The door burst open in a sharp, jolting clamor, footfalls following immediately after in a hasty, fervent pace.
Sam jerked upward, grunting in pain as the cuffs yanked taut against his arms. His eyes snapped dizzily to the figure silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway.
Dean…?
"Time to go," the stench of cigarette smoke struck him like a wall as the demon's familiar voice barked only a few inches away. A faint click signaled the release of the second pair of cuffs, the demon's hand gripping the remaining ones latched around Sam's wrists. It kicked the other bed roughly, even as the driver fumbled to find his feet. "Get up."
Sam blinked blearily. He couldn't be sure if he'd managed to fall asleep or not.
"You waiting for a red carpet?" the demon grated as the driver clumsily shoved his feet into his shoes, "If you don't have that car started in the next sixty seconds, I'm gonna pay a visit to your daughter personally, and cancer's gonna be the least of her problems."
Sam's gaze snapped to the demon, his scowl dark. Still the words seemed to provide motivation enough—the man disappeared through the door, though he nearly collided with the frame in his haste.
"Our timetable moved up," the demon shoved Sam toward a wall, reaching in his back pocket to reveal his switchblade. "Crowley needs you there A.S.A.P. And he wants you juiced up and ready to go. Just in case." He drew the blade deep along his wrist, with blood streaming along its wake immediately. He cocked a brow, grinning with mock courtesy, "Say please."
Sam's lip curled in uncontrollable disgust, even as his mind hitched in delight at the prospect of sucking down more blood. He didn't speak, glaring in silence, though a faint thread of apprehension needled his mind—a fear that the demon might revoke the offer if Sam didn't comply.
"Come on," the demon goaded, savoring his control, "Just a litt—"
Sam lunged forward, snatching the demon's hand even as it spoke and twisting its arm sharply, plunging the exposed switchblade into the demon's neck in a swift, clean motion that sent the demon collapsing backwards against the bed. The demon's delayed, impulsive resistance prompted it to yank the blade free, though Sam tore it from its hand before diving for its neck, his teeth sinking around the panicked bouncing of its throat as the blood gurgled from the wound.
The sweet tang of sulfuric-tinged blood filled his mouth, hinted with an edge of nicotine. The blood was warm—fresh. As it should be.
He didn't close his eyes to savor the taste; instead, he traced the panic and shock contorting the demon's face through their blurry proximity. The demon tried to shove him away, of course, but it couldn't manage to tear itself free from the vicious clasp. With every ounce of blood, strength flooded his every muscle. With every ounce of blood, the demon's futile struggles weakened—until they ceased entirely.
Without a heart pumping blood from the wound like a geyser, it soon proved increasingly difficult to draw out the last vestiges. Still, he tried to drain every drop he could manage. He'd need it.
Finally, he detached himself from the demon's neck, instinctively wiping a hand over his mouth even as the blood smeared his face and left his teeth gleaming crimson. He released a short, contented exhale—until his eyes skated over the pale, lifeless body, and nausea threatened to upheave the blood before it even had time to settle in his gut.
The vessel… the man had to be dead already. No chance the demon didn't burn out its meatsuit. It probably would've killed his vessel within a day of possession. He was dead already—he had to be.
Verifying it would only take a few seconds.
But he didn't. Instead, Sam staggered toward the bathroom, so he might rid the blood from his hands. His fingers brushed against the light switch, his eyes flicking upward, only to catch a glimpse in the mirror. He lurched backward, heartrate spiking, then leaned forward, blinking, but… his eyes were their typical hazel. They were normal. He was fine. Spare the crimson stain marring the lower half of his face. The collar of his shirt.
He pulled the faucet, pressing his hands beneath the water and splashing it over his face. The cold wasn't quite enough to clear his head, but it helped. His gaze drifted down his reflection, to the deep stain on his shirt collar. He snagged the hand towel from its hook and drenched it in water, trying to scrape the red from the fabric. But the crimson only bloomed further. He cursed, tossing the towel into the sink. It didn't matter. It wasn't like washing it away could change what he'd done.
He glanced back at his reflection—at his eyes—before releasing a thin breath and starting back toward the door, refusing another glance toward the corpse lying on one bed as he snagged the Book of the Damned from the other. Its cover was flecked with tiny droplets of blood—frankly, he didn't think the Book would mind.
Outside, the car idled in wait, the headlights blinding—they might as well have beamed a spotlight over the blood marring his skin. He found himself ducking his head as he shuffled to the back seat—he couldn't help but think the driver would prefer the buffer of distance, however slight.
He didn't look up—not at first, anyway. Not until a few minutes ticked by of unmoving silence.
The man stared at the motel door as though his gaze was cemented there. He'd undoubtedly seen the blood. Maybe he was waiting for the demon to appear—wondering if it would. Maybe he was frozen in fear.
Finally, Sam cleared his throat, his voice low, "We're good to go." He prayed the man wouldn't object—that he wouldn't ask about the demon. He cursed himself again silently—killing the demon was impulsive, reckless. Maybe idiotic. And yet… he couldn't find a shred of regret within himself for it. Just… just as long as the vessel was already dead. And it was. It had to be.
The driver paused another several moments, though Sam could only speculate as to what storm waged behind the face twisted tight. Yet, he shifted to reverse, pulling out of the lot—his gaze markedly skimming over Sam as though he were invisible when the man turned to back out.
Sam sighed quietly in relief. The guy was driving—presumably, he knew where they were headed, then. A small blessing, at least, that Sam hadn't killed their directions.
He drew the Book of the Damned to his lap, his fingers tracing its rigid cover absently, thumbing the old pages like strings of a guitar while his brain danced in fire. With every second that ticked past, he found himself waxing more uneasy with what he'd done. He couldn't quite figure out why he'd killed it—mere irritation? A simple opportunity for blood? Either way, it was selfish. Unnecessary. It wasn't like him… was it? He shook his head—it was a demon. He didn't need a reason. It had probably—no, certainly—earned its death a dozen times over. If he hadn't ended its miserable existence, it would've surely ruined someone else's life. Killing it was right, even if there wasn't a why.
He glanced up at the rearview mirror, asking quietly—perhaps from a grim curiosity, a drive for penance to grasp the full scope of what he'd done; perhaps simply to occupy the air. "That demon…" he paused, waiting for the man to meet his gaze—maybe Sam shouldn't have been surprised when he didn't. "Was he your contact?" The demon he'd been working with, since he'd sold his soul. Maybe even the one that offered the contract.
The driver looked back—maybe at Sam's use of the past tense. Maybe in trying to determine if it was safe to reply. Eventually, he nodded once, gluing his eyes back to the road.
Well, you're gonna have a new one, Sam thought grimly, though he restrained from voicing the warning. He leaned back against the seat, pulling the Book against his chest and resting his arms around it as his gaze dozed toward the window. He coughed again to clear his throat, trying, "How far out are we?"
The man exhaled through his nostrils, working his jaw. His hands were clamped deathly tight, as though he were gripping the ledge of a cliff, dangling over the abyss, instead of clutching a steering wheel. After chewing on his words, he finally managed to mumble, "We got a ways to go."
Sam nodded, wondering if they'd have another stop. Another demon checkpoint. Or if, in a few hours, he'd find himself face to face with Cain. If, in a few hours, he'd find himself waking up in the Cage, while his shredded corpse lay with its face in the dirt.
The cuffs clinked softly as he adjusted his grip on the Book, shifting to lean against the door slightly. He knew he should probably sleep, but he found himself instead watching the landscape roll by in a blur. The rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt reflected the cyclical wandering of his thoughts, lulling him into a restless daze. He dropped his head, his lip curling in frustration, and he jerked against the cuffs so the jolt of pain might interrupt the unending loop of his thoughts. The driver flinched faintly at the hasty motion, and Sam met his gaze in the mirror, offering a weak smile of apology before he released a breath, setting the Book on the seat beside him.
If he was likely to die tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after… he didn't want to fill every last hour with thoughts of despair. Of blood. Of hell. Of Dean's anguish, his disappointment, his bitter grief and loneliness.
He closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the engine. It wasn't quite perfect, but he could almost pretend it was the Impala—her smooth rumble underfoot, Dean with a hand loose on the wheel, an old tape riffing classic rock through the radio. Dean, humming along, muttering the occasional lyric a few milliseconds behind, his fingers tapping against the wheel absently in rhythm with the beat. Realizing he'd caught Sam's glance, tossing back a casual jab in reply, cracking a smile at his own joke—pursuing it until he'd managed to wring a smile from Sam too.
It wasn't perfect—it never was—but… it was the closest thing to heaven he could fathom. He'd give anything to go back. To a time when the weight of the world wasn't their responsibility, when it wasn't crushing them with every breath, when it was just enough that they were together.
Sam tried to cling to the memory desperately. Because, even if he didn't die in the next few hours, days… he didn't think they could ever have that back.
A cold bead leaked down his cheek, and he sniffed softly, wiping away the rogue tear with a sweep of his hand. Maybe the memory wasn't safe either—prompting him to question what kind of life waited for him if he did survive. Where was he supposed to go, after? Back to Dean? He'd just lock him in the dungeon again. Resentence him to death in agonizingly slow motion. He still wanted to get clean, of course… didn't he? But, without Dean… he wasn't sure he could do it. Not alone.
He pressed against the window, ignoring the musings in the back of his mind that maybe getting clean wasn't the priority. That maybe he didn't have to.
Right now… he just wanted to live a little longer pretending Dean was at his side.
Eventually, the hours disappeared, and Sam dazedly watched the sky catch fire, igniting in brilliant hues of orange and red, painting the amassing clouds in vibrant shades even as they cast dark shadows across the horizon.
When they pulled off the interstate, Sam blinked groggily and straightened against the seat, his muscles cramping in complaint of the unmoving hours. He drew the Book of the Damned closer, trying to organize the haze in his skull. He wasn't sure if he'd managed to drift off for a few hours, though it might explain the bleariness.
The driver seemed to notice Sam's stirring and glanced back briefly in the mirror, his voice tight as he dared to speak, "We're almost there."
Sam nodded in appreciation of the warning, his stomach's churning renewed. Was he facing Cain now? No, surely he needed a little more time. More blood. Some semblance of a plan.
And yet, the car rolled to a halt as the light disappeared from the sky, the world surrendering to night. The driver parked alongside a rusted chain-link fence that did little to cordon off a dilapidated building that couldn't look more abandoned. The weathered walls were blackened in patches with mold and dirt, vines clawing their way up the brick, rooting themselves in decaying stone. Most of the windows were boarded up with panels of wood—those that weren't held little more than shards of glass, weathered dull and hazy.
The driver didn't speak, his eyes flicking backward almost routinely—as though waiting or expecting something. This was it, Sam realized, his brow furrowing. He clutched the Book tight to his chest and pulled open the door awkwardly, pausing as he glanced back toward the man.
"Thank you," he murmured; the man held his gaze only for a heartbeat, before fixing his attention back on the road. "I, uh…" Sam started, but found himself unsure of what else to say. After a few seconds pause, all that came out was a quiet, "I'm sorry."
He didn't wait for the driver to reply, pushing himself to his feet to find his muscles unsurprisingly stiff as stone. Closing the car door softly behind him, he turned toward the old building and released a sigh heavy enough that it imparted a visible cloud in the cool air. Clumsily, he stumbled toward the building, his eyes immediately flicking about at the faintest whiff of sulfur. In every moment, it seemed to swell stronger.
Sam cast a final glance back toward the car, still lingering just outside the fence, before he staggered up the concrete steps and shoved against the scarred, wooden double doors, only to find they swept open readily. As if they'd been used regularly.
Immediately upon crossing the door's threshold, the stench of sulfur assaulted him like a thick fog. He wrinkled his nose, the hunger in his gut stirring alive at the overwhelming reek. The echo of footsteps caused Sam's head to snap around, facing the demon that appeared in a doorway to the dim foyer.
She smiled, tilting her head in beckon as she slipped back down the hall out of sight.
Something in Sam itched to lunge for her, to rip apart her veins until the taste of her blood was the only thought in his head. He bit his lip, trying to subdue the impulse even as he followed after her. She waited at the edge of every turn, ensuring he could trace her path. His stumbling pace steadied with every few steps, blood flow returning to strengthen his rigid limbs.
Finally, she paused at a parted set of heavy double doors, tossing him another casual smirk before she swept inside, her words resounding even as Sam turned the corner, "Your guest has arrived, your majesty."
At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, Crowley sat lounged on a tall throne. His posture was lax, his legs crossed, an arm draped lazily over the chair, though his eyes gleamed as they locked onto Sam. Demons lingered among the shadows of the flickering firelight, watching Sam intently, almost like predators assessing whether the creature before them was a rival, or prey.
Sam's eyes flicked between each demon, his muscles tensing as his mind toyed with the idea of proving the hierarchy—of feasting on the surplus of blood. His chest tightened with the restraint, with his denial, as his pulse quickened unbidden.
"Hello, Moose," Crowley greeted, donning a cavalier smile, "Glad to see you made it." His eyes slid pointedly toward the blood coloring Sam's collar, "I was beginning to worry when I didn't hear back from the demon I'd sent to chaperone your pit stop." His gaze climbed back to meet Sam's, "You wouldn't know anything about what happened to him, would you?"
Sam leveled his gaze, his voice gravelly from the tension in his throat, "Does it matter?"
"Only if you try to make it a habit," Crowley straightened in his throne, his gaze scrutinizing, "It's not easy finding reliable help, nowadays." Sam ignored the remark, trying to will himself not to smell the tantalizing scent flooding the air.
The demon king's eyes fell slightly, and he jerked his chin in gesture, "I see you've brought a gift. How thoughtful." He flicked his fingers, and a few of the demons advanced a few steps.
Sam drew the Book of the Damned tighter to his chest and retreated a step, his lip curling, "It's not for you." Silently, he cursed the warding on the cuffs. It'd be so easy.
"All the same," Crowley's expression didn't waver, still monitoring Sam closely, "I think it might be best if I held onto that—at least until you take care of Cain."
Sam gritted his teeth, "No."
Crowley paused, measuring his words cautiously, "That is a very dark, very powerful artifact, Sam. You should be careful—it's not a toy."
Sam scoffed, "You brought me here to kill Cain. Stop wasting your breath, pretending like you care."
"Trust me—its not you I'm concerned about," Crowley replied beneath his breath, though he nonetheless waved his hand to signal the demons to back off. Sam relaxed only marginally, his grip on the Book still tight and eyes wary. "But you're right—Cain's on his way. And you're not nearly strong enough to take him."
Sam's breath caught momentarily, pulse accelerating in anticipation.
"How much do you need?" Crowley prompted, voice low, eyes thinned as though in scrutiny of Sam's reply even before it found breath.
Every last drop. Sam exhaled shakily, dropping his gaze. He wondered if he'd imagined the shudder that tore through his body, as everything within him stirred in eager wait. His voice was weaker than he expected, the words soft, "I don't know."
Crowley studied him in motionless silence for several seconds, before he curled a finger in command, sending a demon disappearing down the hall.
Sam shifted uneasily, his muscles twitching, gaze flicking about. Frustration nipped at him, and he tugged against the cuffs pointedly, "You gonna take these off?"
"Not until Cain arrives," Crowley replied levelly, "Patience, Moose."
Sam paced several steps, irritation clawing at his chest. He needed—no, he didn't. He didn't need it; it was just for Cain. He gritted his teeth, unable to swallow the lie.
Footsteps clattered from the hall, and Sam spun around almost too quickly, eyes locking on the demons returning with another in tow between them, her legs catching against the floor in her stumbling resistance.
Sam's stomach twisted at the sight, hunger crushing him, and a wave of revulsion at the very same surging in defiance. He could almost taste the rich, dark tang already.
The demons deposited her before him like an offering, one backing away with notable haste. The other dared a few steps closer, gingerly setting a knife on the ground before him, before he retreated to the shadows.
Sam could feel his resistance fraying with every second of delay, his body alight with the need that threatened to override his will. The demon knelt, staring at him with black eyes—unflinching. A taunt—an invitation.
"Well?" Crowley's voice at his back sounded distant, muted. "Something wrong?"
His jaw quivered as he parted his mouth to speak, his words broken and shaky—dizzy, "Is she… is—the vessel. Is it… it's dead?"
Crowley huffed a scoff edged in disbelief, then he arched an eyebrow, "Would that change anything?"
Sam's fists clenched tight, "I… I need to know." Maybe he didn't—maybe he didn't want to know.
"Look at her—she's dead, Moose." Crowley dismissed almost patronizingly, "Now get on with it."
Sam blinked, his eyes refocusing. The vessel's skin was purpled and pale, her limbs contorted at awkward angles, hanging limply, her breathing ragged and uneven. He recognized the labored, hitched sound, the litter of bruises—she'd been tortured. It had probably snapped a rib, punctured her lungs. The body was dead—and probably had been for a while.
His feet carried him closer, not entirely voluntarily, his hands easing the Book to the ground, resting it still well within his reach as he traded it for the knife, his fingers curling around the hilt. He knelt before her, their gazes roughly level. He didn't need this. He'd drained a demon a mere dozen hours ago. He didn't need it.
She spat on the floor between them before she raised her chin, eyes burning in defiance, "I hope you choke."
Sam tilted his head in faint acknowledgement, his gaze roaming the lines of her veins, the trail of the smoke curling through the body, unable to escape. Slowly, he closed the distance, feeling her bristle as his hand gripped her shoulder, then her chin, drawing her head to the side as the other traced the tip of the knife down her skin. It was just to kill Cain. It didn't mean anything.
"For Abaddon," she whispered like a final prayer, and Sam raked the blade down her throat, unleashing an immediate gush of blood in its wake. The knife clattered to the floor, his mouth sealing around the gash. Her pulse throbbed in his skull, through his teeth. The taste was hot and vile and seductive, sickening and intoxicating. Did he have to enjoy it so much?
He felt her grunt in pain and panic, felt the vibration hum along her throat as she suffocated. The power was dizzying. Sam parted his eyes, and the world was a dance of lights and death, brilliant and glorious and beautiful, cloaked in daggered shadows.
He delicately cradled her head as it went limp, her body as the tension fled her muscles, as the strength and life swept from her bones to his. He could taste the moment the demon strayed beyond recovery, the moment the infernal mockery of life vanished. His lips brushed over the bloody mess of her neck for a few seconds after the blood had run dry, his breath heavy as he tried to steady it, his vision both hazy and never clearer.
Turning over his shoulder slowly, he breathed soft and yet unshaking, "More."
He didn't lock eyes with Crowley, but he caught motion enough in his peripheral that he turned back to the body wrapped in his arms. The lifeless eyes, gazing blankly into his soul. He detached his grip, pulling the cuffs over her limp skull and allowing the corpse to slump to the floor, his eyes only daring to depart from it in a quick glance to the Book still a mere few inches away, and the knife waiting beneath his fingertips. His hand closed around its hilt, his fingers toying with the blade impatiently.
A demon stepped cautiously from the shadows of the columns, snagging one of the corpse's arms and hastily dragging the body away, its eyes fixed on Sam with a blatant wariness. Sam found himself staring back, but his gaze was fixed on the smoke curling in the veins beneath the skin, the blood that could be his with a simple toss of a knife and a few steps to close the distance.
Perhaps as the demon's salvation, two more dragged another through the double doors, sloughing it before Sam in mirror to the first. The offering pushed himself to his knees, raising his face from the floor to hold Sam's gaze. At the lingering pause, he frowned, his voice quiet, "What's wrong?"
The demon didn't look panicked—didn't look unsettled at all. It wasn't a problem, though. Sam's gaze flicked over the demon, over his vessel's body, "Your meatsuit. Is it dead?"
The demon lifted his shirt to reveal a half dozen scabbed bullet wounds in his stomach and chest. He offered a smile before letting the fabric fall, "As a doornail."
Sam tilted his head, but he didn't need to decipher the demon's near appeasement in the face of death. He closed the distance, raising the knife, and the demon exposed its neck, its dark eyes still lingering on Sam's face—its own was an image of content… anticipation? Sam slid the blade cleanly along its neck, tossing the knife to the ground behind him and leaning in to drain the blood.
Before it even touched his lips, the demon whispered softly, "There're more of us, waiting for you." Sam paused only a heartbeat, which was enough for the demon to add in a voice wet with blood, "We're ready."
Sam wasn't sure if he sank his teeth into its neck to silence the demon, or merely because he could no longer restrain himself from sucking down the blood so tantalizingly near. He tried to ignore the demon's words, tried to focus on the bliss in the blood. And yet, the blood sang in cord with the notion—demons were ready to bend the knee. It was his right.
He grunted, shoving aside the thought, biting into the wound to coax out the sluggish flow. The taste was sweet, doted in the fullness of devotion, salted in pungent sulfur. The demon's body twitched reflexively, its life fading rapidly beneath the pace he sucked down its blood. In the back of his mind, he knew he could afford to slow—to savor every drop—but he didn't. Time might not prove a constraint, but… he wasn't sure he could slow. Grimly, he recognized he certainly couldn't stop. That he didn't want to. The prickling shame, even quiet, was enough of a prod to throw himself deeper into the blood's hold. Maybe it was wrong, but… it was easier. And he needed it.
The demon died with words caught bubbling in its shredded throat; its veins ran dry a mere minute later. Sam raised his head, releasing a quivering breath. His heartrate was quick, but strong, steady. His body buzzed like it'd been pumped full of adrenaline, itching to stretch the power that raced along his veins. His gaze slid to the bloodied cuffs around his wrists, and he wondered if he could break through their warded hold. He felt strong enough. He felt nigh invincible. But he dropped his hands and turned back toward Crowley, feeling a thin bead of blood escape down his lip, dripping lazily from his chin.
"More."
Crowley's eyes were thin, his expression guarded, "I think that might be enough for now, Moose."
A noise of frustration snarled in his throat, caught in the cling of viscous blood. "You want me strong enough to take Cain, don't you?" Sam snapped, pushing himself to his feet so their gazes were even. "I need more."
It wasn't a lie, though he wasn't sure if it was true—if he stood a chance of facing the Knight of Hell with the blood already in his system. He felt good—he felt great. Powerful. And yet, not even the blood could snuff his wariness.
It was the logical play, taking more blood. More than likely, he'd only get one chance at this. It'd be foolish to go in at anything less than full power. Of course… he wasn't sure what that was.
At first, when Ruby had initially introduced him to the blood, he could only stand a few ounces. The taste had been repulsive, the shame overwhelming. It had been enough to encourage his abilities, but… by the time the sting of sulfur had twisted from a disgust to a delight, Ruby had to start siphoning blood from other demons, unable to provide enough to sate his developing appetite, as she'd put it. By the time he was ready to kill Lilith, he'd drained a full demon, still riding off extra blood from Ruby.
But, since Famine, his… appetite had been… off. He'd drained two demons sent as an offering—more than he'd ever ingested, at that point—and his hunger hadn't abated in the slightest. He'd felt like he could have emptied hell of every drop and still craved more. Right now… Sam didn't feel much different. Maybe the horseman had changed something in him, had ruined something—had perfected it. He'd promised Sam that he'd never know death from excess—that he couldn't overdose on the blood. That he could drink as much as he desired. Perhaps in proof, he'd offered Sam a handful of demons for an unholy, wanton feast.
Maybe Sam was lucky the same offer wasn't before him now.
He held Crowley's gaze, a tremor racing through his muscles in the aftershocks of the rush, the thrill of the blood that his body wanted nothing more than to extend.
Crowley replied tactically, betraying the thread of unease beneath his words, "We don't want you getting sick and wasting all that blood, now, do we?"
Sam's fists clenched tight. It was foolish, selfish—cowardly to cut off the blood now. If Crowley wanted Cain dead, if Cain was on his way, it wasn't the time to lose his nerve with sloppy half measures. Sam's eyes traced the crimson smoke beneath the vessel's skin—he could almost just reach it, despite the distance—despite the warding. A little more blood, and the demon would be helpless in his grasp. Maybe Crowley could see it on his face—maybe he could feel it crackling in the air.
"Relax, Moose, we'll keep you topped off 'till Cain arrives," Crowley leaned back in his throne, his confident and casual posture masking the apprehension that might as well have been written in the air. "For now, those two can show you to your suite." He inclined his head toward two demons at the end of the hall, then looked back toward Sam. "I'll call for you when it's your turn."
Sam glowered in unmoving silence for several seconds, his brain whirring in irritation and raw want. But instead of lunging for a demon and ripping open its throat with his teeth, he scooped the Book from the ground and turned toward the end of the hall, eyes skimming over the demons monitoring his every twitch. He swallowed down the building salivation and fixed his gaze ahead, on the two that exited the double doors, guiding him a short walk down an adjoining hall into a room lined with cells.
Immediately, he stiffened, his spine chilling at the sight of the rows of bars. Frustration and defiance snapped in his chest, hating the thought of succumbing to another cage—though he wasn't sure what else he should've expected. Crowley didn't trust him—perhaps rightfully—to simply roam his asylum freely. If he did, the demon king might wake up to a host of corpses—if he awoke at all.
One of the demons dragged open the door to a cell, standing behind it as though the door might offer a barricade to protect itself from the blood-crazed freak standing before it. It tilted its head, ordering somewhat nervously. "In."
Sam found his eyes lingering on the demon, found his stance shifting so he might lunge for it, tear out its throat.
A sudden shove from behind sent him stumbling off balance—a struggle compounded by the cuffs locking his wrists and the Book clutched to his chest. A second thrust sent him tumbling into the cell before he could recover from the first, his lip curling and head turning immediately. Except, the door slammed shut and the lock clicked before he could so much as rise to his feet.
He cursed beneath his breath, and the demon who shoved him smiled, waving farewell mockingly as the two turned to depart. Sam stretched a hand toward it, his power reaching thinly outward, before he cursed again and dropped his hand. He couldn't afford the attempt.
He paced several steps before yanking futilely against the door, with no expectation of success. A third curse fled his tongue, and he wrung his head. A wealth of infernal power lacing his veins, and he might as well have been chained to the floor of the dungeon. The blissful, intoxicating strength was a veneer—he was still helpless as ever. Still confined as a tool—a toy—for the whims of others. He hated it. He hated the bars, the chains, the helplessness. The blood was supposed to be freedom. So why couldn't he be anything more than a prisoner?
After a few minutes of agitated pacing, his gaze flicked down to the Book wrapped in his arm like a swaddled infant. It seemed to hum in pacification—its shadows draping over him to soothe the crackling fire. Not in acceptance of the bars, but perhaps in reassurance of their futility. He released a slow exhale, wandering to the back of the small cell and leaning against the wall. Maybe it was right. It was temporary. Cain would show, sooner or later, and the cuffs would come off, and the bars would disappear. And once they did… he wouldn't have to suffer them again.
The promise offered something of a balm, allowing him to slide to the floor, his fingers tracing those familiar lines across the Book's cover as he closed his eyes. A few minutes, a few hours, a few days. Soon enough, he'd be free.
Eventually, footsteps returned down the hall, and Sam reopened his eyes, the anticipation of more blood stirring him perhaps quicker than he would've preferred to admit.
Only… the face that appeared through the bars didn't belong to another demon.
Shock and confusion twisted Sam's face, shame crashing into panic and anger in his chest. He stared in disbelief; he wasn't entirely sure the figure wasn't another hallucination, though he was far from facing withdrawals, and every instinct assured his eyes didn't betray him.
It took him a moment to force breath to his words, his voice thin and hoarse when he finally managed to breathe his doubt.
"Dean?"