it will be." She glanced down at the cup in Sam's hands, and her brow furrowed, and Sam was really worried that she was going to ask about it, but evidently she hadn't gotten that far from the taciturn young woman Sam had met before, and instead just stood up.

"Good luck," she mouthed, and he smiled back his thanks, his fingers clenching around the cup as he waited for her to leave.

The heel of her foot seemed to take forever in passing the door frame; the latch seemed to take even longer in catching once she'd closed the door.

And yet, despite how desperate he'd been to see her go, to get to the task at hand (stop hurting), he stared down at the cup in his hands as though he wasn't sure quite what to do with it.

He didn't want to, for some reason. There was something in him just screaming not to do it, not to give in, to just ride out the withdrawal and it would be better afterwards, there wouldn't be more hurting. It would subside and stay gone. If he drank it, it would subside and return, over and over until he either made the brave choice or died before he could do so.

On the other hand, how was he supposed to help Dean if he was too weak to—

The half-complete thought was enough justification, and Sam sucked down the contents of the cup like a dying man in the desert.

He put the empty cup on the floor with hands that trembled for an entirely different reason than before.

Sam stretched out on the bed, hands palm-down on top of the thin blanket at his sides, and closed his eyes. In some ways, this was the best part. Because nothing in the world felt better than the cessation of pain.

He took stock of his body, of the aches that were leaving his limbs, of the churning nausea that was fading from his stomach, the splitting headache that seemed to drain out through his ears, and the tightness in his chest that released him as the pain went away. That was always the most amazing part, to him: how he never really realized how constricted his chest was, how impaired his breathing was, until the pain began to lessen and his full faculties returned.

His toes uncurled. His brow smoothed. His shoulders released their tension and his back unclenched. He took in a deep breath of the ship's stale air, releasing it without any burning in his lungs.

He smiled as he realized he could no longer hear the throbbing of blood vessels in his ears. Now all he could hear was the distant hum of the engines.

And a murmuring.

Sam opened his eyes, sitting up abruptly, his eyes darting around the room in panic. But there was no one there.

...muel...

Sam spun around, but there was nothing but the wall almost directly behind him.

...an't get...need to lis...please tr...

Sam gripped his head with stiff fingers and couldn't suppress the groan that wrenched its way out of his throat. He should have known that it was too good to be true. First, how on earth would Saxon have known about his addiction? The only way he could have found out was if Ruby had told him, but Ruby was hidden in the camp. Even his supervisors didn't know that he and Ruby were connected. There was no way Saxon would.

And even if he'd known, how would he have gotten hold of demon blood? Ruby had told him that the rest of her kind had fled the planet, gone into hiding in Hell. She was the only one left on Earth, as far as she knew, and he knew it wasn't hers. He didn't know how, but he knew. It didn't feel like Ruby's.

So if it was impossible...if Saxon couldn't know, if he couldn't have gotten the blood...if Sam was hearing voices, then the solution was obvious.

The hallucinations had begun.

So Sam settled himself with his back against the wall, closed his eyes, and readied himself to ignore what his senses were telling him for as long as he could.

...ittle insulted...amuel, if we're being hon...

No. It wasn't real. Sam screwed his eyes shut even tighter.

...n't have time for this just now, so if you could j...

Sam started to hum the opening chords to "Smoke on the Water", like he used to do with Dean when he got scared as a kid.

...eed you to...ou're the only one who ca...

Sam clapped his hands over his ears, the humming becoming a panicked keening in the back of his throat.

Samuel?

"No," Sam whispered, "no, no, no."

Samuel. Can you hear me?

Sam tried humming again.

Samuel, it's the Doctor. You're not going crazy. I need you to answer if you can hear me. I could feel the connection clear but I need to know that you can hear me. It's important, Samuel, please.

Sam knew better than to interact with his hallucinations. He really, really did. But it sounded so much like the Doctor. That quick, clipped cadence like he was having a hard time slowing his thoughts down enough to articulate, the way he managed to sound soothing and urgent at the same time.

Samuel?

Sam shrank into the corner of the bed, and thought miserably, what could it hurt?

Samuel! There you are! Has he hurt you? Are you all right?

Sam winced as he answered. I'm all right. He hesitated. Are you?

There was no answer for a moment, and when it did come, he heard an undertone of something very weary in the Doctor's voice. I'll be fine, Samuel. But you...you have to be careful. I know you probably had no choice but to drink what the Master sent you, but...you're more vulnerable, now. Do you know what it was that he gave you?

And suddenly Sam realized that the Doctor didn't know, yet. About the blood. About any of it.

"It's your life, Samuel. And I'm in the wrong order," the Doctor had said, right before all hell broke loose on Earth. In that filthy motel room with Ruby crouched by the wall, the Doctor staggering in and supporting himself against the wall like he weighed too much for his legs to bear, all disappointment and sadness and cryptic statements.

In the wrong order. This Doctor was younger than that Doctor; it hadn't happened yet, for him.

So he didn't find out yet.

So Sam couldn't tell him.

N-no, Doctor, Sam lied. What was it?

The voice that spoke back to him was so full of grief that Sam almost just confessed the whole thing, told him that he knew, that it was his fault, not the Doctor's, but he couldn't, so he just listened as the Doctor said, I'm so sorry, Samuel. I've done it again. He's...given you my blood. He wants your mind psychically open, wants you as powerful as you can be, to help him.

Can he hear me? Sam asked, panicked.

No, no, Samuel. This connection is just you and me. He'd have to have physical contact with you to be able to enter your mind.

There was a pause, and Sam couldn't find the words to say, so there was silence until the Doctor asked, What did he offer you?

Here, at least, Sam could tell the truth. He brought Dean back. He brought Dean back from Hell, Doctor.

More silence.

I saw him, Doctor. I saw Dean. Where we buried him. He couldn't have possibly—Saxon couldn't have possibly known where we'd buried him. But Dean was out, alive. He brought him back.

No, he didn't.

Flat, absolute. Dean's alive, Doctor.

Yes, he is, Samuel. Your brother is alive.

Sam hesitated. Saxon said—

Saxon said he brought him back, and he's back. Correlation does not prove causation, Samuel, you ought to know that.

The chiding note in the Doctor's voice rubbed Sam the wrong way, but he said nothing.

He's manipulating you, Samuel. I've been shouting for you, trying to tell you, but you couldn't hear me until now.

Well. Mostly.

You have to believe me, Samuel, please. It wasn't Saxon who brought your brother back. It—

The door opened again, much more of an actual slam this time, and Saxon stood in the doorway, his sudden presence blocking out all other thought in Sam's head—including the Doctor. He jolted straight on the bed, and stared, wide-eyed, at Saxon's smug grin.

"Mister Winchester," he said smoothly, and held out a hand in invitation. "Join me for a walk, now that, I hope, you're feeling better?"

Sam really had no choice but to follow him, although his limbs were still trembling and his head was pounding with too many voices.

And there was a little part of him, as he walked out of the room with Saxon, that hoped this whole damn mess was just a particularly vivid hallucination.