Here be dragons [Woods | OTA | Multiple Threads]
Things had only gotten worse since that awkward day when Dean had confronted Sam about drinking Ruby's blood. If things had felt strained beforehand, now they felt, well... non-existent. Sam had been hoping Dean would at least contact him to lecture him, as much as he didn't want to hear it. Having Dean just wash his hands of him entirely, as if what he were doing were so unforgivable - well, that stung like nothing else.
As a result, Sam found himself seeing just how long he could go without a fix - trying to prove to himself that he'd spoken the truth to his brother: that he was in control of this, not the other way around. Sam found himself feeling guilty about shunning Ruby this way, but he figured she'd understand, and in the end, he wasn't as concerned about her feelings as about his relationship with his brother going all the way down the tubes.
When weeks passed, and no sign of Dean emerged, Sam caved and went looking for him.
Except, he found, Dean was gone.
It was eerie, the way he had just vanished without a trace, as if he'd never been there. Cas, Jo, Anna, nobody came forward with any answers for him, and he didn't want to hang around any of those people long enough to dig for them. Not now.
He blamed himself, and his self-flagellation extended his blood fast, though the cravings for it began to drive him to the brink of reason. His fear over what would happen to himself if he lost Ruby, lost his source, began to tear at his resolve, and self-loathing began to blossom within as he realized the grip of the addiction he was yoked to.
It was a choice, he resolved, between caving and self-exile, and his guilt over the fractures in his relationship to Dean, the nagging doubts that whispered to him that perhaps somehow Dean left because of him, drove him to the latter. He knew the woods were dangerous, but he feared himself more than the monsters they might hold. Monsters, he knew how to deal with. Losing Dean and facing up to his part in it: that wasn't so simple.
He tested the theories he'd heard, about the wood being somehow circuitous, whatever direction one traveled in. He'd set out on a trek away from the barracks, only to hit the fence surrounding the camp an hour later. The inevitability of it was stifling. He eventually gave in to it, weeks later, resolving to return to camp, sporting stubble, torn clothing, and a hunted look in his eyes. The gates of that place had seemed like the daunting gates of hell for so long now, but he was out of bullets, and hunting for food was getting to be too difficult. Now he stood in front of them, hesitating.
It was time to face his demons, both metaphorically and literally.
As a result, Sam found himself seeing just how long he could go without a fix - trying to prove to himself that he'd spoken the truth to his brother: that he was in control of this, not the other way around. Sam found himself feeling guilty about shunning Ruby this way, but he figured she'd understand, and in the end, he wasn't as concerned about her feelings as about his relationship with his brother going all the way down the tubes.
When weeks passed, and no sign of Dean emerged, Sam caved and went looking for him.
Except, he found, Dean was gone.
It was eerie, the way he had just vanished without a trace, as if he'd never been there. Cas, Jo, Anna, nobody came forward with any answers for him, and he didn't want to hang around any of those people long enough to dig for them. Not now.
He blamed himself, and his self-flagellation extended his blood fast, though the cravings for it began to drive him to the brink of reason. His fear over what would happen to himself if he lost Ruby, lost his source, began to tear at his resolve, and self-loathing began to blossom within as he realized the grip of the addiction he was yoked to.
It was a choice, he resolved, between caving and self-exile, and his guilt over the fractures in his relationship to Dean, the nagging doubts that whispered to him that perhaps somehow Dean left because of him, drove him to the latter. He knew the woods were dangerous, but he feared himself more than the monsters they might hold. Monsters, he knew how to deal with. Losing Dean and facing up to his part in it: that wasn't so simple.
He tested the theories he'd heard, about the wood being somehow circuitous, whatever direction one traveled in. He'd set out on a trek away from the barracks, only to hit the fence surrounding the camp an hour later. The inevitability of it was stifling. He eventually gave in to it, weeks later, resolving to return to camp, sporting stubble, torn clothing, and a hunted look in his eyes. The gates of that place had seemed like the daunting gates of hell for so long now, but he was out of bullets, and hunting for food was getting to be too difficult. Now he stood in front of them, hesitating.
It was time to face his demons, both metaphorically and literally.