minviendha
in
ohsam
The Hashish-Eater
Title: The Hashish-Eater
Author: minviendha
Rating: PG13
Summary: Worst locked room puzzle ever.
Word Count: 3981
Warnings: uh. Nasty nasty detox, self-mutilation, blood-drinking, and more hurt than comfort? ...>>
Notes: Still ridiculously new to this fandom and not quite sure what I'm doing, more often than not...but damn, some of those prompts were too good to resist.
Prompt: The h/c fic challenge prompt here: Sam's first panic room experience, please. Probably prior to being tied down. Sam's craving for demon blood and his general hallucinatory state lead him to think that drinking from the only available source of demon blood on hand is a good idea. Said source? Himself.
He didn’t expect this.
He should have, he really should have, Sam knows that. From the first if I didn’t know you not-quite-threat. And right now he just wants to yell yeah, this is why I lied, because I had to, godammit you don’t get it.
He bangs his fist against the door once. Yelling is beyond him now; his body keeps breaking out in hot and cold sweats and his back keeps seizing up in painful spasms and-
“Hey, Sam.”
He turns his head, slowly. There, sitting on the cot. He can smell her. Except… Sam licks his lips. “Ruby. How’d you get in?” It’s salted iron, he knows that. He half expected his own skin to rebel against it, but it’s just cool and cool feels nice right now. And there’s the problem of the Devil’s Trap, which is still…yep, intact overhead. He can hear the fan, too loudly, going whoosh whoosh whoosh in slow circles.
Ruby crosses her legs, the short dress she’s wearing sliding up her thighs. He can see the network of blue veins under her skin and his already unsteady breathing hitches. She just looks at him with that expression she gets all the time that says god you’re so stupid I can’t believe it. He remembers that in the four months Without Dean he liked it when she did that because it was such a Dean face. He thinks he told her that once when they were fucking and she laughed and called him a sick puppy.
But that’s not important. What’s important is what he can smell running through her veins. “You can’t be here,” he says, but he’s already shifting, moving to reach her before she can move and string him along again. “This room is-“
“Oh, come on, Sam. Like I wouldn’t find a loophole.” She smiles, rubs her hands sensuously along her own legs. “I knew you’d need me.”
“If you’d answered my calls it wouldn’t have come to this!” A few more seconds, and even his sluggish, heavy, hot limbs will be able to move fast enough to catch her, pin her to the mattress, and he will use his teeth if he has to he just needs and his whole body keeps trying to seize up and drop to the floor. He resists.
“I was busy,” she says, and tosses her hair, careless, callous. Sam lunges. She lets him slam her to the mattress without a fight and he has her wrists pinned with his hands and a knee holding one hip. He lowers his head to her neck and breathes in the scent of sweet sulfurous blood just beneath the skin. She laughs, breathlessly.
“Go on, Sammy,” she says. “Take all you want.”
And then he blinks, and she is gone, and the ache of the craving is turning his stomach inside out. He can still smell it in the room all around him.
His sweat turns cold and he huddles into himself, shaking. Dean, he wants to yell, but nearly bites his tongue to keep his mouth shut, grinding his molars together.
Someone is sitting on the bed next to him. He turns his head slowly, almost afraid of who he might see now.
It’s Dean. His eyes are down, his elbows on his knees, bent over in a slouch. And Sam thinks, maybe I just missed the door opening.
“It’s not really as bad as you think it is,” his brother says, not looking at him. “Better than Hell.”
“Dean,” he says, and his brother cuts him off.
“No, I'm not getting you out of this,” Dean says. “You’ve got to figure it out on your own. You can. It’s like one of those locked room puzzles.”
Sam can feel himself starting to shake. He wants Ruby back. He needs Ruby back. For real, though. That’d be nice. “Dean,” he says, frantically. “I'm not really capable of solving puzzles right now.”
“And whose fault is that?” Dean accuses. “If you’d just taken care of it sooner I never would have known. Jesus. And I thought you were smart.”
Sam’s stomach heaves without warning, tries to force its way up his throat, and settles for making him spew thin, sour bile on the floor. By the time he recovers, retching violently and clutching the rail of the bed until his knuckles are white, Dean is gone too.
Dimly, he knows he needs water, but the thirst that is consuming him won’t accept it. Won’t accept anything but what he needs.
He pants, staring up at the fan going in slow lazy circles around the devil’s trapped air vent. Dean thinks he can get himself out of here. “Dean’s wrong,” he says, and giggles.
“No,” says a familiar female voice, and this time Sam’s fists clench and all he says is “Go away.”
Jess sits down next to him, and runs a hand through his hair. “He’s right about this, actually. You have all the answers right here.”
Sam’s back is tighter than a stretched rubber band and he feels about as close to snapping. Everything smells like sulfur and blood that he needs and vomit and sour sweat that he doesn’t. “Jess,” he says, but he can’t really move to hug her like he should. She moves her hand down his back and rubs along his spine, her palms warm and comfortable even as he can feel his body flash hot-cold-hot again. “Jess, I didn’t mean-“
“Shh,” she says, “It doesn’t matter now. You’re sick, and you need the blood to feel better. All you need to do is find a source.”
Sam chokes on a noise that might be a sob because his stomach is cramping and he wants nothing more than to curl up and die. “Where? I'm alone in here, I can’t exactly get out-“
She moves her hand from his back and takes his arm, turns it so the underside of his arm is turned up, and presses her fingers into his flesh. “You have everything you need,” she whispers, and then the pain slams into him like a semi into the side of a car and he crumples just like a ’67 Chevrolet Impala, screaming because otherwise he wants to reach down his own throat and rip out lungs and heart and everything else. It’d probably hurt less.
**
Sam comes back crumpled in a corner of the panic room away from the cot with his fingernails torn up, probably from clawing at the concrete, and is glad, really glad, he doesn’t remember. The feeling’s even stronger now, gnawing in his stomach, and he dizzily remembers Jess and Dean and Ruby - oh god, what would he do if Ruby were here right now, he would be willing to do anything just for a hit, no, he could take her down, oh god the way the blood wells up on her skin and fills his mouth and-
Sam shudders, spasms, his head thudding accidentally against the wall.
You have everything you need, Jess said. You’ve got to figure it out on your own. You can, Dean said. Sam takes a couple short breaths because his lungs won’t fill all the way, and tries to focus and think about anything other than blood, blood, blood.
I’m not going to survive this, is all his fevered brain can come up with. I'm going to die in here. He bangs against the walls again, giving up on shame. “Let me out! Let me out!”
No answer. Bobby and Dean could be gone. He could be trapped in an empty house. They aren’t letting him out of here. He’s going to be here until he dies.
Everything you need.
He needs demon blood and it’s not as though-
It clicks. It clicks and suddenly his head is clearer than it’s been in weeks. He turns his arm over and looks at the network of veins swimming in his vision under his skin. He traces some with the fingers of the other hand, and then carefully lifts his arm and takes a deep breath through his nose.
Sulfur. It smells sour but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever breathed. And it’s there. Right there. Perfectly accessible.
He doesn’t want to use his teeth. Too messy. He looks for a sharp edge on the bed instead, crawling over and ignoring the cramping pains in his stomach that make him want to curl up and whimper. On the bottom, there’s an edge that feels sharp enough.
Carefully, Sam eases to the floor and slides his arm under, puts the metal just below his elbow, presses up and slides sideways.
It hurts less than he’d expected, and before any can drip on the floor and be lost he brings his arm to his mouth and runs his tongue along the slice for a moment before he begins to suck. It floods over his tongue and relief washes through him, slides down his throat like water after a desert and hits his stomach hard like good liquor. He nearly doubles over for a moment, but then his body is absorbing it, needy and hungry and god it’s good.
He drinks until the shaking stops and he just feels dizzy and exhausted, and then lets himself go limp on the floor. His limbs are buzzing but his head is clear and he can survive this now. The only pain is the dull throb in his arm and that doesn’t matter. That’s nothing.
He can do this.
**
It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should. Sam figures that’s because his blood is diluted by now, not enough of Ruby’s, not enough of Azazel’s. It’s a weak drug, just enough to get by. But he has more.
His stomach still feels full, but he can tell by the returning pain, the increasing cramps, that the good stuff is gone from it.
He opens a new gash closer to his elbow, to some bigger blood vessels, hoping maybe that’ll concentrate it, or something, and drinks for longer, past the dizziness into what he knows is near unconsciousness. It’ll replenish, though. Blood comes back. He’s lost more than this before and maybe his body will reabsorb some of it, who knows?
He lies back down, face against the concrete. His whole body is too warm and he can hear his own heartbeat. It seems a little sluggish, but mostly what matters is the fact that the pain’s receded again, and he can focus. Focus on counting, slowly, through the minutes.
And again. A new cut, just to make sure the blood is fresh, on his other arm this time. Not even sitting up to drink it down.
It lasts even shorter this time, and he’s weaker. Sam doesn’t bother with the bed this time, just brings his wrist up to his teeth and bites until he breaks the skin and can suck down more of his own blood.
He’s not even thinking about the long term. Not now. This time, he just leaves his mouth on the slowly bleeding bite and lets it leak onto his tongue. Swallow when his mouth fills. He feels sick and isn’t sure if it’s the encroaching cramps or the fact that his stomach is full of blood that’s just…sitting there.
The fan keeps going overhead or maybe that’s just the swish of the power ebbing and waning in his head too fast to ever grasp it. Something shrieks, metal on metal.
“What the f- Sam!”
**
It’s been quiet for too long.
It should be a relief. It should be a big relief that Sam isn’t screaming and yelling and pleading anymore, but it just makes Dean uneasy, and no matter what he said about at least he’ll die human -
Old habits die hard. Really hard.
So he fidgets and twitches and squirms until Bobby kicks him downstairs, and then paces back and forth in front of the panic room door for almost an hour before he makes up his mind, giving one sharp knock on the door.
Maybe Sam’s dried out. Maybe it’s over and they’re safe now.
“Sam?”
No answer. Not a sound, not even a moan. And Dean feels another little burst of panic. He grits his teeth because of course Sam could just be waiting and quiet and he’ll look like such an idiot if he backs down on this now and nothing’s wrong, but…
The chance that something could be seriously wrong, that maybe (no) Sam’s dying in there and can’t make a sound is just way too serious to ignore. “All right,” he says, deliberately loudly. “I'm coming in, so get away from the door or I’ll hit you with it.”
He gives Sam another thirty seconds to respond, but the silence stretches out, and he opens the door with a scrape of metal on the floor.
And stops short.
Because Sam’s on the floor and limp, eyes closed. Still breathing, and that’s good, but there’s blood on the floor and Sam’s…Sam’s mouth is fixed to his wrist and Dean can feel his gorge rise looking at the smears of blood on the skin and a few drops sliding away from his mouth even now, and the way his throat works once as Sam swallows.
His skin is sallow and pale and Dean can see without thinking that Sam is killing himself and that he probably doesn’t even realize.
He needed demon blood. And determined little brother Sam found what he could get.
Fuck.
“Bobby!” And damn, Dean didn’t even remember he could yell that loud, already dodging a puddle of bile. “Get your ass down here!” He drops to his knees and wraps his hand around Sam’s arm, using the other to hold him down as he forces Sam’s wrist away from his mouth. It’s bleeding freely and messily, and that’s a problem. No, not just a problem. It’s sick and disgusting and-
God. Dean doesn’t want to think about whether Sam’s blood is actually demonic or he just thinks it is because he is seriously fucked up in the head.
Bobby comes running, starting with a “What’s the door hanging open for,” and cutting off because he’s taking in Sam on the floor just now starting to struggle. Right, because Dean just cut his stash. Then his brother’s eyes roll open and stare, glazed and feverish, at Dean.
“-figured it out,” Sam slurs. “I got it. I did. I really did. Dean.” What he’s saying makes no sense to Dean, but that probably figures. Who knows how high Sam’s tripping right now.
Bobby looks sick, and yeah, Dean would really like to have that luxury too, but that’s not happening. He ignores Sam. “Help me get him up on the bed. He needs-” He needs blood. Dean can’t give that to him, can’t. “-needs to get cleaned up, restrained probably,” and he can’t quite believe that he’s talking this rationally about tying his little brother down but then again he can’t quite believe that Sam’s so desperate for a hit he’s drinking his own fucking blood. Things change.
His hand still clasping Sam’s wrist to hold it down feels the moment when his skin goes from almost normal to burning, and that’s all the warning he has before Sam’s eyes roll back and his whole body heaves and convulses with a violence that almost makes Dean wince, or would if he weren’t so angry right now. “Bobby, get his legs,” he says, almost viciously, trying not to get thrown off as he grabs for Sam’s other arm to pin that too. His little brother is like a bucking bronco and even within the huge, body wrenching convulsions there are little ones, too, a near constant trembling, sweat pouring out of his skin as Dean can practically feel his temperature skyrocket.
And just for a second Dean thinks that he gets it, because seriously, if all it took to avoid this was a little bit of self-mutilation? He probably wouldn’t mind either. He shakes that thought away before he can examine it too closely.
Sam’s head goes back and slams against the floor, the muscles in his neck cording, and there are strangled little whimpering noises making it out of his throat as he tries to free his arms. “Wait it out, Sam,” Dean hears himself say without intending to. He meant to keep in silent judgment, take care of the problem and then leave again, but - “Come on. Just wait it out. Can’t last forever.”
He ignores the fact that he has no idea how long this could last, or if it’s even possible to detox of this shit once it’s taken up residence in his body. But it looks like they’re lucky (for once) and Sam’s convulsions are slowing down, subsiding into little quivers of muscle spasms, his skin still too hot but not feeling like it’s about to burn Dean.
He realizes, belatedly, that he can feel his palms almost sliding in blood. He grits his teeth and holds on until Sam finally goes limp, his chest heaving. His eyes are open, terrified and desperate, and his arms jerk again. “Please,” he says, looking directly at Dean. “I need - I need -“
Dean turns away, disgusted, and looks at Bobby, who’s already got a glass of water and is kneeling down, offering it to Sam.
“Drink this.”
Sam turns his head away. “No.”
“Drink this or I’ll force it down your throat,” says Bobby, and since Dean won’t let go of his arms, Sam just nods and lets Bobby pour it into his mouth, swallowing rapidly. He licks his lips as the glass moves away and for a moment looks almost lucid.
Then his eyes fill with panic and Dean lets go quickly as he rolls to his side and spews on the floor, on himself, everywhere and the room abruptly smells like coppery blood mixed with bile. Dean gets up and backs off, and Bobby just barely gets out of the way in time, standing next to Dean with his face flickering like he can’t decide between pity and disgust.
And Sam, not even trying to move out of his mess, barely propped up on one elbow with his head hanging and making these tiny sounds that Dean recognizes as stifled sobs.
He remembers the first time Sam had stomach flu. He was, like, eight, and he was so miserable. Sounded just like that and Dean had to force him to eat some Saltines and drink some 7-Up because he was already so freaking skinny, didn’t need to lose weight.
Just for a second, Dean doesn’t think he can do this anymore.
He recovers fast. “Get a mop and some water,” he tells Bobby. “I'm doing the band-aids.”
**
He ends up using stitches because Sam, damn him, knew where to find a good vein and the bleeding won’t stop. So he stitches them closed with one knee on Sam’s bicep and the thread between his teeth, after dragging him out of the mess of bloody vomit. Bobby starts mopping up, glaring at Dean all the while. They should just get a hose, he thinks, and then wonders if that makes him a bad person.
Probably. That’s okay, he’s already a bad person.
Sam doesn’t even flinch as the needle and thread punch methodically through flesh and Dean tries not to let that put in perspective what kind of pain must be distracting him otherwise. Really, he hardly even seems aware. At least he hasn’t tried sucking out his own blood again, not yet. Dean doesn’t trust that he won’t.
He finishes all the stitches, douses them with antiseptic and peroxide, and shifts, staring at his stupid little brother. He’s going to feel like shit when he wakes up.
Dean’s hand wanders on its own to the pulse point at Sam’s neck and feels it pounding there, too rapid, uneven. His mind amends clinically, if he wakes up.
Maybe this is too much. Maybe he’s taken this too far, Sam’s learned his lesson. It feels all kinds of wrong to sit here and watch him suffer, who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t come down, Sam could probably quite literally drink himself to death without the benefit of alcohol.
He reaches for the handcuffs and plays with them, watching Sam. His eyes have finally closed but he doesn’t look like he’s sleeping, just like he’s exhausted and given up. So his brother’s voice surprises him. “Dean,” he says, and Dean just about jumps out of his skin. Sam’s eyes open slowly and cloudy hazel stares at him. His brother looks half crazed.
“It didn’t work,” he says.
Dean blinks. That could mean anything. “What?”
“It’s not enough. It didn’t work. Sorry.” He twists a little, face contorting. “Why s’it so hot-“ And his eyes slide shut again.
Dean can feel goosebumps on his arm. The fan chills the air. It stinks, but it’s not hot. Bobby straightens. “Fever like that can scramble a man’s brains,” he says, helpfully. Dean doesn’t respond. A moment later the mop splashes into the bucket, someone sighs, and Bobby comes over.
“What are you going to do, boy?” he says, almost gently, for Bobby. Dean drops the handcuffs back on the table with the barely half empty glass of water, and wonders if he could get Sam to drink any of it. Without barfing up his insides.
He could…be gentler about this. Let Sam upstairs. Maybe even…his mouth twists, but…wean him off of this shit. Slowly. Cold turkey is always dangerous, kills people. Demon blood’s probably worse, because it’s demon blood and everything’s worse with demons.
And is he really okay with letting his brother die even if it is human? It’s too many questions and Dean can’t trust Sam the way he should, and is still thinking of walking in the door and Sam fastened to his own wrist and feeling his stomach twist in knots. It’s sick and it’s wrong and he won’t stand for it.
Sam’ll make it through.
Dean wonders for a moment how many times Dad said that, Sam’ll make it through when he was having a tough day or a tough week, when he was belligerent or angry or verging on depressed.
That thought makes him uncomfortable and he dismisses it.
“Dean?” asks Bobby, and Dean realizes he’s been silent all this time.
“I'm going to go get a beer,” he says, callously, and stands up no matter how hard it is. “Close the door behind you if you’re coming up.”
This is Sam’s problem. He can get through it on his own. After all, if he’s so much stronger and better…
Walking upstairs is hard. Something’s dragging on his ankles like there are weights attached. He fights through it, and when he reaches the landing at the top it gets easier. At least until he looks back at the metal door, half closed, and a fist seems to squeeze around his heart.
**
His whole body feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. He smells blood and vomit. Everything is blurry except the fan and its incessant motion. His head is pounding.
Sam tries to move, but his limbs are too heavy. He struggles uselessly against the weight of his body, and slumps back down to the cot under him, groaning. His stomach cramps violently and he rolls to his side and curls up. There are bandages on his arms. What’s going on?
He’s sick. Seriously sick. The flu, or something. Where’s Dean, though? Where in hell is Dean?
The door is locked. Captive, then. Of who? Could be anyone. But it’s all right. His brother is coming. His brother is-
There’s a low chuckle from the corner of the room and terror flows liquid through his veins.
“Dean! Dean!”
Author: minviendha
Rating: PG13
Summary: Worst locked room puzzle ever.
Word Count: 3981
Warnings: uh. Nasty nasty detox, self-mutilation, blood-drinking, and more hurt than comfort? ...>>
Notes: Still ridiculously new to this fandom and not quite sure what I'm doing, more often than not...but damn, some of those prompts were too good to resist.
Prompt: The h/c fic challenge prompt here: Sam's first panic room experience, please. Probably prior to being tied down. Sam's craving for demon blood and his general hallucinatory state lead him to think that drinking from the only available source of demon blood on hand is a good idea. Said source? Himself.
He didn’t expect this.
He should have, he really should have, Sam knows that. From the first if I didn’t know you not-quite-threat. And right now he just wants to yell yeah, this is why I lied, because I had to, godammit you don’t get it.
He bangs his fist against the door once. Yelling is beyond him now; his body keeps breaking out in hot and cold sweats and his back keeps seizing up in painful spasms and-
“Hey, Sam.”
He turns his head, slowly. There, sitting on the cot. He can smell her. Except… Sam licks his lips. “Ruby. How’d you get in?” It’s salted iron, he knows that. He half expected his own skin to rebel against it, but it’s just cool and cool feels nice right now. And there’s the problem of the Devil’s Trap, which is still…yep, intact overhead. He can hear the fan, too loudly, going whoosh whoosh whoosh in slow circles.
Ruby crosses her legs, the short dress she’s wearing sliding up her thighs. He can see the network of blue veins under her skin and his already unsteady breathing hitches. She just looks at him with that expression she gets all the time that says god you’re so stupid I can’t believe it. He remembers that in the four months Without Dean he liked it when she did that because it was such a Dean face. He thinks he told her that once when they were fucking and she laughed and called him a sick puppy.
But that’s not important. What’s important is what he can smell running through her veins. “You can’t be here,” he says, but he’s already shifting, moving to reach her before she can move and string him along again. “This room is-“
“Oh, come on, Sam. Like I wouldn’t find a loophole.” She smiles, rubs her hands sensuously along her own legs. “I knew you’d need me.”
“If you’d answered my calls it wouldn’t have come to this!” A few more seconds, and even his sluggish, heavy, hot limbs will be able to move fast enough to catch her, pin her to the mattress, and he will use his teeth if he has to he just needs and his whole body keeps trying to seize up and drop to the floor. He resists.
“I was busy,” she says, and tosses her hair, careless, callous. Sam lunges. She lets him slam her to the mattress without a fight and he has her wrists pinned with his hands and a knee holding one hip. He lowers his head to her neck and breathes in the scent of sweet sulfurous blood just beneath the skin. She laughs, breathlessly.
“Go on, Sammy,” she says. “Take all you want.”
And then he blinks, and she is gone, and the ache of the craving is turning his stomach inside out. He can still smell it in the room all around him.
His sweat turns cold and he huddles into himself, shaking. Dean, he wants to yell, but nearly bites his tongue to keep his mouth shut, grinding his molars together.
Someone is sitting on the bed next to him. He turns his head slowly, almost afraid of who he might see now.
It’s Dean. His eyes are down, his elbows on his knees, bent over in a slouch. And Sam thinks, maybe I just missed the door opening.
“It’s not really as bad as you think it is,” his brother says, not looking at him. “Better than Hell.”
“Dean,” he says, and his brother cuts him off.
“No, I'm not getting you out of this,” Dean says. “You’ve got to figure it out on your own. You can. It’s like one of those locked room puzzles.”
Sam can feel himself starting to shake. He wants Ruby back. He needs Ruby back. For real, though. That’d be nice. “Dean,” he says, frantically. “I'm not really capable of solving puzzles right now.”
“And whose fault is that?” Dean accuses. “If you’d just taken care of it sooner I never would have known. Jesus. And I thought you were smart.”
Sam’s stomach heaves without warning, tries to force its way up his throat, and settles for making him spew thin, sour bile on the floor. By the time he recovers, retching violently and clutching the rail of the bed until his knuckles are white, Dean is gone too.
Dimly, he knows he needs water, but the thirst that is consuming him won’t accept it. Won’t accept anything but what he needs.
He pants, staring up at the fan going in slow lazy circles around the devil’s trapped air vent. Dean thinks he can get himself out of here. “Dean’s wrong,” he says, and giggles.
“No,” says a familiar female voice, and this time Sam’s fists clench and all he says is “Go away.”
Jess sits down next to him, and runs a hand through his hair. “He’s right about this, actually. You have all the answers right here.”
Sam’s back is tighter than a stretched rubber band and he feels about as close to snapping. Everything smells like sulfur and blood that he needs and vomit and sour sweat that he doesn’t. “Jess,” he says, but he can’t really move to hug her like he should. She moves her hand down his back and rubs along his spine, her palms warm and comfortable even as he can feel his body flash hot-cold-hot again. “Jess, I didn’t mean-“
“Shh,” she says, “It doesn’t matter now. You’re sick, and you need the blood to feel better. All you need to do is find a source.”
Sam chokes on a noise that might be a sob because his stomach is cramping and he wants nothing more than to curl up and die. “Where? I'm alone in here, I can’t exactly get out-“
She moves her hand from his back and takes his arm, turns it so the underside of his arm is turned up, and presses her fingers into his flesh. “You have everything you need,” she whispers, and then the pain slams into him like a semi into the side of a car and he crumples just like a ’67 Chevrolet Impala, screaming because otherwise he wants to reach down his own throat and rip out lungs and heart and everything else. It’d probably hurt less.
**
Sam comes back crumpled in a corner of the panic room away from the cot with his fingernails torn up, probably from clawing at the concrete, and is glad, really glad, he doesn’t remember. The feeling’s even stronger now, gnawing in his stomach, and he dizzily remembers Jess and Dean and Ruby - oh god, what would he do if Ruby were here right now, he would be willing to do anything just for a hit, no, he could take her down, oh god the way the blood wells up on her skin and fills his mouth and-
Sam shudders, spasms, his head thudding accidentally against the wall.
You have everything you need, Jess said. You’ve got to figure it out on your own. You can, Dean said. Sam takes a couple short breaths because his lungs won’t fill all the way, and tries to focus and think about anything other than blood, blood, blood.
I’m not going to survive this, is all his fevered brain can come up with. I'm going to die in here. He bangs against the walls again, giving up on shame. “Let me out! Let me out!”
No answer. Bobby and Dean could be gone. He could be trapped in an empty house. They aren’t letting him out of here. He’s going to be here until he dies.
Everything you need.
He needs demon blood and it’s not as though-
It clicks. It clicks and suddenly his head is clearer than it’s been in weeks. He turns his arm over and looks at the network of veins swimming in his vision under his skin. He traces some with the fingers of the other hand, and then carefully lifts his arm and takes a deep breath through his nose.
Sulfur. It smells sour but it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever breathed. And it’s there. Right there. Perfectly accessible.
He doesn’t want to use his teeth. Too messy. He looks for a sharp edge on the bed instead, crawling over and ignoring the cramping pains in his stomach that make him want to curl up and whimper. On the bottom, there’s an edge that feels sharp enough.
Carefully, Sam eases to the floor and slides his arm under, puts the metal just below his elbow, presses up and slides sideways.
It hurts less than he’d expected, and before any can drip on the floor and be lost he brings his arm to his mouth and runs his tongue along the slice for a moment before he begins to suck. It floods over his tongue and relief washes through him, slides down his throat like water after a desert and hits his stomach hard like good liquor. He nearly doubles over for a moment, but then his body is absorbing it, needy and hungry and god it’s good.
He drinks until the shaking stops and he just feels dizzy and exhausted, and then lets himself go limp on the floor. His limbs are buzzing but his head is clear and he can survive this now. The only pain is the dull throb in his arm and that doesn’t matter. That’s nothing.
He can do this.
**
It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should. Sam figures that’s because his blood is diluted by now, not enough of Ruby’s, not enough of Azazel’s. It’s a weak drug, just enough to get by. But he has more.
His stomach still feels full, but he can tell by the returning pain, the increasing cramps, that the good stuff is gone from it.
He opens a new gash closer to his elbow, to some bigger blood vessels, hoping maybe that’ll concentrate it, or something, and drinks for longer, past the dizziness into what he knows is near unconsciousness. It’ll replenish, though. Blood comes back. He’s lost more than this before and maybe his body will reabsorb some of it, who knows?
He lies back down, face against the concrete. His whole body is too warm and he can hear his own heartbeat. It seems a little sluggish, but mostly what matters is the fact that the pain’s receded again, and he can focus. Focus on counting, slowly, through the minutes.
And again. A new cut, just to make sure the blood is fresh, on his other arm this time. Not even sitting up to drink it down.
It lasts even shorter this time, and he’s weaker. Sam doesn’t bother with the bed this time, just brings his wrist up to his teeth and bites until he breaks the skin and can suck down more of his own blood.
He’s not even thinking about the long term. Not now. This time, he just leaves his mouth on the slowly bleeding bite and lets it leak onto his tongue. Swallow when his mouth fills. He feels sick and isn’t sure if it’s the encroaching cramps or the fact that his stomach is full of blood that’s just…sitting there.
The fan keeps going overhead or maybe that’s just the swish of the power ebbing and waning in his head too fast to ever grasp it. Something shrieks, metal on metal.
“What the f- Sam!”
**
It’s been quiet for too long.
It should be a relief. It should be a big relief that Sam isn’t screaming and yelling and pleading anymore, but it just makes Dean uneasy, and no matter what he said about at least he’ll die human -
Old habits die hard. Really hard.
So he fidgets and twitches and squirms until Bobby kicks him downstairs, and then paces back and forth in front of the panic room door for almost an hour before he makes up his mind, giving one sharp knock on the door.
Maybe Sam’s dried out. Maybe it’s over and they’re safe now.
“Sam?”
No answer. Not a sound, not even a moan. And Dean feels another little burst of panic. He grits his teeth because of course Sam could just be waiting and quiet and he’ll look like such an idiot if he backs down on this now and nothing’s wrong, but…
The chance that something could be seriously wrong, that maybe (no) Sam’s dying in there and can’t make a sound is just way too serious to ignore. “All right,” he says, deliberately loudly. “I'm coming in, so get away from the door or I’ll hit you with it.”
He gives Sam another thirty seconds to respond, but the silence stretches out, and he opens the door with a scrape of metal on the floor.
And stops short.
Because Sam’s on the floor and limp, eyes closed. Still breathing, and that’s good, but there’s blood on the floor and Sam’s…Sam’s mouth is fixed to his wrist and Dean can feel his gorge rise looking at the smears of blood on the skin and a few drops sliding away from his mouth even now, and the way his throat works once as Sam swallows.
His skin is sallow and pale and Dean can see without thinking that Sam is killing himself and that he probably doesn’t even realize.
He needed demon blood. And determined little brother Sam found what he could get.
Fuck.
“Bobby!” And damn, Dean didn’t even remember he could yell that loud, already dodging a puddle of bile. “Get your ass down here!” He drops to his knees and wraps his hand around Sam’s arm, using the other to hold him down as he forces Sam’s wrist away from his mouth. It’s bleeding freely and messily, and that’s a problem. No, not just a problem. It’s sick and disgusting and-
God. Dean doesn’t want to think about whether Sam’s blood is actually demonic or he just thinks it is because he is seriously fucked up in the head.
Bobby comes running, starting with a “What’s the door hanging open for,” and cutting off because he’s taking in Sam on the floor just now starting to struggle. Right, because Dean just cut his stash. Then his brother’s eyes roll open and stare, glazed and feverish, at Dean.
“-figured it out,” Sam slurs. “I got it. I did. I really did. Dean.” What he’s saying makes no sense to Dean, but that probably figures. Who knows how high Sam’s tripping right now.
Bobby looks sick, and yeah, Dean would really like to have that luxury too, but that’s not happening. He ignores Sam. “Help me get him up on the bed. He needs-” He needs blood. Dean can’t give that to him, can’t. “-needs to get cleaned up, restrained probably,” and he can’t quite believe that he’s talking this rationally about tying his little brother down but then again he can’t quite believe that Sam’s so desperate for a hit he’s drinking his own fucking blood. Things change.
His hand still clasping Sam’s wrist to hold it down feels the moment when his skin goes from almost normal to burning, and that’s all the warning he has before Sam’s eyes roll back and his whole body heaves and convulses with a violence that almost makes Dean wince, or would if he weren’t so angry right now. “Bobby, get his legs,” he says, almost viciously, trying not to get thrown off as he grabs for Sam’s other arm to pin that too. His little brother is like a bucking bronco and even within the huge, body wrenching convulsions there are little ones, too, a near constant trembling, sweat pouring out of his skin as Dean can practically feel his temperature skyrocket.
And just for a second Dean thinks that he gets it, because seriously, if all it took to avoid this was a little bit of self-mutilation? He probably wouldn’t mind either. He shakes that thought away before he can examine it too closely.
Sam’s head goes back and slams against the floor, the muscles in his neck cording, and there are strangled little whimpering noises making it out of his throat as he tries to free his arms. “Wait it out, Sam,” Dean hears himself say without intending to. He meant to keep in silent judgment, take care of the problem and then leave again, but - “Come on. Just wait it out. Can’t last forever.”
He ignores the fact that he has no idea how long this could last, or if it’s even possible to detox of this shit once it’s taken up residence in his body. But it looks like they’re lucky (for once) and Sam’s convulsions are slowing down, subsiding into little quivers of muscle spasms, his skin still too hot but not feeling like it’s about to burn Dean.
He realizes, belatedly, that he can feel his palms almost sliding in blood. He grits his teeth and holds on until Sam finally goes limp, his chest heaving. His eyes are open, terrified and desperate, and his arms jerk again. “Please,” he says, looking directly at Dean. “I need - I need -“
Dean turns away, disgusted, and looks at Bobby, who’s already got a glass of water and is kneeling down, offering it to Sam.
“Drink this.”
Sam turns his head away. “No.”
“Drink this or I’ll force it down your throat,” says Bobby, and since Dean won’t let go of his arms, Sam just nods and lets Bobby pour it into his mouth, swallowing rapidly. He licks his lips as the glass moves away and for a moment looks almost lucid.
Then his eyes fill with panic and Dean lets go quickly as he rolls to his side and spews on the floor, on himself, everywhere and the room abruptly smells like coppery blood mixed with bile. Dean gets up and backs off, and Bobby just barely gets out of the way in time, standing next to Dean with his face flickering like he can’t decide between pity and disgust.
And Sam, not even trying to move out of his mess, barely propped up on one elbow with his head hanging and making these tiny sounds that Dean recognizes as stifled sobs.
He remembers the first time Sam had stomach flu. He was, like, eight, and he was so miserable. Sounded just like that and Dean had to force him to eat some Saltines and drink some 7-Up because he was already so freaking skinny, didn’t need to lose weight.
Just for a second, Dean doesn’t think he can do this anymore.
He recovers fast. “Get a mop and some water,” he tells Bobby. “I'm doing the band-aids.”
**
He ends up using stitches because Sam, damn him, knew where to find a good vein and the bleeding won’t stop. So he stitches them closed with one knee on Sam’s bicep and the thread between his teeth, after dragging him out of the mess of bloody vomit. Bobby starts mopping up, glaring at Dean all the while. They should just get a hose, he thinks, and then wonders if that makes him a bad person.
Probably. That’s okay, he’s already a bad person.
Sam doesn’t even flinch as the needle and thread punch methodically through flesh and Dean tries not to let that put in perspective what kind of pain must be distracting him otherwise. Really, he hardly even seems aware. At least he hasn’t tried sucking out his own blood again, not yet. Dean doesn’t trust that he won’t.
He finishes all the stitches, douses them with antiseptic and peroxide, and shifts, staring at his stupid little brother. He’s going to feel like shit when he wakes up.
Dean’s hand wanders on its own to the pulse point at Sam’s neck and feels it pounding there, too rapid, uneven. His mind amends clinically, if he wakes up.
Maybe this is too much. Maybe he’s taken this too far, Sam’s learned his lesson. It feels all kinds of wrong to sit here and watch him suffer, who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t come down, Sam could probably quite literally drink himself to death without the benefit of alcohol.
He reaches for the handcuffs and plays with them, watching Sam. His eyes have finally closed but he doesn’t look like he’s sleeping, just like he’s exhausted and given up. So his brother’s voice surprises him. “Dean,” he says, and Dean just about jumps out of his skin. Sam’s eyes open slowly and cloudy hazel stares at him. His brother looks half crazed.
“It didn’t work,” he says.
Dean blinks. That could mean anything. “What?”
“It’s not enough. It didn’t work. Sorry.” He twists a little, face contorting. “Why s’it so hot-“ And his eyes slide shut again.
Dean can feel goosebumps on his arm. The fan chills the air. It stinks, but it’s not hot. Bobby straightens. “Fever like that can scramble a man’s brains,” he says, helpfully. Dean doesn’t respond. A moment later the mop splashes into the bucket, someone sighs, and Bobby comes over.
“What are you going to do, boy?” he says, almost gently, for Bobby. Dean drops the handcuffs back on the table with the barely half empty glass of water, and wonders if he could get Sam to drink any of it. Without barfing up his insides.
He could…be gentler about this. Let Sam upstairs. Maybe even…his mouth twists, but…wean him off of this shit. Slowly. Cold turkey is always dangerous, kills people. Demon blood’s probably worse, because it’s demon blood and everything’s worse with demons.
And is he really okay with letting his brother die even if it is human? It’s too many questions and Dean can’t trust Sam the way he should, and is still thinking of walking in the door and Sam fastened to his own wrist and feeling his stomach twist in knots. It’s sick and it’s wrong and he won’t stand for it.
Sam’ll make it through.
Dean wonders for a moment how many times Dad said that, Sam’ll make it through when he was having a tough day or a tough week, when he was belligerent or angry or verging on depressed.
That thought makes him uncomfortable and he dismisses it.
“Dean?” asks Bobby, and Dean realizes he’s been silent all this time.
“I'm going to go get a beer,” he says, callously, and stands up no matter how hard it is. “Close the door behind you if you’re coming up.”
This is Sam’s problem. He can get through it on his own. After all, if he’s so much stronger and better…
Walking upstairs is hard. Something’s dragging on his ankles like there are weights attached. He fights through it, and when he reaches the landing at the top it gets easier. At least until he looks back at the metal door, half closed, and a fist seems to squeeze around his heart.
**
His whole body feels like it’s been through a meat grinder. He smells blood and vomit. Everything is blurry except the fan and its incessant motion. His head is pounding.
Sam tries to move, but his limbs are too heavy. He struggles uselessly against the weight of his body, and slumps back down to the cot under him, groaning. His stomach cramps violently and he rolls to his side and curls up. There are bandages on his arms. What’s going on?
He’s sick. Seriously sick. The flu, or something. Where’s Dean, though? Where in hell is Dean?
The door is locked. Captive, then. Of who? Could be anyone. But it’s all right. His brother is coming. His brother is-
There’s a low chuckle from the corner of the room and terror flows liquid through his veins.
“Dean! Dean!”