Much love to Jenjoremy, Gredelina1 and SandraEngstrom2 for beta'ing and helping me get my ideas in order.

You all get a gift in the form of an extra chapter this week as today is my birthday and — to use Gredelina1's words — I can do what I want ;-)

Chapter Fifteen

It was early and the though bar was not yet open, it was only a matter of time until the hunters started pounding on the door, starting a new day of trade and waiting for news.

In some ways it was better when they were busy, as Dean could occupy himself helping out behind the bar. The thoughts of, and fear for, his brother never left him, but when he was forcing a smile for a customer and dodging questions about Sam's whereabouts—'Got cut up on a hunt and is recovering at a friend's place'—he wasn't allowing himself to be swallowed by the fear. Jo and Ellen did the same, while Ash filled his time searching the program on his laptop for signs and Castiel listened to the voices of his former family.

They were coping in their own ways.

The phone rang and Ellen set down her cloth and moved around the bar to answer it. Dean wasn't paying much attention as she answered with her usual greeting of, "Roadhouse." Then he heard her suck in a breath and his eyes snapped to her. "Sam?" she said weakly. "Oh God, Sam. Honey, are you okay? Where are you?"

Dean crossed to her in long strides and snatched the phone out of her hand. "Sammy?"

"It's me," a tired voice replied.

Dean felt overwhelmed with relief and shock. His eyes prickled and when he blinked, a tear escaped his hold. Dean was jostled as Ellen and Jo crowded into his space, pressing their heads close to hear what Sam was saying. Dean stepped away from them and held up his free hand to hold them back. He needed space. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"I'm okay," Sam said. "I got away."

"Thank God," Dean breathed.

"He didn't have much to do with it," Sam said, a bite of anger in his tone. "Look, I can't talk long. There's something I need to do."

"What?" Dean asked, worry starting to temper his relief again. "Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that yet."

"Why not?" Dean cursed the break in his voice. "What's happening?"

Sam drew a noisy breath and when he spoke it was like he was forcing he words out through pain. "I drank it, Dean: the blood."

"Sammy…" There was no judgment in Dean's tone; he was just so sad for his brother.

"I need to go away a while to get it out of my system," Sam said, his voice stronger now.

"You don't have to do it alone. Come home so we can take care of you. We can help you."

Sam's sigh crackled down the line. "You really can't. You can do something though; I need you to tell Ellen about the blood. She deserves to know."

"Are you sure?"

"It'll help her understand." There was pause while Dean tried to find the words to reassure his brother and then Sam said with finality. "I'll be back when I can. Take care of each other."

"Sam, no!" Dean said quickly. "Talk to me! Please…"

It was too late, Sam had hung up.

"Dammit!" he shouted.

"He's not coming back?" Jo asked in shock, her eyes darting to her mother.

"Not yet," Dean said. "He will though. He said so."

"Sure, because Sam's never lied to us before," she replied bitterly.

"He's not lying now," Dean said confidently. "He'll come back when he can."

There was a soft sob and Dean saw Ellen clap her hand over her mouth as if to stifle the sound. He opened his arms and she came into them, letting him hold her as she shook against him.

"He's okay," Dean soothed. "He's out and he's okay."

Ellen clung to him and he let her cry. Jo was under Ash's arm and Castiel watched from his place across the room, physically separate but connected in relief and worry. Sam was free, but he wasn't there. He had run from them. Again.

Sam pulled through the iron arch of Bobby's yard with a sense of trepidation. He was working with a hunch that Bobby cared enough for Dean that he would do this for him—protect him. If there was any other secure place he could have gone, he would have, but Bobby's panic room was the only place equipped for what he needed—a lockdown.

He brought the chugging car to a stop by the door and cut the engine. He had a feeling it wasn't going to start again without some serious work from Bobby. He hoped he wouldn't need it though. If he got through this, he would be back with Dean and the Impala. And if he didn't make it through, nothing mattered. He would be beyond caring about what he drove.

Bobby had obviously heard the car approaching, as the back door opened and he stepped onto the porch. His eyes widened and then he hurried down the steps when he caught sight of Sam climbing slowly from the car.

"My God," he whispered.

"Hey," Sam said with a forced smile.

"How are you here? I thought Lucifer had you."

"He did," Sam said. "I escaped. Look, Bobby, I need help."

"Of course," Bobby said quickly. "Whatever you need."

Sam straightened and the tattered remains of his shirt opened, laying his chest bare to Bobby's eyes. His face colored and he spoke in a low growl, "What did they do to you?"

Sam didn't answer. It was a stupid question. What they had done was obvious—they'd tortured him. He looked down at his ravaged skin and shook his head. They had sure made a mess of him. The time under Meg's knife felt like a lifetime ago though. The blood was presently at the forefront of his mind. That need…

"Come in, come in." Bobby reached for Sam as if he was going to try to support him, but Sam walked ahead into the house under his own steam. He wasn't feeling weak—he was still suffused with blood given strength. "Do you want anything?" Bobby asked as Sam sat down in a chair at the table. "Coffee? Beer? Something stronger?"

"Coffee."

Bobby busied himself at the counter for a moment and then set a mug down in front of Sam. He drank it, feeling the heat seep into him and the last lingering taste of blood leave his mouth. When he pushed away his empty mug, Bobby said, "Where's Dean?"

"At The Roadhouse," Sam said.

"You've seen him?" Bobby asked. Sam could tell he'd already guessed the answer. It was given away by the slight touch of disapproval that leaked into his tone.

"I've spoken to him," Sam said evasively.

"And that's not even half the story, is it?"

Sam hadn't wanted to come to Bobby for this reason. The man was too perceptive. It wasn't that he'd thought he would get away with evading questions about Dean, but Bobby was going to want more than an explanation of why Dean couldn't know where he was.

"I'll answer your questions," Sam said reluctantly, "but I'm asking something in return."

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and nodded slowly. "Okay." No promises made, but no refusal either. It was as good as Sam was going to get.

"You can't tell Dean I'm here," he said. "No matter what happens, he can't know where I am until I say."

Bobby frowned. "I can't promise that."

"Why not?" Sam asked, genuinely confused. "You've done it before. After I got tagged by that werewolf, you fixed me up and didn't tell him."

"That was to protect him," Bobby argued.

Sam laughed harshly. "You think it's not about that now, too? Believe me, this is about more than protecting him from me being a dick. This is so much worse…"

"What's happened to you, Sam?"

"You have to swear," Sam said, "I'll tell you it all, but you have to promise me."

He could see the battle waging in Bobby, curiosity versus loyalty and honesty. Bobby started to answer, but then the phone rang and he crossed the room seemingly automatically and picked up the receiver. "Singer Salvage." There was a pause in which his face slackened and then, locking eyes with Sam he said, "Hey, Dean."

"Please," Sam mouthed. "Please, Bobby." He could do no more than hope that Bobby would respect what he wanted. He waited, nervously chewing on his thumbnail, for Bobby to speak again.

"He has?" Bobby asked. "That's great, son. Is he okay?" He paused and listened for a moment and then said, "Well, that sure sounds like him. Any idea where he is?"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Bobby was going to cover for him.

"Me? No," Bobby said to Dean. "No idea. I'm sorry, Dean. Have you thought about that though?" He grimaced. "It's just, seems to me that if he's keeping his distance, it's for a good reason. No, I know that, Dean, more than anyone I understand that, but Sam's not a fool. If that's what he's saying, he's probably right." Dean spoke and Bobby's eyes fixed on Sam, anger rolling in their depths. "I promise you, son, if I see him, you'll be the first to know." He sighed heavily. "Keep me updated, okay? I'll be hoping, too. Bye, Dean." He set the phone back in its cradle and scrubbed a hand over his face, his discomfort obvious.

"Thank you, Bobby," Sam said fervently. "Really. I'm grateful."

"You damn well better be," Bobby growled. "I just lied to the man I love like a son for you. Now, I want some answers. Why's it so important he not know where you are?"

Sam drew a deep breath and said, "I'm back on the blood."

Bobby frowned. "You think it'll help you defeat Lucifer? Because he's an angel, Sam, not a demon."

"I know," Sam said. "No, I don't think it'll help me with Lucifer. I don't think anything will help with that anymore. This is all about weakness."

He drew a deep breath, braced himself, and launched into the story of his capture and imprisonment. He concealed nothing from Bobby, not the days of torture, nor the fact they'd tricked him into believing Dean had given in to Michael. He told him how he had died and what Thaddeus had done to him. When he came to Famine, he closed his eyes and bared his soul completely. He explained how much he had craved the blood, how it had consumed him when he drank. He made no attempt to hide the thrill of killing the demon and how it had felt when he flipped the switch. Bobby had barely started to exclaim his shock when Sam got to Famine again. He told of how he had taken the ring from the horseman and the creature's last warning.

"What will become of you if you stop?" Bobby said in a musing tone.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. That's what I'm worried about."

"But you've stopped before and you were okay. You've done it a couple times."

"I know. I don't understand it either. Famine said I was free of its influence, but I don't feel like it. I still want the blood. I've never needed it like this before. "I'm…" It was on the tip of his tongue to admit he was scared. "I'm worried."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. What can I do for you? Anything you need, you only have to ask."

Sam smiled slightly. "I need your panic room. I can lock myself in there, but I can't keep myself in. I need you to make sure I don't get out until it's over."

"What's over?"

"Whatever happens next. I need to get the blood out of my system, and I don't know how hard that's going to be. I know from how I feel now, though, that it's not going to be easy this time."

"Okay," Bobby said. "I'll lock you down and I'll keep you down as long as you need."

"Thank you, Bobby," he said, his sincerity obvious. "I know this isn't going to be easy for you, lying to Dean, but it's for his sake that I'm doing it. I don't want him seeing."

Bobby adjusted his cap and said in a gruff voice. "No part of this is going to be easy, Sam, but, way I figure it, I owe you. We all do."

Sam frowned. "You do?"

"You didn't break. What Lucifer did to you was beyond cruel, and a lesser man would have given in. You didn't. I'm proud of you."

Sam shook off his words and swallowed as a wash of yearning swept through him. It seemed that now the preparations were made, his mind could return to focusing on what he needed again.

Blood.

The relief Ellen had felt hearing Sam's voice and knowing he was free was immense. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could breathe again. She wanted to hold him, to take care of him, but he wasn't there. Once again he had run, and she didn't understand why. Surely he would want to see them as much as they did him after he'd been gone so long and through so much. The whole time he'd been gone, she'd been praying he'd be freed and she'd see him again. He was free now, but he wasn't with her. Why not?

Whatever the reason, Dean knew more than he was letting on. He'd sworn he'd tell her what was happening but then he'd left the bar and disappeared into the bedroom he and Sam shared. He'd said he only needed a minute, but it'd been hours and he'd not reappeared. Ellen guessed he needed space to feel his relief at Sam's freedom and frustration at his continued absence in private.

The bar was staring to fill when Dean finally appeared in the doorway and gestured to her. She caught Jo's eye and when she came to the bar, Ellen asked her to take over the taps for a while. Jo glanced at Dean where he stood looking solemn and nodded. "Sure, Mom."

Dean turned and walked through to the back and Ellen followed.

"Coffee?" Dean asked when she entered the kitchen.

She nodded and he poured a mug and handed it to her before taking a seat at the table. Ellen hesitated then copied him. "Dean, what's going on?" she asked.

Dean drew a breath and spoke in a rush. "Sam told me I could tell you, and I will, but I need you to do something for me first."

"Tell me what?" she asked suspiciously. Whatever it was, Dean was obviously uncomfortable even preparing to talk about it, and that worried her. "Sam's okay, right?"

"Yeah," he said, though there was no conviction in his voice.

"Dean…"

"I'll tell you what I know," he promised. "But you've got to do something for me."

"Okay," she said slowly. "What do I need to do?"

"Remember," he said. "Remember Sam."

She started to ask what he meant, but he spoke over her.

"You remember when we got back here, just after Sammy was brought back by the deal? Do you remember what he promised me?"

Like she could forget. She had been overwhelmed with relief, seeing her boy alive again when her last view of him had been ice-cold with death in that dank cabin on a dirty bed. She even remembered the look on his face as he'd said it—determination and devastation. "He said he'd save you."

"He did," Dean agreed. "And you remember the rest of that year. Everything he did to try to save me?"

"Of course. I know how hard he tried. He did everything he could." He had opened himself up to his powers. He had turned his back on what John Winchester had taught him and what he believed himself about the supernatural being all bad. He had gone against it all in allowing those powers to take over. He'd changed himself.

"Exactly. He did everything." Dean raked a hand over his face and drew a deep breath. Then he spoke, and it was like a rush of poison pouring from him. "Sam drank blood. He drank demon blood to boost his powers. It worked. Without it, he was hardly able to get a hold of the demons. With it, he could exorcise them, hold them, and then later, kill them."

Ellen fell against the chair back as shock rolled over her. She felt sick. He boy had drunk blood! Her chest felt tight and she had to consciously focus on breathing for a moment, one shaking hand rubbing over her sternum.

Dean was speaking, but she wasn't paying attention to what he was saying. She was reeling. Sam had given up everything to save his brother. She'd thought she already knew that, but she hadn't had a clue. Fury built in her chest and she closed her eyes for a moment. Yellow-Eyes had done that to him. Had it not fed it to him as an innocent baby, he never would have had need of it as an adult. Then its interference had caused Sam to kill himself, which led to Dean making his deal. The Demon… It was all down to him that her boy had been forced to corrupt himself that way with… "Blood," she growled.

"Don't be mad," Dean begged, sounding almost childlike. "You can't be mad at him, Ellen. Not you. It'd break him. He was trying to save me. It wasn't his fault. He felt like he had no choice."

Ellen looked at him and saw the tears swimming in his eyes. "Oh, honey," she said, "I'm not mad at him. Or you. I'm mad that this happened at all. I'm mad he didn't tell me sooner. So much makes sense now. I wish I'd known. I could have helped him." "

"He couldn't tell you," Dean said sadly. "He couldn't disappoint you."

"He never could," she said. "I love that boy, both you boys, so much. Nothing you can do will disappoint me. You're heroes. I love you like you were my own."

"Sam is your own," Dean said seriously. "I remember my mom. I had four years of her and in that time I made so many memories. I remember her telling me she loved me. Sam doesn't have those memories, even though she loved him just as much. The only mother Sam has ever known is you, and he loves you like you are his mom. I know he doesn't say it, but I know…"

His words trailed off as Ellen's hands came up to cover her face. She had thought of Sam as her own since he was a child, but she'd never been able to claim him, as Mary Winchester's memory had been there at the forefront of it all through the hunt for the demon. Unable to say it, she had tried to be what she would want for Jo from another person if she wasn't there. Sam was hers though, and now she had his brother's acceptance of it, too.

Dean sat in silence with a hand on her shoulder, letting her cry until she had marshaled control of herself and sniffed her way to calm again.

"Okay," she said, drawing a breath and wiping her face with her sleeve. "What does the blood have to do with him not being here now? That's why he isn't, right?"

Dean took up the tale again. "Sam stopped drinking when I got back from Hell. Then, after the shooting, he started again. He knew he had to stop Lilith, and the only way to do that was with the blood. After Lucifer came he stopped again, but when he was captured, he drank. I don't know how or why, because he wouldn't have done it by choice after what happened last time. He's drunk it though, and now he's gone away to get it out of his system." He sighed. "I don't really understand why though. He's stopped it before and there was no problem. Somehow, this time it's different for him."

"It is different," a voice said in the doorway.

Ellen spun in her chair and saw Castiel standing in the doorway. She didn't know how long he had been there, listening to their talk, but he had been there long enough to hear enough to make him look tense and strained. He came further into the room and said, "The blood taints Sam, corrupting him while it powers him. There is a price for that power; addiction. He has stopped drinking the blood twice before, and he has suffered little or no side effects because that was how it was made to be."

"Made by whom?" Dean asked, a bite of anger in his tone.

"The first time, me," Castiel said apologetically. "When I met you for the first time, when I cast Sam unconscious, it was not just to minimize annoyance and interference. I cleansed him of the taint, too. The blood was removed from his system carefully, and he was left unharmed by the process. The second time it happened was at Lucifer's hand when he returned Sam after his suicide."

Ellen's mind seemed to be working at half speed. She was caught on the word addiction. Shaking her head to clear it, she asked the most important question, "What does this mean for him?"

"It means he is going to go through a process of withdrawal, and that is going to be very hard on him."

"Hard how?" Ellen asked, standing and grabbing at the lapels of his coat when he didn't answer fast enough. "How, Castiel?"

"I have never seen a human go through this," Castiel said, "so I have no frame of reference, but it was always understood among the angels that it would be incapacitating and devastating for him and those around him." He looked apologetic again. "Why do you think we interfered at all? We needed our weapons strong."

"They're not weapons!" she shouted.

Dean laid a hand on her arm. "He knows, Ellen."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said. "I just mean that what Sam is going to suffer is going to be…"

"Thanks, Cas," Dean cut him off. "We get the idea."

"Can you do it again?" Ellen asked. "If we find him, can you stop his suffering?"

"I cannot. The process needs the power of Heaven behind it, and I am cut off."

Ellen turned away and wiped at her wet face. She felt Dean's hand on her shoulder and she tried to feel comforted by it, but it was futile. She needed Sam there to comfort her, but he couldn't be. He was already probably suffering unimaginably somewhere. And she didn't know where. She couldn't help. None of them could.

Sam had made two requests before Bobby saw him down to the panic room: that he not let Sam out until he was sure it was over, and that he not tell Dean he was there, no matter what. The last request was repeated a few times until Bobby swore it. Almost as soon as he made it, he regretted his promise, though he knew he could not break it. Sam had been through so much in his life; the least he deserved was someone to let him call the shots for himself. There was also the fact of Sam's rarely given trust in Bobby to consider. He was the man Sam had come to for help, something he never imagined would happen, and Bobby would not fail him. After everything Sam had done, resisting the devil for weeks, Bobby could only hope it wouldn't be as bad as Sam seemed to expect. He didn't deserve to suffer more.

With the promise achieved, Sam had turned away and gone to sit with his back to Bobby on the cot which they'd set up in the middle of the room while preparing the place for Sam, clearing out the weapons and setting up a table with several bottles of water on top and a bucket beneath.

Knowing Sam had no more need of him in that moment, Bobby had locked the door, closed the hatch, and gone upstairs to get good and drunk on rotgut whiskey. He must have drunk himself into unconsciousness, as he couldn't have fallen asleep naturally wound as tight as he was.

He woke though, bleary-eyed and aching on his couch, to find the sky out of the window was black. He stayed seated for a moment, listening hard for a sign of what was happening in that basement. There was no sound though, not that he was surprised. The walls were solid iron and a floor below. All he could hear was the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Sam had advised Bobby to keep his distance, but he hadn't forced a promise, so Bobby felt entitled to go check on him.

He made his way down the basement steps with a sense of trepidation, bracing himself as he reached the door and opened the hatch.

Sam wasn't visible at first, but then he passed by the door making a circuit of the room. Bobby had to call his name three times before he was heard and Sam came to the door.

Bobby's first thought was that the young hunter looked like hell; his second was to wonder just how long had he been sleeping for Sam to have ended up looking like this. "How are you doing?" Bobby asked.

Sam shrugged. "Okay, I guess."

"How are you feeling?" he amended.

Sam seemed to hesitate for a moment, and Bobby guessed he was deciding how honest to be. "Like I got the flu virus on steroids," he admitted. He brought a hand up to wipe over his face and Bobby saw it was shaking.

"You think painkillers would help?" Bobby asked. "I have some pretty heavy-duty stuff upstairs."

"I think bringing new drugs to the party is a bad idea," Sam said.

Bobby hadn't thought of it like that. He just wanted to be able to offer something, anything, to help. "Sorry," he muttered

Sam shook his head. "No. I appreciate what you're doing for me. I just…" He sighed and then his eyes became wistful. "Have you heard anything more from Dean?"

"Nothing," Bobby said. "I could call him if you wanted, just check in on how they're doing."

Sam looked sad. "No need. I think I have a pretty good idea already."

Bobby nodded. He thought he knew how things would be going at The Roadhouse, too. They would all, Ellen and Dean especially, be worrying about Sam, wondering where he was. Bobby thought for the first time that it was better that they didn't see him yet though. He looked worse already than Bobby had expected him to be, and it was only just starting. They didn't need to see Sam suffer.

When Bobby next checked on Sam, things had declined dramatically. Sam was lying on the cot, his shaking body making the springs squeak. Bobby didn't hesitate before entering the room and going straight to him. He looked ill. His face was sheened with sweat, his eyes red-rimmed and his lips chapped and sore. His fevered eyes rolled and fixed on Bobby.

"Have you been drinking?" Bobby asked at once.

Sam looked distressed at the question. "No! I promise I haven't, Bobby."

"I mean water. You look dehydrated."

Sam brought a finger to his face and ran it over his lip. "Oh. I guess not." He struggled to sit on the edge of the cot, falling back twice before managing to stay upright. He tried to get to stand, but his legs didn't seem to want to hold him.

"I'll get it," Bobby said, going to the table and picking up one of the bottles of water they'd left there. He took it back to Sam and held it out. Sam took it and fumbled with the cap for a moment before getting it open. He held it with both hands and brought it to his mouth. A little spilled down his shirt as he drank down the bottle. When it was empty, his hands dropped back to his lap as if he didn't have the strength to hold them up anymore.

Bobby wanted to ask how he was feeling again, but it felt like a stupid question given that it was obvious Sam was suffering. He satisfied himself with asking, "Is there anything I can do?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm okay."

Bobby wondered if he had ever been further from okay, and then he sighed as he realized that yes, he had, many times. He was talking to a man who had died more than once and had suffered pain the kind of which Bobby couldn't imagine. What Sam was suffering now probably didn't even seem that bad.

Bobby felt sick as he looked down at Sam and realized this was the same kid who had once called him Uncle Bobby. How could it have all gone so wrong for him?

Sam looked up at him and something like sympathy filled his gaze. "Thanks, Bobby," he said. "I think I'm going to sleep awhile now.

Bobby realized he was giving him an out and he took it. Feeling like a coward, he fled.

When Bobby next went down to check on Sam, he found him sitting on the floor against the opposite wall to the door. His legs were drawn up against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He looked even sicker that he had before. He didn't look like he was going to be running anytime soon, and he was so weak Bobby was confident he could stop him if he tried, so Bobby unbolted the panic room door and eased it open.

"Someone's coming," Sam whispered without looking up.

"Who's coming?" Bobby asked.

Sam raised his eyes and looked to the side at a patch of empty air, "It's Bobby Singer."

Bobby frowned. "Sam…"

"I know that!" he hissed. "I didn't ask you to!"

"Sam, who are you talking to?" Bobby asked.

Sam nodded to the space beside him. "Don't worry, I won't." He turned to Bobby now and smiled. "I think it's nearly over now, Bobby. I'm feeling much better." The sight of his smile made Bobby's skin crawl. It was full of madness.

Bobby stood leaning against the panic room door, listening to Sam and trying not to lose the tenuous control he had over his equilibrium.

"I didn't mean to do it," Sam moaned. "It was Famine. I tried, I swear I tried." There was a sound Bobby didn't want to think about coming from Sam; it was close to a whimper. "Please don't." He sucked in a breath. "I know I should. I'm sorry."

Sam's earlier conversation with no one seemed tame compared to how it was now. Bobby had been listening a while, scared to interrupt Sam but scared to leave him at the same time. It was torture to see someone he cared about hurting like that.

There was nothing he could do though. Even when he tried to engage, to distract Sam from whom or what he was talking to, he failed. Sam would barely acknowledge him before returning to the conversation with an unseen someone. He could only hear Sam's side of it, but he knew from Sam's reactions and replies that the conversations weren't kind. And the people. Sometimes Sam called them by name, and Bobby hated that more than anything, as the people who were hurting Sam with their words were people Sam loved; Ellen, Jo, Dean–they had all made appearances and they clearly had nothing good to say.

"No, don't," Sam said suddenly, his voice almost scared. Bobby sucked in a breath of shock and sadness as Sam's voice rose to a shout. "Mom! Don't leave me!"

Sam was on the cot again and the conversations with people only he could see had ceased for a time. He was lying on his side now, his hands bunched in the pillow. Bobby might have believed he was sleeping if not for the way his eyes rolled under their lids.

"Sam," he said gently.

Sam's eyes opened and Bobby saw they were bloodshot. He licked his lips and croaked. "Thirsty."

"Of course," Bobby said, going to the table and picking up a bottle of water. He could tell Sam hadn't been drinking as there as many as there had been when he'd left the room last.

Sam struggled to sit on the bed, his whole body shaking. Bobby sat beside him and braced Sam with an arm on his shoulder. Sam seemed to take the support as permission to be weak, and he slumped against Bobby's side. He would never have made the contact if he was in his right mind, Bobby knew, and it worried him that Sam was so weakened and lost in what was happening to him that he allowed it now.

He uncapped the bottle and brought it to Sam's lips. "Here you go," he said gently.

Sam grabbed at the bottle with shaking hands and took a swig before spitting it onto the floor. "Water!"

"It's what you need, Sam."

"No," Sam moaned. "I need the blood. Give me the blood."

"I can't. That's why you're here, remember? You're stopping. You don't want it."

"Don't want. Need!" Sam growled. "I'll die otherwise."

"You won't," Bobby said doggedly. "You're going to be fine. We just have to get it out of your system."

"No," Sam said, pulling away from Bobby and looking him in the eye. "I won't, Bobby. This is going to kill me."

Bobby shuddered.

He was in the lounge, a glass of whiskey in his hand and an almost empty bottle on the desk in front of him. He needed a break. What was happening in the basement, Sam, had worn him down to nothing. He was tired, stressed and scared.

When Sam made the declaration that he was going to die, he'd sounded so sure. Bobby had felt that way in his life before, but he was still kicking. He tried to tell himself Sam would be okay, too. If he truly believed he wouldn't be, he would have called Dean already and told him where Sam was. He'd made a promise, but if it looked like Sam really was going to die, he would call Dean. If he got scared, if Sam was suffering too much to survive, he would make sure Dean knew.

He would give them a chance to say goodbye.

He prayed he wouldn't have to.

He raised the glass to his lips to take a sip and then dropped it, letting it smash on the floor when there was a howl of pain from below. He lurched to his feet and ran for the door to the basement, stumbling on the top step and almost falling. He got his feet under him again and pounded down the stairs. He didn't hesitate at the panic room door to check what was happening inside. He just dragged back the bolt and rushed in.

Sam was lying on his back on the cot, and he was thrashing and straining as if in awful agony. Bobby dropped to his knees beside him and caught one of Sam's grappling hands. "What is it?" he asked. "Where does it hurt?"

Sam didn't even seem to hear him. He eyes were closed and his head was straining back into the pillow and his teeth gritted.

"Sam!" Bobby barked.

The only response was another howl of pain from Sam.

"Tell me," Bobby begged, half convinced that he needed to call an ambulance, though how he would explain what was happening he didn't know.

Sam pulled his hand free from Bobby's and brought it to his stomach and clutched at himself as if he was staunching bleeding. Bobby's eye roved the area, but there was no wound, nothing.

"Sam," Bobby moaned.

Sam's lifted one hand away and brought it to his face. His eyes were horrified as he took in the clean skin. "The blood," he whispered. "Oh God."

"There's no blood," Bobby said, gripping Sam's shoulders and squeezing. "You're okay, Sam. There's nothing there."

Sam's head pressed back against the pillow again and he screamed out, one word discernible in the expression of pain. "Dean!"

Bobby couldn't leave him again. He lost track of time as he sat at Sam's side, reassuring and riding it out with him. When Sam screamed in pain, Bobby soothed him. When he was quiet, he ran damp cloths over his fevered skin. He tried to make Sam drink and rest, but it was no good. Sometimes Sam seemed to know he was there—he begged for blood—but other times he was lost inside his own head and what was happening to him. He cried and moaned, he spoke to people who weren't there, and sometimes he wept.

Bobby had never seen the man he knew so broken down. He didn't think he had ever seen anyone so broken in his life. He felt helpless and alone, and more than once wished there was someone else there to ease the burden, someone to reassure him that it was going to be okay.

Sam was quiet again for a while. Bobby found that easier to deal with, as he could talk and hope he was heard then. He wet the cloth in the bowl of water beside him and ran it over Sam's brow, talking nonsense about hunts he'd taken over the years and people they both knew. He steered clear of mentioning John Winchester, as he didn't want to upset Sam. So far, he didn't think the hallucinations had taken the form of Sam's father, and he didn't want to prompt it. Hearing Sam call to his mother had been painful enough.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Sam started to seize on the cot. His elbows curled in at his sides and his legs thrashed, hammering against the thin mattress on the cot. His head rolled on the pillow and Bobby barely had a moment to realize what was happening before Sam's back arched and he drew in a long, gurgling breath and then sighed it out with a moan low in his throat. Bobby waited for the next inhale, but it didn't come. Sam thrashed still, but he didn't breathe.

"No!" Bobby growled. "Don't you dare, Sam! You hear me? Breathe!"

Sam didn't, couldn't obey. Bobby rubbed a hand over his chest, pressing down hard in hopes of triggering a breath, but none came. Sam's lips began to blue and his thrashing slowly ceased and stopped.

"Sam!" Bobby shouted. "Breathe dammit!" He brought up a fist and slammed it down over the center of Sam's chest. He hesitated a moment, holding his own breath, before doing it again.

Sam gasped in a breath; it was long and rasping and it made Bobby feel dizzy with relief. "Thank God," he whispered. "Oh, thank God." He rubbed against Sam's sternum as he drew in breath after breath, steadier by the moment.

Sam's eyes rolled under their lids and opened. His bleary gaze settled on Bobby and his brow creased. Bobby thought, or perhaps hoped, that there was lucidity in them now. "Bobby?" he croaked.

"Sam," Bobby sighed.

"What happened?"

"You had a seizure," Bobby said. "Tried to check out on me."

"Sorry."

Bobby huffed a laugh. "Don't do it again and we'll call it even for me punching you."

"Okay." Sam licked his dry lips. "Do something for me?"

"Of course," Bobby said gently. "What do you need, Sam?"

"Tell Dean…" He faltered as his eyes drifted closed.

"Tell him you're here?" Bobby asked hopefully.

Sam shook his head jerkily and he seemed to force his eyes open again. "Tell him I'm sorry."

His eyes fell closed again and Bobby raked a hand over his face. Sam sounded defeated, as if he had no more fight in him.

The fact Sam had an express ticket back to life courtesy of Lucifer didn't occur to Bobby in that moment. All he could think of was Sam's body lying in that cabin in Wyoming and the absolute devastation on Dean's face as, overtaken by his misery, he had punched Bobby.

He looked down at Sam and made a decision. If Sam was going to die, his brother was damn well going to have the chance to see him again before that happened. He was going to get a chance to say goodbye.

Dean slammed the Impala to a halt outside Bobby's place beside a crappy looking Honda. He threw open the door and practically fell out of the car in his haste. Getting his feet under him, he raced up the steps and across the porch, throwing open the door without knocking or even slowing down.

"Sam!" he shouted.

He was incensed at Bobby. From what he understood from their short phone call, Sam had been there for days, had been suffering for days. While Dean and Ellen had been going slowly mad with worry, Bobby had been hiding the news that could have saved them so much pain. They could have been there with Sam, but no, because of some bullshit promise Bobby had made, Sam had been alone with Bobby instead of surrounded by them all. They could have helped him, dammit. Bobby had said Sam was struggling, and Dean could have supported him through that. He could have lent him strength. He could have been a brother.

The kitchen and library were empty, and Dean called Bobby's name. There was no response from his oldest friend, but he heard a howl of misery that Dean knew came from his brother. Sickened, he raced down the stairs to the basement and into the panic room, then ground to a halt at what he saw. Sam was on a cot in the middle of the room, curled on his side and shaking so much he seemed to vibrate. His sweat soaked hair was plastered over his face and low moan was escaping him.

Bobby sat at his side, murmuring reassurances and soothing words. "Dean's coming, Sam. You'll be okay. He'll be here soon."

"Sammy," Dean breathed.

Bobby spun to look at him, and a look of guilt spread over his features. Dean barely paid him a moment's attention. He was fixated on his brother. It was so much worse than he could have imagined in his worst nightmares.

He strode across the room and dropped to his knees beside the cot. "Sammy," he said, his hands coming up to brush the hair from Sam's face. "It's me."

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

"Yeah. I'm here. I'm not leaving you. It's going to be okay," Dean said. Sam's eyes cracked open and fixed on him. Dean smiled with relief, and then Sam spoke and destroyed the moment. "You're not real."

"What?"

Bobby cleared his throat behind him. "He's been seeing things, Dean, people that aren't there: Ellen, you, your mother."

Dean felt sick. "My mom?"

"Yeah. He spoke to her a few times."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment, absorbed the feeling, and then opened them and reached for Sam's hand. "I'm real, Sam," he said forcefully. "I'm really here. I'm not going anywhere." He gripped Sam's hand and felt a weak squeeze in return. "That's right. It's me," he said.

Sam's grip tightened on Dean's fingers. Dean hoped it was his brother's way of forging a connection between them, but a moment later his hand fisted around Dean's to the point of pain and his back arched as he cried out in agony.

"Yeah," Bobby said sadly, "and he does that, too."

Dean leaned in close to Sam and whispered in his ear. "Not real, Sammy. Whatever's happening, it's not real. I'm real. I'm here. I've got you."

Sam's only response was to cry out again.

Dean lost track of time. Bobby came and went, bringing water for Sam and coffee for Dean.

He tried to coax Sam into drinking, but he inevitably let it trickle from his mouth without even making an effort to swallow. He didn't seem to see Dean there, though he sometimes spoke to other people that only he could see.

Ellen called a couple times, but Dean let the calls go unanswered. He had nothing good to tell her. He hadn't explained anything before leaving The Roadhouse. He'd just driven away without thought for her. When it was over, when he could be sure Sam wouldn't scream and alert Ellen to just how bad things were, he would call her. He'd let her come and see Sam for herself, but not until it was really Sam she would see and not this crippled wreck of a man. She didn't need more nightmares.

The sky through the vent in the ceiling was dark when Sam suddenly opened his eyes and fixed them on something to the side. Dean thought it was another hallucination at first, until his eyes followed Sam's gaze and he saw the angel standing there.

Gabriel looked down at Sam with an indefinable expression. "Well look at you," he said. "You really screwed the pooch this time, Winchester."

Sam seemed cognizant as he said in a hoarse voice, "Have you come to kill me?"

Gabriel shook his head. He closed his eyes and reached for Sam. Dean tried to stop him, but his hand was pushed away firmly but gently. Gabriel's hand settled on Sam's temple and he said, "I think you've been punished enough."

Sam stiffened for a moment, his back arched, and then he flopped back on the cot and his head fell to the side.

"What have you done?" Dean asked angrily even as he pressed fingers to Sam's throat, relieved to feel a strong pulse.

"I've helped," Gabriel said. "It's over now. I've cleansed him."

"Is he okay?" Bobby asked.

"Yes. He will sleep awhile, but he'll be okay."

"Thank you," Dean said fervently, looking up to the archangel just in time to see him smile slightly and disappear.

Dean shook his head and turned his attention back to his brother. He rearranged his arms so they were resting at his sides and adjusted the pillow to support his head more comfortably. He leaned in close and whispered to Sam, "It's over now, Sam. You're going to be okay. I'll be here when you wake."

Though Dean had called to say he'd found Sam and they were on their way home, Ellen didn't truly let herself believe until she heard the sound of the Impala pulling up outside. She set down her drink and rose to her feet, her heart pounding. She was almost afraid of what she was about to see. What version of Sam was coming back to her after all he'd been through.

The door opened and he paused for a moment on the threshold, lit by the light of the kitchen. He looked awful, skin pale, eyes darkly shadowed, face gaunt, as if he had dropped weight too quickly. He was her Sam though, and when she opened her arms to him, he walked forward slowly and let her hold him. After a long time of just feeling his presence, she leaned back and held his face in her hands.

"I'm sorry," he said tiredly.

She shook her head sadly. "You of all people never have to say that to me, Sam. You're my boy. Nothing you can do can make you disappoint me."

Sam bowed his head and a tear dripped down to the floor. "Thank you, Ellen." he said fervently.

Perhaps it was just wishful thinking brought on by what Dean had said, but when Sam spoke her name, it sounded a lot like Mom.

Lucifer stood facing the rack where until recently Sam Winchester had been shackled. There were two bodies on the floor, the bodies of former demons, but Lucifer barely registered them. His whole attention was on the empty rack. The restraints had been unbuckled not broken. Someone had let him free. Who would have been so damnably stupid as to do that? The only thing Lucifer could surmise was that Dean had somehow found where Sam was being held and freed him.

That didn't explain why Sam had gone to Famine alone.

He had heard the story through the horseman's whimpers and moans of how Sam had come and taken the ring from him and killed his demon guards. That meant that Sam had at least drunk the blood; he would not have the power to kill without. Half the battle was won. Sam may be free, but he had tasted the blood again, and that was going to be his undoing.

Famine was ruined now, but that didn't matter in the grand scheme. His task was over. Sam was tainted once again and that had been the crux of Famine's role. Lucifer had instructed his demons to shove him in the same box as War. They could lament their defeats together.

It was now time for a new horseman to be brought into action.

It was time for Death.

So… That was rough. I hate to write withdrawal almost as much as I hate to write torture. To me, it amounts to the same thing. I thought Bobby's part in this deserved to be told though. Sorry for the angst and the monster chapter.

Thank you all for the reviews and PMs for the last chapter. I really appreciate the support.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx