Thanks you so much Jenjoremy for working your magic on this one. Thank you also SandraEngstrom2 and Gredelina1 for all your help.
Chapter Fourteen
Though Sam kept his eyes squeezed shut, there was nothing he could do to blot out the voices on the television.
"And now we bring you more on the developing story of the Milltown Massacre. In the early hours of the morning, a call came in from a teen who had returned home to find his family dead. They were the first discovered but not the last. Witnesses on the scene say it was like something out of a horror movie. People in their homes and on the streets, in stores and bars, were killed without mercy. The injuries so severe and varied there is no way to build a picture of what might have happened. Some of the victims appear to have suffered from animal attacks while others were shot or slain by blades. One officer, who declined to be named, said he had never seen cruelty on this scale, and he's been in the service for twenty-five years. I take you now to our reporter, Tom Goodman, who is currently on the scene."
There was a pause and a man's voice started to speak.
"Thank you, Amanda. The situation here is one of chaotic devastation. All of the town's police officers were killed in the attack, so police from towns close by have been drafted to deal with the fallout of the night's events. The local hospital, which also houses the morgue, cannot deal with the sheer number of fatalities, so a temporary mortuary has been set up in the gymnasium of the high school. There have been no official numbers for victims, but the town had a population of slightly over four hundred. What you're seeing now is footage from the arrival earlier today of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. They have been brought in to help deal with the aftermath of this tragedy."
Sam didn't need to open his eyes to see the blue uniformed people spilling out of buses and making for the school. He had seen the footage a dozen times already, just as he had the images from inside the gymnasium of row after row of sheet, blanket, and finally tarp covered bodies.
"Wait, we have breaking news," the male reporter said excitedly, and Sam's eyes opened against his will. He saw a man in a dark blue police uniform standing beside the reporter. "What can you tell us, Chief?"
"Miraculously, we have found a survivor," the police chief said. "A child who appears to be around seven or eight has been found in one of the attacked homes. Naturally, he is traumatized, but we have what we think is his name. Michael. If anyone out there knows who Michael is, please contact our local office. We want to reunite him with some family if we can."
Sam closed his eyes again and a tear slid down his cheek. Michael. Was it coincidence that the child was named Michael or was he giving the name of his attacker instead of himself? Had Michael gloated over those he had killed, wanting them to know who was killing them before they met their end?
Had Dean seen it all, trapped inside the archangel? Did he know what his hands had done?
Though Sam despaired, he didn't give in to it. He still had people to fight for: Ellen and Jo, Ash and Bobby, Castiel. They needed him to be strong now more than ever.
It was so hard though. The idea of oblivion was so tempting. Lucifer could stuff him down inside his body, making him feel and know nothing. His soul was crying out for it. He felt so much guilt and pain for what he had done, failing not only the world when he set Lucifer free, but also Dean by not protecting him from Michael. His brother had to have suffered immeasurably before breaking. Sam should never have let that happen.
He had once told Ellen he felt like he was drowning. That had been an echo of emotion compared to what he was feeling now.
He hadn't seen either Meg or Lucifer for hours. For the first time since he had been taken, he had a solid sense of time as the ticker tape on the television counted the minutes passing for him. He tried to concentrate on that rather than the images and voices that recounted the horror of that small Iowa town, but he wasn't always successful. He saw the images of distraught family members coming to the town in search of their loved ones and he heard the name again and again: Michael, Michael, Michael.
He almost wished for death again. Thaddeus' blades had been sharper and they'd cut deeper than Meg's but he was the only one hurting there. He didn't see the world's pain, too.
Another hour passed before the door opened and Meg came in. Sam braced himself, knowing by her satisfied smile that suffering was approaching. She surprised him though. Instead of presenting him with her razor and getting to work, she extracted a hipflask from her pocket and waved it in front of his face.
"Thirsty, Sammy?" she asked.
Sam's mind was slow and fogged by all he'd suffered, and at first he didn't understand what she was asking. He didn't understand why she was offering him a drink when he had been weeks without. Then he realized what was familiar about the situation: the silver hipflask in the hands of a demon.
His lips curled back from his teeth in a snarl. "No."
Meg rolled her eyes. "You must be bored of that word by now. It's all you seem to say."
"Fuck you."
"Now, here I am offering you a tasty treat and you're being rude. Really, is that how you treat your hosts?"
Sam looked away from her and fixed his eyes on the television instead. He would suffer that rather than engage with the hated demon. On the screen a child's photograph was displayed under a banner that named him as the lone survivor of the Milltown Massacre. Michael. He had light brown hair and green eyes that seemed to pierce Sam despite the sadness in them. Perhaps it was the sadness that pierced him. He had ruined that child's life through his failure.
Meg cursed as she flipped off the television. "No, no, Sammy, it's rude to ignore people."
"You're not people. You're a monster."
She laughed softly. "Says you—the boy who teamed up with that skank Ruby and drank blood. You're the one who kick-started the end. You're the one who failed your brother so completely that he gave it up to Michael." She pointed a finger at the blank screen of the television. "Wait till they start naming them, the ones Michael slid a blade into and killed. Wait till they name the children that were killed because of you and your brother."
Sam fought back a grimace with difficulty.
Meg smiled as she glanced back over her shoulder at the door. "Let's stick a pin in that for now and talk about my question: are you thirsty?"
"No," Sam said firmly.
She smiled wickedly. "I was almost hoping you'd say that. It's much fun this way." She came forward into his space, so close he could almost feel her breath against his face. "Have a drink, Sammy."
Sam started to refuse and realized his mistake too late. She gripped his chin and yanked his jaw down, opening his mouth. Sam struggled and tried to close it again, but she was too strong. With a gleeful smile, she upended the flask over his mouth and the blood poured in. He felt the slick taste on his tongue and he fought not to swallow.
Meg released him and moved back, smiling triumphantly. "How does that feel?" she asked.
In response, Sam spat the blood back at her. It spattered into her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She swiped her sleeve over her face, smearing the blood, and her features twisted with rage. "You'll regret that."
Sam tried to empty his mouth of the blood that remained by spitting onto the floor. He wished for water to clear the taste, but he knew he had no chance of that. All he could do was get rid of as much of it as possible.
Meg's hand struck out and slapped him across the cheek. "I said you'll regret that!" she hissed.
Sam started back into her black eyes and smiled a bloody lipped smile. "Fuck you," he said, enunciating the words carefully.
She spun on her heel and marched from the room, her whole body radiating anger. Sam watched her go, unafraid of her threat. What could she really do to him that she hadn't done already?
He knew one thing though; this plan to break him had taken an unexpected twist. He didn't know why they wanted him on the blood, but it could be for no good reason. The fact that they were trying to empower him by feeding him the thing that fuelled his powers was worrying, even though he couldn't use them while he had the warded bands trapping him. No, he had to resist it, because the alternative was to destroy himself.
Ellen woke Dean the next morning by slapping his back and shouting his name. He was glad of the interruption to his nightmare and didn't worry until he saw her wild and horrified face.
"Sam…?" he asked.
"Come and see," she said, turning and rushing out of the room.
Filled with fear, Dean threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. He raced into the bar barefoot and skidded to a stop as he saw Ellen, Jo and Ash gathered around the TV mounted on the wall. A news station was playing and female anchor was looking grave as she said, "In the early hours of the morning a call came in from a teen who had returned home to find his family dead. They were the first discovered but not the last. Witnesses on the scene say it was like something out of a horror movie."
Dean wrapped an arm around Jo's stiff shoulders and pulled her in close. She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. Dean felt the dampness of her tears almost at once. Patting her back, he watched the story unfold on the screen. After what seemed like forever, Jo pulled back and murmured her thanks.
"Where's Castiel?" Dean asked.
"He's gone to Milltown," Ash said quietly. "See if he can figure out what happened somehow."
Dean nodded. "That's good," he said vaguely. "Yeah, good."
Ash met his eye and Dean thought he was thinking the same thing as him—was this Sam? Had he given his consent and this was Lucifer's celebration? He hated himself for thinking it, for having so little faith in his brother's strength, but like Castiel said, man could only take so much.
Dean sank down on a chair at the table behind him and rested his face in his hands. "Why didn't we see the signs?" he asked, his voice muffled.
"It happened in the night," Ash said. "No one was watching the laptop."
Dean sighed. He hadn't thought about that before; now he realized their mistake. No one had explained how the program worked to Castiel. The alerts could have been coming in and he'd have no idea what they were.
"It could have been Lucifer," he said. "It could have been our chance."
"To what?" Ellen asked in a dead tone. "Die?"
Dean's head snapped up to look at her. The stress of the past couple weeks had made their place on her face. Her eyes were tight with tension and sadness and her mouth turned down. She didn't look angry as she had when Sam was first taken; now she looked defeated. "We could have gotten him back, Ellen."
"How?" she asked plaintively. "We have no weapon, no God, no hope."
"I have hope," Dean retorted angrily. "I'm not giving up on him."
Ellen shook her head. "I haven't given up on him. Never in life. I just don't see how we're going to save him." A tear slid down her cheek. "I think he's really gone, Dean." She turned and walked through the door into the back, her shoulders slumped and her breaths catching.
Dean watched her go, unable to not compare her to the ball of fire and determination she had been only weeks ago, the woman who had shot an archangel.
"She loves him, Dean," Jo said quietly. "She just doesn't know how to handle this."
"I know," Dean sighed. "I know that, I just… We need her strong. Sam needs her strong. When we get him back, she's going to regret this."
Jo smiled sadly and nodded.
There was a rustle and Castiel appeared beside Dean's table. "It was demons," he said without preamble.
"And Lucifer?" Dean asked.
"I do not know. I suppose it's within the realm of possibility that Lucifer could have been there, too, but the signs I found all pointed to demons. The stench of sulfur was still in the air."
"Not Sam then," Dean said, relieved.
"No," Castiel confirmed. "Sam still hasn't given consent."
Dean sighed with relief. Castiel had always said they would know if Sam gave in, as the world would know, but he still felt better with the angel's assurance.
Sam hadn't given in, which meant a new day of suffering was just starting for him. Another day and Dean still hadn't gotten him back.
Things changed for Sam. Lucifer came to him late the day Meg first tried to give him blood and healed him without a word. The change in routine worried Sam. He couldn't help but think that something worse than Lucifer's words and memories must be coming. When the archangel flipped on the TV and then left the room, Sam watched him go, tense and almost afraid.
The next step in their plan came the next day. The blood. It continued for four days before Sam was defeated.
Meg didn't hurt him again, and Lucifer didn't come. Sam suspected he had left for a while. He was glad of the reprieve from both Lucifer and the torture, though the anticipation was hard to handle. Sometimes questions of what was happening rose to his lips, and he had to fight them down. He would not give Meg the satisfaction of showing weakness.
Every day, a few times a day, she would come armed with blood and he would fight against her as she poured it into his mouth. Every day he would spit it back at her. What confused him were the mechanical movements of what she was doing. There were ways she could have forced him to drink, he knew, so why didn't she use them? She seemed satisfied to see him just spitting it back at her each time. He worried what her new plan was.
He found out the next day.
The sun was starting to illuminate the skylight and Sam was watching it, seeing the dawn of a new day under Lucifer's hold, when he felt his previously desiccated mouth start to water. He had been without human needs so long that it felt strange. He swallowed reflexively and coughed to clear his throat. The feeling intensified and his stomach clenched painfully. He was aching for something; he couldn't tell if it was food or drink that he craved, but it was strong. He swallowed again and tried to force it from his mind. Thankfully, a distraction came in the form of Meg entering the room.
She came to a stop in front of him, too close for comfort, and smiled. "How does it feel?" she asked.
Sam coughed. "What have you done to me?"
"Me? Nothing. This is all down to our guest."
Sam felt agitated and the gnawing need in him intensified. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, much too fast.
"Who is here?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Secret. And you didn't answer my question. How does it feel? You thirsty maybe?"
Sam's eyes narrowed and then a wash of saliva flooded his mouth as she pulled a hipflask from her pocket. That! That was what he needed. Just the sight of the flask was enough to make him pull forward as much as his restraints would allow.
Meg laughed as she unscrewed the cap and tilted the flask— he thought he could almost smell the blood, rich and coppery, tempting—dripping a spat of blood onto the floor. It glistened there, wasted, needed. Sam strained towards it.
"That's my boy," Meg crooned. "You know what you need."
Sam tried to command control of himself, but it was like fighting a hurricane. He felt like he was being burned alive, sweating and shaking. His whole body needed the blood.
"No," he growled, both in refusal and reminder of what he was fighting.
"Yes," she said confidently.
After, Sam would be unable to remember if he had fought her. He wanted to believe he did, but the moment her hand gripped his chin and dragged his jaw open, he felt some animal instinct take over and when the blood touched his tongue, he swallowed.
Defeated tears sprang to his eyes but he couldn't stop the moan that was drawn from him as his body reacted to the blood. It was like a cooling balm on a burn, water in a desert. His veins sang and his nerves fired in a toe-curling moment of relief. He had been torn apart and made whole again by the blood.
As the last strings of blood reached his tongue and the flask emptied, Meg stepped back, satisfied at her victory. "Better?"
"No," Sam moaned.
"Liar. Do you want some more?"
"No," Sam said again, even as he nodded frantically. His body had a will of its own and he couldn't control it. Though his being cried out in pain at what he had done, what he had let her do, he wanted more.
Meg laughed "Feeling a little conflicted there, Sammy?"
"Fuck you," Sam growled, even as his mind raced—Where's the blood? I need more. Not enough. Never enough.
"That was rude," she said, though she sounded amused. "I think you can wait a little longer for your next juice box."
"Lucifer!" Sam cried. He would give him what he needed. He wouldn't let Meg deny him.
"Lucifer's not here right now," Meg said. "He's out dealing with people that actually matter. Strung out junkies are low on his list of priorities."
She spun on her heel and sashayed out of the room, the flask in her swinging hand. Sam watched it and her go and tried not to cry out for more.
The feeling of need didn't lessen over time; instead, it got even worse. His body juddered with tremors and his mouth and throat felt arid. He thought he was losing his mind, though could he really be if he was aware of it? Shouldn't insanity be freeing? He wished for oblivion, for death, for blood, more than anything for blood. He didn't understand where the feeling came from. He had never craved it like this before. He had spent months drinking only to stop and never had it affected him in this way. He truly felt like a junkie craving a hit. He needed it. He was in agony that only blood could soothe. He knew that if they set a bleeding demon at his feet, he would drink from it and smile. He had no control over himself.
He tried to cling to strength and sanity by thinking of people he loved, but it was useless. He couldn't bring any face to mind. There were no memories of their voices to cling to, no scents and sounds of The Roadhouse to remember. The desperate need for blood had wiped all else away.
He had their names, Ellen, Jo, Ash, Bobby, Dean, the people he should fight for, but Dean was gone and Sam would never see the others again. They were lost to him as Lucifer would never free him now. Lucifer… Sam was immensely relieved the archangel was away dealing with whatever apocalyptic plans he was formulating now, because he didn't have faith in himself to say no if asked the question; not when all else was focused on the need for blood. Was it possible the world would end because Sam needed a hit?
He was left alone for a long time, long enough that he started to think they would never come back, before there was movement at the door and Meg entered. Unusually, she wasn't alone. There was another black-eyed demon with her. Unlike Meg, he didn't gloat over Sam. He looked a little afraid.
"How are you feeling?" Meg asked.
Sam swallowed the saliva swimming in his mouth and searched her for a sign of the flask. He couldn't see it. All she held was a slim silver knife. Sam guessed it was time for him to be tortured again. He wondered if it would hurt as much as the craving already did.
Meg tilted her head to the side. "Hmm… you're looking ready. I wonder…"
Sam's lips curled back from his teeth. He needed her to deliver already. He needed the blood.
Meg lifted the other demon's arm and cut slowly across its wrist. Blood welled and dripped down to the floor—Wasted!
Sam's lips parted automatically and the saliva flooded again. He needed it.
She didn't leave him to suffer long. She dragged the demon forward and brought its wrist up to Sam's mouth. "Have at it then."
Sam's sealed his mouth around the wound and drank. He couldn't think of family or friends, the world or humanity; he could only relish the feeling of the blood suffusing and strengthening him. All too soon, Meg was pulling the demon's wrist away and leaving Sam panting. He groaned as he swallowed the last of the blood.
"How does it feel?" Meg asked.
Powerful, Sam thought. That was the feeling that pervaded him now. He felt that if he tried he would be able to exorcise again. The warded bands were strong, but Sam was stronger. He could do it if he just tried hard enough. But what good would that do? He could send Meg back to Hell, but he would be just as trapped there as he had been for weeks. He needed to get free first, and then… then he could revenge himself and his brother.
His mind clear temporarily of the craving for blood, he began to plan.
"Meg!" Sam bellowed, his voice strained. "Meg!"
It wasn't hard for him to behave as if he was desperate because he was. He needed more blood, both for the power and to sate the need in him. His body cried out for more while his mind cried out for freedom.
The door flew open, swinging back to hit the opposite wall. "You called," Meg said.
"I'm thirsty."
"I'll get you a soda," she said sarcastically.
"You know what I need," Sam growled.
She smiled smugly. "I do. Boy, he did a real number on you, didn't he? I knew he was strong but, wow, you're a regular addict again. How does it feel?"
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line as if trying to hold back the words that wanted to spill forth. Meg delivering what he needed was the crux of the plan.
"Fine," she said. Holding the doorframe, she leaned back and shouted, "Callum, come here a moment."
It wasn't the demon Sam had drunk from before that arrived, but a new one. Sam thought that was better. He would be running full, and Sam would be able to take more from him.
"Sammy's thirsty," she said happily, holding out the knife to the demon.
The demon grimaced but took the knife and rested it against his wrist. With a determined look, it pressed down and split the skin. Sam smiled as the blood welled and the demon brought it to his mouth. Sam drank deeply, feeling the power rushing through him, and his heart raced with both satisfaction and excitement. He was going to be able to do it; he could feel it. He just needed to reach out and…
His hand fisted and the demon cried out in pain. With a rush of satisfaction, Sam clenched his fist tightly and the demon he was drinking from collapsed to the floor, dead.
It seemed to take Meg a moment to catch up with what was happening. Her eyes darted from Sam to the demon and her mouth dropped open. "How…" she gasped.
Sam leered at her. "Guess the blood made me stronger than you expected."
She spun on her heel and ran for the door, but Sam was too fast. He focused his mind and gripped her core, holding her in place. She slowly turned back to face him and her expression twisted with hatred. "You can't do this."
"Can. Will." His fingers tightened and she cried out in pain. The sound was like music to his ears. He wanted to hold her until she screamed, he wanted to clench his hand and break her completely, but he needed to wait just a little longer. If he killed her now, he would be trapped until Lucifer came back, and the only satisfaction he would have would be her defeat. There was still so much for him to do. "You're going to do something for me now," he said. "Let me free."
"I can't," she panted which morphed into a scream as Sam hurt her again.
"You can. You will."
There was the sound of pounding footsteps and two demons burst into the room. Sam automatically dropped Meg and reached for the first. With a push and squeeze he killed it, without sparing a single thought for the host—he was too far gone to think about others. He reached for the second, realizing his mistake too late. Meg was running. He reached for her, but she was already gone. Fury rolled through him and he used it to strengthen himself. He gripped the second demon and squeezed until it howled.
"You're going to let me free," he said, and he felt something more than anger now; there was immense power, too. His voice seemed to hold strength he never had before. To his surprise—and apparently to the demon's, too—it walked toward the bonds around Sam's right wrists and unbuckled them. Sam's eyes bugged as his hand fell free and aching to his side. "And the other," he said, and his voice held that same deep tenor and power. The demon freed his other wrist and Sam stretched his fingers as the prickling blood rushed back into them. Then, when his ankles were freed, he stepped away from the rack at last.
Though he was no longer holding it, the demon stood idle in front of him as if awaiting orders. Sam tested a theory. "Turn around." The demon obeyed without a word.
Sam remembered a conversation from a long time ago, and he finally understood what Ava had meant. 'If you'd just open yourself up, you have no idea what you can do. The learning curve is so fast, it's crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain.'
Sam had flipped a switch. He was going to utilize it.
He circled the demon, seeing the horror in its eyes and otherwise slack expression.
"What did Lucifer do to me?" he asked. "Why do I want the blood so desperately?"
"Famine," the demon said in a strained tone.
Sam frowned. "The horseman?"
"Yes. He can affect humans, make them crave things. Lucifer needed you broken, an addict again, so you would break easier."
"Where is Famine?" Sam asked.
The demon winced. "In town. He's going to bring it to its knees. He's in the old mansion on the edge of town. I have to go to take him the souls."
"Souls?"
"It's what he feeds on. He needs them to strengthen himself again."
Sam knew without doubt that the demon wasn't lying because it couldn't lie to him now. He had heard enough; he knew where he needed to go next.
"Is there anything else I need to know?" he asked idly, no real expectation that there was.
"Your brother," the demon said.
"What about him?"
The demon swallowed thickly. "Lucifer lied. Michael doesn't have a vessel yet. Your brother hasn't given consent."
There was ringing in Sam's ears. He felt sick. "Are you sure? What about Milltown?"
"That was us. Meg took us there and told us to have fun."
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the relief.
"Will you kill me now?" the demon asked hopefully.
Sam didn't answer with words. He merely clenched his fist, making the demon scream out in pain. He wanted to make it last, to vent his fury at all he'd suffered at the demons' hands linger for this one outlet, but there was something he needed to do now that was more important. His fingers curled tight and the demon dropped dead to the floor.
To Sam's surprise, he recognized the town he was in almost as soon as he got within its limits. It was just a short drive from The Roadhouse, a town he and John had sometimes stayed in when they needed some space when visiting Ellen and Jo. It seemed sick that all the time he'd been held captive, he had been without walking distance of his home. The demons and Lucifer must have gotten a good laugh out of the secret. The one benefit of his location was that he knew exactly where the mansion would be found.
He had taken a car from the farmhouse, a crappy black Honda with bald tires and a rattling exhaust. It was good enough to get him across town though. The mansion loomed over him as he approached. He dumped the car on the edge of the road and made the rest of the journey on foot. He wasn't worried about being heard by the demons, he knew he was more than a match for them, but he wanted to make an entrance regardless.
The blood was still pulsing through him, making him feel invincible, as he strutted to the front doors of the mansion and kicked them open. There were shouts from within and two demons raced into the hall to meet him. It was easy, too easy, to kill them where they stood. There wasn't even a little pressure on his mind.
He walked through the door the demons had come through and stopped just inside the room. There were four demons standing in the corners and a man in a motorized wheelchair by the fireplace. At first all Sam saw was the back of his head, sparse grey hair. Then the chair turned and the man was revealed. He was a ruin. Rheumy eyes set in wrinkled sockets stared at Sam and a wide smile curved his pale lips. "Sam Winchester," he said. "My sweet boy, I see you have been enjoying yourself. Tell me, how does it feel to be chock full of power again? Did you miss it?"
"Feels good," Sam said. It did feel good, powerful, right, but oh so wrong.
"I'm sure." Famine smiled. "Now you're here, free. I admit that's unexpected. I thought Lucifer had you locked down tight. Tell me, where is he now?"
"No idea," Sam said honestly. "He left me an out though."
"Apparently so."
Sam pulled the knife he had taken from the farmhouse from his pocket and made to walk towards the horseman. Famine looked unsurprised. "You won't kill me, Sam. You can't."
"No," Sam agreed. "I don't suppose I can." He raised the knife. "I can hurt you though."
The demons hadn't moved from their corners. They seemed afraid of drawing his attention, but now, at Famine's nod, they came forward. Sam closed his eyes and raised a fist slowly. Smoke poured from their mouths in unison and then sifted to the floor. The abandoned meat suits dropped and only one of them stirred. Sam thought the others must be dead.
"That was impolite," Famine said, sounding a little uneasy now. "You should not attack your hosts."
"Not my host," Sam said, stalking towards him.
The horseman's fingers fiddled with the controls of his wheelchair and it moved back, hitting the wall. Sam grinned. "Looks like you're trapped."
"Lucifer will not let you do this," Famine said.
Sam looked around exaggeratedly. "Funny, I don't see him here."
Famine fumbled with his ring and Sam felt a surge of need rush through him. His throat felt raw with want. He stumbled and then got his feet under him again. He could not weaken now. Pushing down the want as far as he could, he staggered forward, the knife gripped tightly in his hand.
Perhaps Famine cried out, Sam didn't know, he only heard the pounding of his own blood in his ears. With a thud that jarred up his arm, the knife cut through Famine's finger and impaled itself in the cushioned arm of the wheelchair.
He bent and picked up the finger from the floor and slid off the ring. Famine was howling with pain, clutching his ruined hand against his chest, but Sam barely paid him any attention. He turned and walked away to the door, only pausing when he heard Famine call out behind him.
"You will never be free of the blood. You have no idea what will become of you if you stop, Sam. No idea!"
Sam walked away without looking back. He had somewhere he needed to be.
Sam stood concealed in the bushes behind The Roadhouse, looking through the window. Ellen was behind the bar, her face strained as she wiped a cloth over the counter mechanically. Dean and Jo stood behind Ash at the laptop. He couldn't see their faces, but their stances were tense and stiff. Despite the anxiety that seemed to bleed from them through the walls of the building, Sam absorbed the sight of them with a smile. They were okay. Dean was okay. He was himself, Sam knew.
He took the phone he had mugged from some poor soul in town from his pocket and dialed the familiar number. Ellen set down the rag and moved along the bar to answer. Her voice was quiet and Sam could almost feel the longing that came from her down the line.
"Roadhouse."
"Ellen," Sam said softly. "It's me…"
So… Sammy flipped the switch and is free. I had a lot of fun writing these scenes, even though the blood was hard, and hope they make for good reading.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx