Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"SAMMY!"

"DEAN!"

Sam lurches with a sharp gasp, his hands automatically roaming over his neck. Once his brain has remembered there's no more bite marks - or chunks of flesh missing - he falls back on the bed, hands now tangling in his hair as his breathing slowly steadies.

It's been almost a week since, and he doesn't expect the nightmares to ever stop. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel himself being ripped apart.

He folds his hands on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. As the haze lifts from his eyes, he distracts himself from the nightmare by counting the tiny cracks and marks showing the bunker's age. It feels like he's never noticed them before.

Satisfied, he rolls out of bed, checking the time on the way - close to 4AM. He heads for the dingy little en-suite and flicks on the light, barely taking time to blink before turning the tap on and splashing water on his face. With a deep exhale, he blindly grabs a hand-towel to wipe the water away, then drapes it over the faucet and finally dares to look in the mirror.

His reflection hasn't looked the same to him since Hell. He's always been able to make out the lines of exhaustion under his eyes, which are perpetually haunted. Every time he's died since, it's been a struggle to face that again, and this most recent brush has been no exception. He's barely glances at himself in the last few days, until now, but he can see he looks gaunt. His eyes are even more sunken than usual, red, if he squints, and his skin is almost a sickly pale.

The thought that this must be what his corpse looked like - apart from this last time, knowing there was barely anything left by the end - has him dry-heaving into the sink. He quickly splashes more water on his face, this time roughly wiping it away with his wrist, and stumbles out of the bathroom to throw himself back into bed.

He isn't graced by the nightmare again, but the reprieve is hardly welcome knowing it will be back tomorrow.

///

The morning boasts a classic hearty breakfast from Dean, who's no doubt thrilled that the Apocalypse World Hunters are gradually finding their way out of the bunker. Less mouths to feed, he'd say  - although if you ask Sam, his brother will take any excuse to cook.

As for Sam himself, he checks in with the group still at the bunker and makes some calls to the ones who've left, just to see how they're doing, then finally allows himself time to eat. A big helping of scrambled eggs are dumped on his plate, along with a few slabs of bacon as Dean says, "Get your protein in. We're hitting the road in an hour."

"Yeah, thanks, Dean."

Their first proper hunt since...since.

Shaking off that thought, Sam stabs a few eggs with a fork and shoves them in his mouth, chewing. It only takes a few seconds to notice something's off.

Dean is always sure to fry his eggs in butter and half a dozen spices, to the point where he triple-checks their shopping lists for the right ingredients. But after sitting there working his teeth to the bone for almost half a minute, Sam realizes he tastes nothing.

What the hell?

"Sam?" Mary asks from the seat beside him. "Are you alright? You've just been staring into space."

Sam swallows and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine, Mom. Just...you know."

Mary nods, and something inside him twists seeing the sorrow barely hidden in her eyes. She reaches out to briefly rub her hand in a comforting circle on his back, then returns to her own breakfast.

Before Dean can start nagging him again, Sam sets down his fork and picks up a piece of bacon, taking a bite. He can barely taste it, but knowing he needs the energy, he keeps going.

He's not hungry anymore.

///

After what was arguably the most uncomfortable breakfast of his life, Sam gears up, grabs his duffel, and follows Dean out the door. They toss their duffels in the back of Baby and hop in, heading out on the open road.

Dean, of course, turns on his usual classic rock straight away. Sam normally wouldn't mind the music reverberating through the car, but the first drum-kick seems to stab through his ears. It feels like he can make out each individual instrument, and suddenly everything hurts.

Putting on as casual of an affect as possible - which, in his state, likely isn't that convincing - he asks, "Hey, can you turn it down?"

Glancing at him, Dean squints, then chuckles in disbelief. "You serious?"

Sam vaguely gestures to his head. "Headache."

"Never thought I'd have to remind you of the rule-"

"I know the rule, Dean! Just...please?"

Sam may have sounded just a little too desperate, because Dean's eyes flash with concern. But at long last, he does lower the volume by a few notches. "Alright."

The relief almost overwhelming, Sam slumps a little in his seat, willing away the faint ringing still in his ears. He somehow manages to hear Dean say, "Watch me make that your alarm next time I have the chance."

It almost feels like a test, silently asking if Sam is okay. Luckily, he doesn't miss a beat. "Shut up, jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam stifles a sigh of relief, turning his attention to the landscape speeding past the window. Hopefully this hunt is as quick as it sounds.

///

The hunt is quick; they picked up word of what sounded like a rugaru, thankfully in the area, so it should be a straight shot back to the bunker. That's the one consolation Sam has when everything goes to shit.

It's easy to find the rugaru, considering they've already mapped out the victim pattern. Unfortunately, they end up walking into an active crime scene.

The smell hits Sam first; a rotten, pungent odor that he knows far too well for his liking. He'd normally be unfazed, but his stomach churns even as he follows Dean to the kitchen, passing a family photo of parents and what looks like their teenage children on the way.

Everything hits him all at once even before they hit the treshold; the smell is ten times worse, his eyes practically sting with it. The whole room is spattered with red, human remains everywhere. The rugaru is crouched over what looks like the father, still ravenous as ever and seemingly not noticing them.

Flamethrower in hand, Dean lights the thing up, adding a charred scent to the viscera Sam is already experiencing. Once the creature's guttural screams have stopped, they search the house top to bottom just in case, and thankfully come up empty. Counting the bodies - what's left of them - makes it clear that there were no survivors. Neither of them expected any, but it's still awful.

Sam is moving on autopilot as they leave the house, his nerves humming and stomach still rolling. Dean asks right before they get in the car, "You good?", and he gives a jerky nod in response.

He bites down on his tongue as they drive, hand white-knuckling the door. The moment Dean stops so he can take a call from Cas, luckily on a back-road where cops won't be roaming around to check for DNA soon enough, Sam flings the door open. He stumbles only a few steps before keeling over and vomiting straight into the bushes.

"The hell - Cas, I'll call you back!" Dean hangs up the phone, practically throwing it in his haste to leave the car and reach Sam's side. "Sam!"

"Uuungh..."

"Jesus, man, what's the matter with you?"

Flexing his jaw, Sam weakly answers, "Couldn't handle it."

"The hunt? We've fought tons of rugarus! That was nothing!"

"Blood...so much-"

Just the reminder has Sam hurling again, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Dean kneels with him when he finally buckles, a hand on his back. "Let it out, Sammy. Just let it out."

///

It feels like minutes before Sam finally stops puking - that'd be his entire, tasteless breakfast gone. Dean slides a hand over his forehead, and Sam barely manages to choke out, "Don't have a fever."

"No shit, you're freezing. Come on, back in the car. Easy does it."

Dean helps Sam to his feet, doing most of the work as they walk back to Baby. Sam unceremoniously falls back into his seat, slumping down as Dean shuts the door and circles to get in the driver's side.

While Dean is searching for wherever his phone ended up, Sam wraps his arms around his middle, head tilting slightly to the side. He manages a glimpse of his reflection in the rear-view, and regrets it even faster than he had the night before; his skin is nearly white, and there's the makings of deep, blue-ish pink rings around his eyes. He only snaps out of the trance when Dean revs the engine and says, "Try to get some rest, man. We'll be home soon."

Sam nods numbly, turning his head as far away from the mirror as possible. He rests his temple on the window as the car starts moving, barely feeling the warmer air when Dean cranks up the heat on the AC.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Chapter Text

Sam dissociates for the rest of the drive; it's only once they park that he comes back to his senses. He blinks heavily as Dean says, "Okay,"

He opens his door and steps out, circling to the passenger side and doing the same. "Think you can walk, or am I gonna have to drag your sorry ass to the door?"

The underlying concern hidden beneath the brotherly teasing is clear, and Sam musters what he hopes is a wry smile. "I think I got it."

"Alright, but you trip down the stairs, it's your own fault."

Sam scoffs out a laugh and undoes his seatbelt, swinging his legs over to face Dean - although it takes a second more than it probably should. Bracing one hand on the open door, he stands, blinking heavily as dark spots dance over his vision.

"Sammy-"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam grits out, shaking his head slightly so the blurriness goes away. "Just...dizzy."

"Well, you did puke your guts out. Can't say I'm surprised. Come on,"

Dean heads for the trunk, and Sam shuts the car door, taking a second to make sure he still has his bearings, and follows. Opening the trunk, Dean grabs their duffels, slipping his own over his shoulder, then passing Sam his. Sam copies him, hanging the duffel over his shoulder, although his grip falters just slightly before he corrects it.

Luckily, Dean doesn't comment, instead closing the trunk. He flicks the button on his keys that turns Baby off and passes Sam, leading the way to the bunker.

Once the door is open, Dean strides down the stairs first, glancing back every few steps as Sam catches up. It reminds Sam a little too much of when they were kids, but he can't deny that the hyper-vigilance isn't necessary when the only thing keeping him upright is sheer willpower.

Castiel is there by the time they reach the bottom - or maybe he always was, and Sam just didn't notice. It's hard to tell. Either way, he nods with the usual, "Hello, Dean."

"Cas," Dean nods back.

"Sam, are you alright?"

Realizing that while he was in that fugue state, Dean probably did call and explain what happened, Sam says, "Yeah, I guess. I - I don't know what came over me."

"This hasn't exactly been the best time for you to begin with."

At that, Sam can't help his sardonic retort. "You don't say."

Castiel looks apologetic, and Sam almost regrets it when he sees Dean flinch. His brother swiftly changes the subject, asking, "Where're Mom and Jack?"

"Jack is in his room, and your mother is checking on some of our allies from Apocalypse World. They're both worried, but I told them Sam would probably want space."

"You were right," Sam chimes back in, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. He doesn't know if he could have handled much more concern than this at the moment. "Thanks, Cas. I'm gonna...try and get some sleep, I don't know," He scrubs a hand over his temple. "Will you tell them I'm good? I mean, I'll talk to them later, but-"

"Of course."

"Hit the hay, man," Dean says. "Shout if you need a ginger ale or something."

Sam nods appreciatively, accepting a pat on the back before he heads down the hall. He tries to ignore the sound of Dean and Cas talking in hushed tones, opening his bedroom door and slipping inside.

The door shuts behind him, and he leans against it, letting out a deep exhale. He shrugs off his duffel, dumping it on the floor beside the bed and, even in the dark, easily navigating to the bathroom. He braces himself before turning on the light, locking eyes with his reflection.

He looks better, he'll admit; his face is less gaunt, and the sickly tinge to his skin isn't as prominent. He scrubs a hand over his jaw and quickly realizes it's about time he shaves - and considering he just spent five straight minutes losing his breakfast, he should clean himself up anyway. Tilting his head, he decides, "Maybe a shower will help."

///

A half-hour later, Sam sits down on the edge of the bed in fresh clothes, his hair still damp. He feels lighter, almost, and definitely cleaner...but something is still off.

Taking stock of himself, he realizes how empty his stomach feels - which makes sense in retrospect. He's reluctant to eat, for multiple reasons, but he'll be even less likely to sleep if he's hungry. With a sigh, he gets back up and leaves the room.

Mary has joined Dean and Cas at the map table, all of them in some kind of conversation. When Sam passes by on his way to the kitchen, he's grateful that none of them do more than offer reassuring smiles or nod in his direction.

In the kitchen, he thinks for a minute about what to eat, then he finally tosses some bread in the toaster. He leans on the counter while he waits, and when the toast pops out, he flinches. It shouldn't be that loud.

Snapping his fingers next to his ear thankfully stops the ringing, so he moves on and gets a plate from the cabinet. Setting it on the counter, he plucks the first piece of toast out of the toaster and drops it on the plate.

"Dude," Dean's voice comes from behind him. "Isn't that hot?"

Glancing at his fingers, Sam instantly notices the red burns on his skin. They're not terrible, but he still should have felt something, which leads him to say, "...No?"

Dean peers over to see the burns and lights shakes his head. "Weird."

While he rummages through the fridge, Sam deposits the other piece of toast on his plate. He grabs it and turns, leaning against the counter again as he pokes the food experimentally.

"You afraid it's gonna move or something?"

"Shut up, Dean."

"Touchy."

Sam rolls his eyes, picking up a piece of toast. He waits a few seconds before taking a bite, but he knows it's not going to work. He still can't taste anything.

He just doesn't understand it. Is he imagining this? He doesn't know why he would.

"Sam," Dean calls out, uncapping a beer. "You okay?"

"Mmph."

"Yeah, 'cause that tells me so much."

Ignoring his brother - somehow an easier task than eating - Sam tries again, taking another, smaller bite. He swallows and flexes his jaw with annoyance. Maybe he could have understood this happening at breakfast; he was still exhausted from the nightmare and thinking about the upcoming hunt. But why can't he taste a simple piece of toast?

He tosses the plate aside in frustration, meaning for it to land on the counter, except-

"SAM!"

The crash of porcelain on the floor stabs straight through Sam's ears, and he braces his hands on the counter, shaking his head to stop the ringing again. He blinks and looks down at the shards of what used to be a plate scattered at his feet, the toast laying limp in the middle of it all. "...Fuck..."

"What the hell was that?" Dean asks, and Sam looks up at him. "I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, I know. But you're more out of it than we thought if you missed that bad."

Sam flinches at the remark, although he can't say it's wrong. Dean sets his beer on the counter and says, "Stay here, I'll go get a broom."

Mary and Castiel have appeared in the doorway, Sam realizes then. Mary asks, "What happened?"

"Sam dropped a plate," Dean says. "It's fine, I'm taking care of it."

He shrugs past them to leave the room, while Sam stares down at the broken plate again. He has no idea what came over him. Did he forget he was facing away from the counter?

"Sam," Cas speaks up. "You should step away."

"Yeah - Yeah," Clearing his throat, Sam shuffles a bit to the side, until he can step around the mess. With a defeated shrug, he says, "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," Mary assures. "It was an accident. Dean said he's taking care of it?"

"He's, uh, getting a broom."

"Okay, well, do you want me to make something?"

"I'm not hungry anymore."

Sam silently kicks himself when he sees the concern in Mary's eyes, even though she nods with another quiet, "Okay."

"I'm going to check on Jack," Cas says. "He must have heard the commotion."

He leaves, and Mary takes to standing by the door, seemingly to wait for Dean. Sam, meanwhile, keeps wondering how he could have screwed that up.

Next thing he knows, he's leaning down, grabbing the toast out from amidst the shards. It's better, but something in the back of his brain still itches. It's not right.

Before he can stop himself, he's grabbing one of the shards - he barely feels it slicing through his palm. What he does register is Mary shouting his name, then she appears at his side. "Sam, I need you to let that go. Sam? Are you listening?"

Limply, Sam drops the shard, and the iron-rich scent of his blood as it runs down his hand almost smacks him in the face. there's something else, there, though. It's almost...stale?

He's smelt his own blood hundreds of times before, be it for rituals or during the far-too-big handful of times he's been tortured. He knows what it should smell like, but for some reason, it feels different.

"Come on, stand up," Mary's talking gently, pulling him to his feet. She presses a dish towel to Sam's injured hand. "Let's get you to the infirmary."

As she leads him out of the room, Sam realizes what the problem is; his blood smells like that crypt back in Apocalypse World, like the vampires that tore him apart.

It smells like death.

/// 

He's drifting after that, not even feeling it as Mary cleans his hand and wraps it in gauze. Cas and Jack both appear at some point, and then Dean, all of them crowded in the infirmary.

The last time anyone looked at Sam like they do was after his Wall broke. He hates seeing it again.

"Did you clean it?" He asks Dean, and his voice sounds almost hollow. Not reassuring, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'm going back to my room."

"Sam-" Mary tries as he stands from the bed.

"Mom - I don't want to talk about it," Sam raises his uninjured hand. "Please."

Mary nods, and so he slips past the group and out the door, back to his room. Again, he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall as he does some self-reflection.

He looks like a living corpse. He can't taste food anymore, can barely even feel pain. Apparently, he underestimates his strength, if he can throw a plate in his poor condition and it still shatters. Worst of all, in his opinion, he's missing time, something that hasn't happened since Gadreel.

There's no angel in him, he knows that for sure. But he still feels...wrong, not to mention the weird change in his blood's scent. he might have imagined that, though; he doesn't exactly feel coherent.

Deciding he'll just see what happens if he sleeps it off, he moves back against the headboard. Laying down on his side, he curls up slightly and holds his injured hand, pushing aside thoughts of the psych ward as he looks at the blood seeping through the gauze.

No Lucifer. No Gadreel. Just Sam - a little messed up, right now, but only Sam.

He's fine.

He's fine.

/// 

When he falls asleep, the nightmare is different. He sees Lucifer in that dark, decrepit room, the pack of vampires waiting in the shadows to lunge at him agin once his former tormentor gives the 'okay'. He can hear the growling and hissing, his skin still burns where it was knitted back together, and he's making an impossible choice. He can't let Lucifer near Jack, won't let him corrupt the kid, but he's terrified, and he can't die, he won't die, not again-

As usual, he wakes with a gasp, hand instinctively going to his neck. Still intact, he forces himself to remember. He's in the bunker, Lucifer is in another dimension and he can't touch Jack. They're safe. He's safe.

Except he doubts he'll ever feel safe again.

Sitting up, he leans on the headboard again, blinking through the haze of the light in his eyes - he clearly forgot to turn the switch off. He lifts a leg half-way and props his injured hand on his knee, studying it; the gauze doesn't look any bloodier than before.

Maybe it's time to change it, he figures. He doesn't know how long it's been, but he checks the time: 2PM. At worst, he'll just have to get the wound disinfected again if it's not closed by now.

Fixing his position, he spends a minute working at the gauze, until it's finally off. It falls onto the bed as he stares at what should be, at most, an ugly scar on his palm. He has to squint to see it, a slightly razed strip of reddish skin.

It hasn't been more than a few hours, as far as he knows. There is no possible way the wound should already be healed.

A sinking feeling grows in the pit of his stomach. He fumbles to grab the gauze, still reeking of his stale blood, and all-but bursts into the bathroom, throwing the gauze in the trash and planting his hands on the sink.

He can't breathe. Why can't he breathe?

Panic attack, his brain supplies for him. He inhales deeply, staring wide-eyed into the mirror as he lets it back out. He needs to calm down.

When his lungs finally start cooperating again, he slips to the floor, back against the wall. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he folds his arms over them, his should-be-injured hand tucked under the other one, where he can't see it. Time to go over the list again.

He looks like a living corpse. He can't taste food or feel pain. He's stronger than he should be. He's missing time. He's healing far too fast.

The normal human side of him refuses to see it, can't see it. But the hunter side knows, knows far too much to pretend he doesn't.

As soon as he can get up from the floor, he's tearing the library apart. He doesn't know when that will be, hopefully when the others are asleep and can't ask questions, but he needs to research. Research will make him feel better, it always does.

Except, he thinks as he shifts and starts staring at the wall again, I'm not sure I'll like what I find.

Chapter Text

Sam doesn't truly know how long it is that he's staring blankly at that wall for; he hates the feeling of missing time, but realistically, he knows his brain us trying to protect him from the inevitable.

"Can't avoid it forever," He tells himself quietly. "I need answers."

Carefully, he moves to stand - his limbs feel heavy, and his stomach is still rolling. He takes a second to splash col water on his face, pointedly not looking at his reflection as he smooths his hand back over his hair, then he turns to leave.

When he peers through his bedroom door, he sees the lights in the hallway are off, and his shoulders slump a bit with relief. The others must be asleep; he won't have to explain himself just yet.

He navigates to the library with ease, which makes sense considering how much time he spends there, yet he can't help but consider how his vision in the dark has obviously improved. Pushing it aside, however, he begins combing the shelves, tossing as many books that suit his need onto the table as possible.

Once every book on vampires that he could find is at his disposal, Sam rests his hands on the back of a chair with a deep exhale. "I can do this...I can do this."

Nodding resolutely, he pulls the chair back to sit down and cracks open the first book.

///

Around a half-hour later, a large handful of the books are stacked neatly at one end of the table, already gone through. Sam's always been a fast reader, especially when it's this urgent.

He's going through a book about the anatomy and characteristics of vampires now, seeing how many he can recognize in himself.

Enhanced senses? Check.

Healing factor? Check.

Superior strength? Check.

No heart-

Wait.

"No heartbeat," Sam mutters under his breath, reading the words over and over.

He knows vamps don't have heartbeats; they're undead, of course they don't. Just as he's thinking there's no way he could relate to this one, he has a crushing realization.

Even after those awful nightmares, even during that panic attack just forty minutes ago...he never heard, or felt, his heart beating...

No, he has to check. He has to check.

His fingers numbly move to his wrist, but they pause there. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces himself to move, pressing his fingertips right on his pulse-point and straining his ears.

There's no steady thrum of his heart, no sensation of blood pumping. He suddenly feels light-headed, but he's not done. Fumbling, he pulls at the collar of his long-sleeve t-shirt, ensuring skin-to-skin contact as he presses his palm over the left side of his chest.

Still nothing.

"Fuck," He says, voice barely above a strangled whisper. "Fuck."

He's scrambling out of his seat then, backing away from the table - the corner of a bookshelf digs into his spine, but he doesn't care. He's a...he can't even say it.

Lucifer did this, a little voice in the back of his head points out. He put Sam back together, but of course, he didn't care about the consequences. Bastard.

"I should've known," Sam quietly says, wrapping his arms around himself. "I really thought he'd bring me back without a catch? Taking him to Jack wasn't enough - what, did he need the extra incentive? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Stumbling forward, he plants his hands on the back of the chair again, trembling slightly. What the hell is he supposed to do? Does he even have an Alpha? How is he supposed to know which vampire turned him, never mind get back to Apocalypse World?

Even if he could, it's been over a week. That realization hits him like a slap in the face, and he screams, picking up the book he'd been reading and throwing it at the wall, where it cracks the wood before falling harshly to the ground. The others will be here soon, but Sam doesn't care, can't focus as he returns to leaning against that bookshelf, sliding down to the floor with his hands clutching his head.

He's run out of time. There's no cure...

There's no cure.

/// 

"Sam?"

The voice - Mary's voice - comes through the haze that Sam has once again found himself in. He lifts his head and locks eyes with his mother, kneeling in front of him. Hoarsely, he says, "Mom."

"Hey. Are you alright?"

Instead of brushing it off like usual, Sam shakes his head, tears building behind his eyes. He can't do this. He can't.

Dean comes into view then, leaning over to say, "Deep breaths, man. You wanna tell us what happened?"

"I-..."

God, he can't even speak. 

"What is all of this?" Castiel asks, looking through the stacks of books on the table. Jack brings over the one Sam had thrown earlier, showing everyone the cover. "They're all folklore books or studies the, uh, British Men of Letters did about vampires."

Well, there goes any chance Sam had of stalling.

Dean goes to take the book from Jack, skimming through the pages. He glances at the covers of the other books and looks over at Sam. "This has gotta be every book on vamps we have. You know this stuff. What - What's this about?"

As all eyes turn to Sam, he swallows, building up his nerve. They need to know. With Mary's help, he stands, thanking her quietly before they join the others at the table.

Sam drums his fingers lightly on the edge of the table, choosing his next words carefully. "It started with breakfast today - or, yesterday now," He finally says, eyes downcast. "Happened again when I tried to make toast. Uh...I can't taste anything."

He lifts his gaze long enough to see everyone glancing at each other in confusion. Jack is the one to speak, curious - and concerned - as ever. "What?"

"I can't," Sam repeats with a shrug. "I've tried. It's not even that the food is too bland, it just tastes like...nothing at all. I had to push myself to finish breakfast, but I really thought it was a fluke. So when it happened again...I guess I freaked out."

"...Okay," Mary says after a few heavy seconds of silence. "You said it started with that. So there's more?"

"Yeah. Uh," Sam clears his throat softly and looks at Dean. "Remember I asked you to turn down the radio in the car? My ears just...couldn't take it," He gestures vaguely to his left ear. "It was like I could hear everything at once, and it hurt. A lot."

"God, that's why you looked so damn relieved - Sammy, you could've told me the truth."

"Yeah, maybe. Just...even now, it's hard to explain."

"So what else is there? The hunt?"

"The hunt," Sam nods softly, drumming his fingers on the table again. He stops and lets out a breath, knowing this is where the hard part begins. "You guys know it was a rugaru. We're all familiar - except maybe Jack."

"I read about them while you were gone," Jack says. "They're cannibals, right?"

"Monsters that feed on humans, yeah. So, uh, we got to the house - family of four, you know - and...they were already gone. The rugaru was still eating the father when we showed up."

Mary solemnly shakes her head, and Cas puts an arm around Jack's shoulders as he gapes. Much to Sam's relief, Dean then chimes in. "I burned the bastard, and we searched the house to be safe. Came up empty, so we left. In and out."

"Except I wasn't exactly okay," Sam reluctantly admits. "Dean already told you this, but I threw up on the side of the road. I just-...It's never been a problem before, but the smell. Blood...rotting human flesh...it was overwhelming, I'm surprised I kept it together for that long."

Dean reaches over to pat his arm, and Sam gives him a small nod of appreciation. Castiel asks, "Is there anything else?"

"Little things. I can see better in the dark. I'm stronger than I really should be when I feel like such crap. And, uh," Sam flexes his right hand, before lifting it to show everyone his scarred palm. "My hand healed."

The wide eyes he gets don't ease his discomfort in any way.

"How-?" Mary gently takes his hand, studying it. "That's impossible."

"It is," Sam agrees. "Unless..."

"Don't, man," Dean shakes his head, arms folded over a chair now. "Don't."

"I can't keep ignoring the signs, Dean! If I'm right about this, then we can't fix it. Maybe..."

Sam wills his brain and mouth to cooperate. Just say it.

"Maybe I'm a vampire."

///

They're all scattered around the room a few minutes later; Mary is at the table skimming through one of the books; Sam is across from her, staring up at the ceiling; Cas and Jack are standing by with matching expressions of disbelief; and Dean is pacing a rut into the floor. 

Speaking of Dean, he's the one to finally break the silence they've fallen into, stopping mid-stride and running a hand over his face. "...How the hell did this happen?"

"Lucifer," Sam says, eyes still on the ceiling. "I never told you guys this, but...when he brought me back, he had all the vampires there with us. He was holding them off, but he was ready to let them go so they could kill me again...and again...if I didn't bring him to the camp."

"He manipulated you," Mary says.

"Yeah, um, he...he's good at that. I'm his-" Sam's voice breaks slightly. "I'm his favorite toy, y'know? And every time I stop doing what he wants...he breaks me until I have to."

Thinking back to that day in Apocalypse World, he scoffs darkly. " 'I gave Sammy an extra life', he said. An eternal one is more like it."

"Sam-"

"Vampires can't die!" Sam cuts Cas off, looking over at him. "I told you, even if we could find a cure, it's too late. This is who - what - I am now."

He kicks back his chair to stand up, gesturing emphatically. "I look like a reanimated corpse, because I am one! I can barely sleep, my senses are dialed up to a hundred - I can't eat anymore! I'm gonna have to start-" He pauses, that sick feeling coming over him again. "Oh, God, I'm gonna have to start drinking blood."

"Sammy," Dean's beside him in an instant, a grounding hand on his bicep. "Breathe."

"Dean, I-," Sam fumbles, and grasping at his brother's shirt. "I can't, not again-"

"Shh, calm down, then we'll talk."

Sam doesn't know how long it is until he gets his breathing under control, but he does. He looks around at everyone; Dean's still right there with that protective grip; Cas is frowning with understanding, and, of course, Mary and Jack look confused. Mary asks, which Sam had bee dreading since he realized his slip-up, "Did you say 'again'?"

With a sigh, Sam gently shrugs Dean off and returns to the table, resting his hand on the back of what used to be his chair. "Azazel's special children didn't stop drinking his blood as newborns. He wanted us as powerful as we could be, and he used demons to manipulate us into drinking more...I was addicted. For a long time."

"Oh, Sam," Mary is out of her chair in seconds, giving him a hug. "I - I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Mom."

"Point is, he's scared," Dean chimes in. "And it makes sense. This is like giving a junkie heroin and tellin' him he needs it to live - only this time, it's true."

Sam closes his eyes, flashing back to the sensations of drinking demon blood, the sheer power of it. He could knock multiple demons out just with a thought...and just like back then, if he starts drinking, he'll only get stronger. He doesn't know if he can face that, after this long.

He pulls away from Mary to look around at everyone. "I don't know what to do. Demons, I could sort of reconcile with, but if I have to start drinking from humans, I-..."

"We'll figure something out," Dean says, and Mary nods along. "It's going to be okay."

Mirthlessly, Sam chuckles. "I don't feel okay."

The tears finally come, and he numbly wipes one away as it falls down his cheek. His skin feels unnaturally cold. "I'm a monster...again...and this time, I can't do anything to change it."

Another cold bout of silence fills the room. Dean is the first to move, wrapping an arm around Sam's shoulder, then Mary follows with a hand on his back. Cas and Jack keep their distance, but they all share the same look of sympathy that Sam feels he doesn't deserve.

"I've got demon blood in me, Dean! It's pumping through my veins and I can't ever rip it out or scrub it clean! I'm a whole new level of freak!"

In recent years, he'd only just begun to accept that that may not be true, that he could actually be a person. Not Azazel's puppet, not Lucifer's vessel, not a monster...just Sam Winchester.

Now look where he is.

That's what I get for wishful thinking.

Chapter Text

Eventually, the concern from the others starts to weigh on Sam a bit too much for his liking. Limply wiping his tears away with his sleeves, he says, "I'm going back to my room...again."

"Are you sure, Sam?" Mary asks, and the gentle tone that was comforting before grates. "We should really talk about this."

"Later, please? I just...want to be alone, right now."

Mary shares a look with Dean, and Dean says, "Okay, man. I don't think any of us are goin' back to sleep-"

"No," Mary agrees, as Jack lightly shakes his head.

"-But we'll give you your space. Can't promise it'll be for long, though."

"Didn't think it would," Sam says with the flicker of a weak smile. "I just need some time to process...everything."

"We understand," Castiel chimes in. "You can go."

Mary gently pats Sam's back before drawing her hand away, and Dean ruffles Sam's hair as he does the same. Sam smooths his hair back down with a half-hearted glare, rolling his eyes fondly in response to Dean's grin. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

The fact they're all treating this like it's normal is nice...however briefly, and however wrong they are.

Sam glances around at the group and turns to leave, taking a second to watch as they start grabbing books off the table, assumedly to return them to the shelves. He glances at the crack he'd made in the wall with that one book, and his hands twitch.

He doesn't like being this strong. It reminds him of being hyped up on demon blood...of Lucifer.

in a blink, he remembers sitting in a time-worn church, his hands - but not really his, not anymore - covered in blood. He remembers white-hot rage as he stared through the mirror at his own face, how he'd growled, "I'm gonna rip you apart from the inside out."

It's been a long time since he's resonated so much with that. Lucifer should feel lucky they left him behind in Apocalypse World, or else Sam wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. Bastard deserves it for everything he's done, but turning Sam into this...

He swallows, blinking more tears away and continuing his walk down the hall. His hand slips a few times as he's opening his bedroom door, but he manages and steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

Only then, when he's finally alone, does he sink to the floor, drop his head into his knees, and sob.

/// 

Starting to become routine, but Sam doesn't know how much time passes from there. He runs out of tears soon enough - it might be the last of them; he doesn't know if vampires can even cry - and he moves to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His hand falls limply over his chest, where his heartbeat once was, and the silence is still painful.

At some point, he gets up and stumbles to the bathroom, coming face-to-face with his reflection again. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them pink, but that's likely more from all the crying than anything else. His skin has lost more of its color, and as he grazes his fingers over his cheek, he confirms it's still cold to the touch.

He never completely came back after what happened to him - he knows that, but he's never understood it so profoundly until now. He never came back alive; he's still dead, he's just masquerading among the living.

Resting one hand on the edge of the sink, he puts the other on his head with a bitter laugh at that last thought. He never did belong, did he?

For the first time since Apocalypse World, at least that he's noticed, his stomach rumbles. He realizes then that he's been starving for the last few days; even eating food, before it had lost its taste, hadn't done anything for him. He needs blood, and soon, or else-

His brain stutters, and he plants both hands on the sink to ground himself.

-Or else he'll become like the vampires that killed him. A mindless husk, tearing apart the first thing he can catch that has a pulse. 

Before he can stop himself, he's dry-heaving, but nothing comes out - it's not like he's eaten anything. He turns on the faucet and practically slaps himself with the cold water, staring resolutely into his own eyes in the mirror. It won't come to that, it won't. He'll just have to...adapt to his new diet.

"Regularly drinking blood again," He muses quietly, and he hates how resigned he sounds, and feels. "Guess I don't have a choice."

On that last word, his voice breaks, and he sets his jaw. He still can't bring himself to cry anymore, but a strangled noise comes from his lips as he bows his head. "Dammit."

Just once, he wants to dictate his own life - or, afterlife. The path has always been laid out for him, he's always been made into a monster. Even letting Lucifer in was pre-destined.

Leaving the bathroom, he lays back down and resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. He doesn't have to blink as often now, he notices after some time. Counting the cracks and marks, like always, takes his mind off this living nightmare, just for a little.

Small mercies.

///

There's a knock at the door, and Sam flinches. He can hear each individual grain of wood pressing against knuckles. He'll have to work on managing his enhanced senses.

"It's open," He calls out before the knocking can start again, turning his head to snap his fingers next to his ear. They're not ringing, but oddly, it still makes him feel better.

Dean opens the door and comes in, shutting it behind him. "Hey, man. How you holding up?"

"Not - Not great."

"Yeah, stupid question."

A beat passes, and they both laugh softly - for a moment, Sam feels lighter than he has in days. Then Dean wanders over and pulls out the chair at the desk, sitting backwards so he can face the bed. "It's not the same, and it was so damn long ago, but I remember when I was turned."

"Yeah, me too."

"Wasn't the best couple of hours. It's been, like, a week for you, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, but it - it just started getting bad."

"You damn near put a hole in the wall. I think 'bad' is being generous."

Sam chuckles dryly, adjusting his folded hands on his chest. "Fair."

His eyes have wandered back to the ceiling, but they return to Dean as he says, "You're not a monster, Sammy."

"Of course you'd say that."

" 'Cause it's true. We've ganked probably hundreds of vamps, and you're nothing like them. Besides, not all of 'em are bad - remember Benny?"

"I barely knew the guy."

"Well, my point stands. He was an exception; you can be one too."

Sam sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I know. I'm starting to accept that this is forever...that I'm gonna have to live off blood, that I'm never going to die again...but it's hard."

"Since when have our lives been easy?" Dean asks, and he chuckles again. "Stop making sense."

Dean gets up and comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed facing him. "We're gonna do this together, yeah? All of us, we're gonna help you through it. I'll get used to keeping the radio at a normal volume, for one."

He grins when Sam musters another weak laugh. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You were there for me when I was in your spot. We might not be able to cure you, but I can still return the favor."

"Thanks, Dean."

"Least I could do. You're my brother, and nothing's gonna change that."

There are still no tears, but Sam feels pressure behind his eyes anyway as he nods. Dean gives him a brief hug, patting his arm after. "We'll take it one step at a time."

"Yeah," Sam nods again, shutting his eyes and letting out a small breath. Some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders.

It's not an instant relief or anything - there's still the empty ache in his chest weighing on him, and he's going to have to muster a lot of willpower to even try drinking blood again - but he can do this.

One step at a time.