A/N: Now let's see how the subplot with Sam is doing. Is he grateful he's been rescued? Fat chance.

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 11: The Troublesome Guest) by frostygossamer

Dean returns to his Baby several hours after his dinner date ends, satisfied on many levels and humming a happy tune.

"I'm back, Baby," Dean greets his ship.

The contented whirring of the machinery answers him with its welcoming ambient hum. He puts down the doggy-bag, especially prepared for him by Harvelle's chef, and strips naked. Feeling very pleased with himself he pads to the shower, more then ready to take a quick relaxing hot rinse and retire to his own bed.

That's reckoning without his guest. When Dean finishes in the shower and is slipping on his spacerocket PJ pants, he hears the guy once again getting rambunctious in quarantine. Evidently, he has heard that Dean is back and he's bouncing off of the walls in there.

Dean checks the read-out on the Auto-Decontaminator suite door. It looks like the program finished while he was occupied elsewhere. He can probably let the guy out of there. If he wants the pain in the ass up in his face, that is.

Throwing the switch, Dean steps back as the seals break and hydraulic clamps release the door.

'The name is Sam' is standing in the doorway, swaying slightly but trying hard to pull himself up to his full height and seem as imposing as he can manage. Jeez, the guy is humongous. He eyes Dean uncertainly.

"Uh... Hi."

His captor is dressed in only his PJ bottoms, more than he's wearing. Sam suddenly feels self-conscious, hiding his crotch with his big hands. Dean scoffs and leans in to open a small closet, where Sam sees a big pile of disposable coveralls.

"Ah."

He takes one off of the top of the pile. Dean wanders away as Sam steps into the garment. Once outside the suite, Sam swiftly takes in his surroundings.

"OK. So what's happening? Where'd you disappear to for so long? And where's the Grand Duke?"

Dean puts on and buttons up his PJ jacket, not wanting to be the least clothed guy on deck.

"Hey, thought you didn't wanna go home to Grandpa."

"Does he even know I'm here?" asks Sam, suspiciously.

"Knows I'm on your case. Doesn't need details."

Dean turns his back on Sam and selects himself a glass from his drinks cabinet. Sam doesn't take well to being ignored that way.

"Huh! What I thought. So you're gonna keep me here, a freakin' hostage, while you drive up the ransom. That it?"

Dean selects and cracks open a bottle of whiskey.

"On the button. Only you're not a hostage. You're merchandise. So it's not ransom. It's fair payment. Very fair payment, in this case."

A scowling Sam looks anything but on board with the concept. Dean feels righteously indignant.

"Hey, I saved your freakin' butt, buddy. Don't knock it."

Sam shrugs huffily, shifting from foot to foot, and starts listlessly scratching at his arm. Dean doesn't miss the telltale signs. He pauses as he pours himself a nightcap.

"You feel OK? You wanna drink?"

He waves the bottle in Sam's direction, but Sam declines.

"Nah. Nah, I, uh..."

With that he passes out on the floor.

=O=

Dean slaps Sam around the face until he comes to. The guy staggers back to his feet and inhales through his teeth, obviously in some distress. Dean surveys him critically. He seems restless and jumpy. A few minutes out of the Auto-Decontaminator unit and his withdrawal is clearly already kicking in.

He checks the read-out again and sets down his glass to go open his controlled substance cabinet and match up the guy's sine qua non. Over his shoulder, Sam observes the many vials of coloured liquids, powders and crystals, together with syringes and drug paraphernalia, that are stored in the cabinet.

His brow creases judgmentally. "You're a freakin' DRUG DEALER!"

Dean has identified the narcotic that is best fit. Demonblood, a bastard descendant of the Rohypnol family used by sex-slavers to pacify their abductees or to facilitate rolling their clients. Sam may have gotten hooked on it by some bargirl, maybe to rob him or maybe for some more rapey purpose. Either way, it's likely that an uncooperative guy of Sam's size would have been a problem to handle without doping. On this stuff, he would have played ball. Or any other game they wanted.

Dean chuckles as he prepares a syringe with a maintenance dose of the unadulterated drug.

"Man, they had you high on Demonblood. Guess now I know why they were keeping you alive."

Sam has no clue what he's talking about. He retained no memory of anything that happened to him after arriving at the Lunar darkside, or even how long he was there. Demonblood will do that to you. It screws with your head and messes up your brain.

Dean approaches him holding the syringe upright as he expels any air bubbles. Sam takes a step backward and holds up his hands.

"No way are you gonna stick me with that crap."

Dean smirks. "Dude, you COULD try going cold turkey if you wanna, but I sure as hell wouldn't recommend it. Street Demonblood has a 75 percent kill average. You wanna risk that?"

Sam inhales again. "OK, OK. Guess I don't have a whole lotta choice."

He pushes up the right sleeve of his coverall and sits down on a nearby couch. As Dean pushes the long sharp needle into his flesh, he winces. "Ouch!"

Dean removes the hypo and grins. "There. That should keep you half-sane for a while."

Sam frowns, muttering under his breath as he rubs and flexes his arm. "Jerk."

Dean closes the cabinet and spins the dial on its combination lock. No one is getting in there but him. He's very scrupulous about his drug supplies.

"I'm NOT a drug dealer."

He's firm about that. He's not going to let the guy get the wrong idea about him. He may mix with douchebags but Dean is no low-life.

"Sometimes it's the only way to do business with snitches."

Sam sighs and relaxes on his couch, murmuring, "Jeez, that feels good."

He lets his head fall back. Dean studies him for a moment. That long, lean guy still looks too pale and underweight. There's only so much his Auto-Decontaminator can do for its patients. Some need a human touch. The guy could use a good meal inside him. He passes Sam the doggy-bag he brought home with him from the transport.

"Here. Knock yourself out."

Sam opens the container and peers inside. His eyes pop when he sees the selection of choice delicacies it holds and he dives right in. Dean shakes his head. He's sorry to give away his supper but the sooner his guest gets back to health the sooner Dean will be counting his credits. It will be worth the sacrifice.

The same with the Demonblood. It's a mid-price narcotic, not exactly cheap, but he has plenty on hand to wean the guy off of the crap slowly and keep him rosy-cheeked throughout. The only problem will be the side effects. And there will be side effects.

Leaving Sam on his couch munching, Dean goes to bed in his cabin. Which is PRIVATE.

He has some business to do when the convoy makes Eno. That is, as soon as he has gotten paid for his escort duties. He's looking forward to visiting with his favourite rocket engineer and stocking up on supplies for Baby.

Tucking himself between his sheets, he sighs and drifts off dreaming of Miss Lisa Braeden and her beautiful, bendy booty.

TBC

A/N: Another old acquaintance pops up next chapter. More soon.