ataraxionlogs | Remember what the dormouse said...

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Remember what the dormouse said...

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester and you~
LOCATION: Various; SEC, hallways, bar/lounge, gun range are typical hangouts. Wherever's clever.
WARNINGS: Addiciton behavior
SUMMARY: Sam's jonesing for a hit of demon blood, and fighting it...poorly.
NOTES: I apologize in advance for what could be a dickish attitude. The younger Winchester brother is having a rough go of it.

His first week aboard the ship, he'd thought he might be okay. That whatever was in those tubes had cured him of his need for it, cleaned him out and left him normal.

Turns out he'd just had so much in his final quest to kill Lilith that it had taken longer to start to leave his system, and as the days dragged on, he'd been left in a very bad way. His temper started to spike involuntarily, his vision grew dizzy, his body started to physically ache, and the headaches intensified.

He remembered all too clearly how awful it had been to get clean the first time, locked in that room, the pain and the hallucinations taking over, and that had been for a lot less. He could only imagine what it would be like after what he'd had, and he wondered if it might even kill him this time around. He didn't want to be tied to the stuff, and he knew it wouldn't last forever, but maybe he could deal with it himself, little by little.

That wasn't going so hot, either.

The flask in his pocket wasn't full, and he tried to ration it out to himself over the days and weeks, but it was only a matter of time before Dean caught on. He was pretty sure his brother would know the signs, even if he tried to hide it, and Sam could only hope that the years had dulled his memory of these times.

Today was a bad day, where he was trying to hold out a little longer, beads of sweat forming on his brow, and he was probably spiking a fever here and there as he tried to ignore it, all the while avoiding people he knew who might notice. But it's hard to hide too well when there's only so many safe places you can go.

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He's late for their usual patrol. That's when it hits her to go patrolling for him instead of with him. The weirdness had started at the jump—at least, that was the first time she noticed it. Maybe, she'd thought at first, he was just different than she remembered. After all, it'd been a year, for Emma. Things change.

But this isn't like him. At least not like how she'd used to know him.

She tracks him down to a hallway that used to be dark, creaks and aches echoing from deep within the retreating shadows, spots him leaning against a wall with a flask in hand. These dark corners are just about the only place to get real privacy, but as for why he'd want it … She can't imagine.

"Sam?" It almost feels as if she needs to double-check that it's him. Brow furrowed, Emma puts her gun away and approaches. "Where have you been? You were supposed to be at the SEC station a half hour ago: it's our patrol."

He'd been staring at it awhile, wanting and yet fighting, because he should be able to be stronger than this, but he also knows what will happen if he waits too long and he's in the wrong place.

He slips the flask into his pocket as he hears his name, and no doubt he looks a little like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, only a little more stressed and sickly.

"Emma..." he says, running his hands down his face in a quick attempt to get his shit together. "Sorry, I must have lost track of time. You shouldn't have had to come looking for me."

"No, I shouldn't have." Her tone sharply reiterates that criticism, but it's also layered with worry. On the one hand, yeah, it's a kick in the ass that she vouched for him and he's skirting patrol. On the other hand, he's not the type to do it, or she wouldn't have recommended him to SEC in the first place. So she's understandably worried. "And you sure as hell shouldn't be drinking instead." She throws one hand forward to gesture to the flask he'd just pocketed. Sleight of hand is old hat for her, more familiar than actual, legitimate patrols. "Sam, what's going on?"

He bristles a little at that, and when he replies, the words are defensive, his arms crossing over his chest in what is quite obviously a body language interpretation of him abruptly emotionally closing off.

"I went home for a whole two years during the jump. I'm readjusting to the ship schedule, and I must have forgotten some things."

Which isn't entirely false, but he also can't say that his withdrawal isn't making him more scatter-brained than usual.

Something about it doesn't sit right.

Emma's eyes narrow on him. For the most part, the way her expression slacks is apologetic and disarmed. She doesn't want to bust his chops for being out of sorts because she's been there. On the other hand, when she came back, the first thing she did was check in with Tyke and get set back up with SEC duty.

Standard procedure, following a jump.

But whatever Sam isn't telling her, pushing him isn't going to get it out of him. She hesitates for an awkward moment's silence, then she raises her thumb to jerk back over her shoulder in a gesture.

"We're floors one to three," She says finally, inviting him to join her and get to work rather than keep up this uncomfortable stand-off near the darkened corridors. If she gets him walking with her, maybe she can tackle it from a less abrasive angle.

Even if he felt comfortable telling her, he can't imagine that she'd even believe the truth, and he assumes she's probably just think he was telling tall tales to keep from telling her what was really going on.

He watches her until she finally speaks, and he gives her a jerky nod in response, pushing off the wall and moving through the hallways toward her, heading back toward where it's actually safe to roam.

"Better late than never," he attempts to say passively, though it comes out more as if he needs to fill the empty space with some kind of noise.

Even as he steps into pace beside her, he can feel the weight of the flask in his pocket, and somehow it feels like a million pounds instead of a couple of ounces.

Turning, Emma heads back for the lift, keeping pace beside him. Silence falls between them for a few minutes after that, and she takes lead, tapping the first level button for the elevator as they get in. It's not until they're free of the lift that she opts to speak up, not wanting it to seem like she's cornering him. The first floor is mostly empty—this time of day, whatever time that is, most people are asleep. Even without real days, or real sun, they fall into natural rhythms.

"Long couple of years?" She glances sidelong at him, raising an eyebrow. A shrug follows, innocuous enough. "I know the feeling. I went back for a year, last jump. It's hard to get back into the swing of things." It wasn't, actually. Not for her. Some relationships took re-navigating, but the routine was simple enough. It was easier, actually, knowing everything was okay back home.

"Yeah."

The answer is quick and he sounds almost resigned, like he already accepts the fact that he's going to have to talk about this a little bit.

"A lot of death, a lot of drama. Dean and I got into some pretty big fights. And he's still half a dozen years ahead of me, so they don't have the same impact for him anymore. It's just kind of hard to deal with."

It's pretty obvious that he's skimming over some things, like who died and what they were fighting about, but he's kind of hoping she just doesn't ask.

"Some people prefer the past to be the past." Trite as it may sound, Emma's eyes darken with the words. Leaving Neal behind was something she once thought best for her—putting it out of her mind. It wasn't until she couldn't that she really forced herself to confront everything going on there. Still, if he were to come back now …

That's not something she'd deal with, if she could help it. Not because of any lingering feelings, but because she's moving on. Happily. Her life is in a different place, now. No doubt Dean's is too.

"Doesn't make it easier when it's not that clean cut for you." Turning to look at him, she offers a nod of understanding. It's tough. She gets that, and she's not going to pry like it's her business. But maybe her understanding will welcome him to feel more open to sharing. "Did you try talking to him?" Or just assume he wouldn't want to.

"No, I get that. Some things are just hard to let go, you know?"

Like being called a monster, knowing full well how much he must have believed it at the time to literally come out and say it.

"Right. Exactly." Nothing was ever clean cut it seemed anymore, and his addiction was only making it worse. The lies, the hiding. He could only get away with it for so long.

He shakes his head. "A little, right after the jump. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't kind of avoiding him right now." He looks over at her, a shade of appreciation for her attempt at sympathy in his eyes. "I just have to deal with some stuff before I can move on."

"Look, Sam." Normally, she tries not to be the one for pep talks. Mary Margaret and Henry are so on top of the pep talks that they might as well have a monopoly on the market. But Henry isn't here, and Mary Margaret isn't the one here with Sam right now. So she hesitates mid-stride, glancing over at him and tipping her head a little. "I don't doubt that you came back carrying something heavy."

When she points to the pocket he'd slipped his flask into, it's entirely in reference to the fact that it's obviously driven him to drink. But then there's the strange appropriateness of how heavy his drugs must be to carry around too. She just has no idea the extent of it.

"But that's what family's for. They have a way of making it a little lighter."

No matter what Current Sam may think, Dean Winchester is not, in fact, a total fucking idiot. Although he was more than happy to try and lay to rest his initial suspicions after the jump, Sam's behavior trips more than a few wires in his head that sends his gut plummeting into resigned understanding. It's like watching a ghost, it's like deja vu, it's like a repeat of a marathon he'd seen a dozen times before. He's lived this crap, and he knows what all this behavior means. He knows what the snapping means, what the- the avoiding, the hiding, the excuses, the fever, the disappearing act, he knows what it stands for.

And when Sam's late for another shift, when Sam falls off the grid, when someone contacts him asking him where his brother is, he knows what it means. Sam's not in his room, he's not in the kitchens, or the bars, or any of his usual haunts, which means he's taken himself off the beaten path.

It's time to sort through this shit.

He fires off a quick text for backup, and then heads out into less-charted territories. Heads off into the hallways, scoping around with speed and frustration until he finds his mark. He's triumphant when he rounds a corner and spots the back of Sam's head, footsteps slowing into something silent and deliberate.

If he can catch Sam in the act, this'll all be a lot more out in the open. It'll involve pulling a lot fewer teeth if they can just skip the lies.

Sam knows that Emma can't possibly know what the real issue is, not unless Dean's gone around telling people to keep an eye out, but it doesn't matter. It still has his entire body going rigid as he tries to let logic win over his gut reaction to the very reference to what's in his pocket.

"Not this time," he says finally, and it comes out forced and hard. He lets that hang for a moment before he finally speaks again, trying to smooth out the edges in his voice.

"Dean's dealt with this too many times already. I'm not going to make it his problem this time. I can handle it."

Except he's firmly planted in the land of denail. He can't handle it, and he's not doing anything except prolonging the inevitable. He just hasn't faced that reality yet.

He knows. As much as he tried to deny it, think that he's hiding it well, he knows damn well that Dean will put things together eventually. He just wants to get his shit together before that happens, deal with it on his own terms, because he hasn't accepted the fact that he's not, in fact, okay and that dealing with it on his own is only making it all worse.

Not to mention the fact that his brother probably figured it out a long time ago. Sam's never been that great of a liar, let's be honest.

He hears the footsteps, but he doesn't automatically assume it's Dean coming to look for him. It doesn't really matter who ratted him out in the end, because maybe he's really been waiting for this the whole time, for his hand to be forced because he sure as hell hasn't figured out how to do it for himself.

He's already got the mouth of the flask open, pressing his thumb to the opening so he just get a drop, because that's all he needs really. Just enough to calm the quakes and the blurry vision. He turns his head to the side, and even then it would take someone looking hard to notice the smear of red before it disappears inside his mouth, the flask disappearing into his pocket as he turns back towards the brighter hallways.

He has time to breath one sigh of relief as his head clears almost instantly, his senses returning to their normal clarity, before he sees him out of the corner of his eyes. Dean.

He already knows he's screwed. It's written, plain as day, all over his face.

"I didn't know you were looking for me."

The words come out tight, already defensive, because he knows he's about to get Hell for this. It's just a matter of waiting for it.

Her voice quiets, the softness of it making it all too apparent that she's doing it for his sake. The shift is placating more than anything, but also for Sam's privacy as she remarks, "Drinking and ditching your shifts isn't handling it. If Tyke knew about this—" And it's hard for Emma, after this long, not to loop Tyke in, but she has no plans to.

If Dean had been five years younger, his reaction would be startlingly different. If he were from the same time as Sam, he'd be flying off the handle. He'd be demanding answers, demanding an explanation, asking a thousand questions: how could you and did you think you could hide this being probably the first of them to fly out of his mouth. That version of him, that Past Him would feel so betrayed, so abruptly and righteously angry, and things would start to escalate the second the words came out of Sam's mouth.

But things are different. Now, he feels a bone-deep weariness, a anguish and a resignation in his gut because he knew this was going to happen. Knew it as soon as he saw Sam for the first time after the jump, knew it with every time Sam slipped off to himself. With every cold sweat or snapped response, he knew it. And now, he's seen the proof with his own eyes.

Rather than starting this off with fierce anger, there's something of a distant hollowness to his eyes and his posture. He doesn't respond to that bullshit line, that tight defensiveness, doesn't fire back an argument.

Just holds out a hand.

"Hand it over, Sam. Give it to me." He orders flatly, emptily, leaving no room for discussion. That's order of business number one.

"I'm not drunk, Emma. I'll take whatever sobriety tests you want, but I promise, I'm not drunk."

He knows that will only give her more questions, ones that he won't probably be able to answer without raising some pretty intense eyebrows, but he doesn't want her thinking that.

Even if the truth is worse. He could tell her that he's sick, but then she'd drag him to sick bay, probably, and they wouldn't be able to help him, either.

"Like I said, I lost track of time. It won't happen again."

He waits for hell, and it doesn't come. There's no shouting, no accusations, no fists flying at his face, and Sam doesn't know what to do. It would have been so much easier to accept that kind of punishment, to feel his brother's anger, when Sam already knows he deserves it.

But it isn't there, and all that's left is just this disappointment, and it's so much worse.

Sam stands there, frozen for a moment as if he doesn't know how to deal with how this is going, because he was prepared to defend himself, and there's nothing to defend. Just a single order, and it's not one that he thinks he can do.

"Dean, I can't. You know what will happen if I do that."

He'll lose control. He'll flip out. See things. Hurt himself, hurt someone else.

Or so he keeps telling himself. Maybe that's the addiction talking, too.

Over the course of Emma's life, she's been let down a lot. When a man promises her something, she's disinclined to believe it, as a result. Especially men. But looking at Sam, she struggles to see past that haze of pessimism, tries to hold onto all the recent evidence that's proven her wrong. Not about him specifically, but in her aggressive negativity.

Finally, she sighs.

"Okay." She just nods. It's bigger than he'll probably realize, that she's just letting it go at that. Her shoulders shrug out as she accepts it. "I'll … trust that whatever it is, you've got it under control." A smile strikes her and she nods, encouraging.

That's the thing, ain't it? Anger's easy, anger's a pretty simple default for Dean to switch to, but when it comes to this bullshit? He's so far beyond anger. He's so far beyond pissed, he's cold and friggin' numb to Sam's plight about the whole thing. If the kid didn't want to suffer the pain of withdrawal, he shouldn't have gotten hooked on the crap to start with. There's absolutely no damn excuse good enough in Dean's book for why this whole thing went down, and even though he's already forgiven and forgotten all that crap, it doesn't leave him with a whole hell of a lot of sympathy.

His head bobs in a little shake, just one jerk of the chin, lips turning downward. He wiggles his fingers again.

"Yeah, I do." He agrees flatly, uncompromisingly. "I've been bracing for that since day one back from the jump. Clearly you're not gonna handle it yourself, it's time to bite the bullet. Fork it over, let's go."

Fortunately for her, Sam's run in with Dean after their shift results in his avoidance of the problem busting right open, with him ending up on lockdown until he's clean. It's not happy, or pretty, but it does the job.

He won't miss another shift. Not for the forseen future.

Still, he'll remember this conversation, how he could have so easily let her down, once his mind is free from the claws of the blood. "Thanks, Emma. That means a lot," he says, even as he's trying to calm the needy uncontrollable thoughts in his brain telling him to ditch her and do what he needs to do.

He could make up a million excuses about how he'd just been trying to make the hunts work without his brother, trying to save people by not using the knife, that he thought he could trust Ruby, but that's all it would be. Excuses. He knew, deep down, that doing what he was doing couldn't go anywhere good, no matter how much he wanted it, even if he'd never had an idea of how bad it would really get.

And now he's here, and there's no going back. The fact that he hadn't had his slate wiped clean by God when he'd arrived here didn't matter. This was still his fault, and he still had to own up to it.

And Dean had known the whole time, had just been waiting for the signs to pop up. Of course he had. He'd been an idiot to think otherwise.

His hands curl into fists, he swallows hard in the back of his throat, but in the end he relents, pulling out the nearly empty flask and tossing it underhand at his brother, his expression etched with hard, stoic lines.

Blake finds himself on scene faster than expected, having popped out of the lift only minutes before. It's taken him some time to descend to the correct floor, but now that he's here, he's glad to see that no seems to be swinging fists.

Approaching from what could very arguably be considered the wrong direction, John silently peels from the shadows behind Sam. He's far from casual, but he's very clearly unarmed. He doesn't exactly present as much as a threat, being inches shorter and lean, but he comes on like a bulldog when it's necessary. For now, the former cop's stoic. Whether he has feelings one way or another, he's set them aside for this confrontation, his only intention to provide support; he'll sort out what he's supposed to feel later.

"Hey, guys." Blake announces himself. He'd rather that than draw Dean's eye and set Sam on edge at the sight of it. Maybe it wouldn't pan out that way, but he prefers this play and it keeps him at a safe distance, just out of reach.

John holds his breath for the next second, mostly in anticipation. Just in case.

The flask clears Sam's hand and Dean catches it easily, dropping his eyes to turn it over. It feels light, feels empty, and it's a struggle not to burn over how much Sam must have chugged over the course of this month. It doesn't matter. When his eyes flick up again, they take in every stoic line on Sam's face, every tense muscle, searching for an indicator as for how this is gonna go down. Whether it's a willing or a forced situation.

By the time Blake arrives, Dean's still not sure. He grants the shorter man a nod and slides the flask into his coat pocket. The flask was the smaller of the two issues Sam has to deal with now. The second, well...

He tilts his head. "We got a room set up. Somewhere locked down. We've done this a dozen times already, man, it's time to sweat it out."

He means withdrawal. He means cold turkey. There's no other way to go about it, not in his experience.

If his body had gone rigid before, it bristled at the sound of another voice, one that Sam knew well enough the owner of. He turned his head over his shoulder to look all the same, his brows furrowing in something akin to anger.

"We?" He turned back to look at his brother, his fingers flexing into fists before stretching back out again before he hooked a thumb in Blake's direction behind him. "What, are you talking to people about this? Who else knows?"

It was one thing to come to him, to demand answers, everything that had come before this moment. Sam had expected it in some corner of his mind, which was part of the reason that he'd forked over the flask so easily. It was another to air out his baggage to people who's opinions he gave a damn about behind his back.

"I don't need to be locked down, Dean. Not yet. I'll be sitting in there for a couple days at this point, and I have a job to do. What are you going to do? Knock me out and drag me away?"

They're excuses and he knows it, the words of an addict, but they fly out anyway as he searches for an escape.

Truth be told, Blake's been afforded more knowledge of this sort of thing than even he likes, but once the information's out, there's no taking it back, no unhearing it, no forgetting. On the bright side, John's not one to offer opinion or judgement, especially in this situation; he's seen his share of addicts in his lifetime and he knows it's rarely the drug of choice that matters so much as the choices that got the person in a pickle in the first place (plus a slew of other things he's not qualified to diagnose).

He doesn't have anything to say, either. He could try to assure Sam that it's just the two of them that know, but he can't exactly guarantee that. And really, if this goes bad, it might be hard to find someone who won't know, because John's got a feeling an all-out Winchester throw-down looks pretty epic on any scale and in any location.

Hopefully it won't come to that.

So, yes, if they have to knock him out and drag him away, Blake will most certainly do his part. Until then, he might as well be furniture, for all that he's adding to this bubbling brew at the moment.

Edited 2015-03-19 04:53 (UTC)

"Nobody, Sam-" He starts in, hands coming up placatingly even as he edges closer. Yeah, he should've figured Blake showing up might edge things a little toward hostility, but who the hell else did Dean have to call? Who else was there? Blake's read the Winchester gospels, he's seen it all through prose and heard it all through Dean probably a dozen times, and out of everyone on this ship, he's Dean's go-to for back-up. Aside from Sam, he's next in line for trust when matters are personal and hopefully discreet, especially if they're likely to go violent. This situation definitely qualifies for all three.

But that doesn't matter. If it had been Cas, Benny, if it had been anyone, Dean's pretty sure Sam would have been just as pissed. It's not the situation so much as it is the substance, and the inevitable, and as the excuses come tumbling out, Dean's head shakes. "You're not doing your job, Sam, you're sneaking off to take secret hits of goddamn demon blood, and I-"

He cuts himself off, then gesticulates absently. "We're not talking about this. We've been through this so many friggin' times. You can either come willingly, or I'll knock your ass out and drag you there myself, but either way this is happening."

Sorry, Blake. You're still basically wallpaper right now, just back-up. He appreciates your patience here, without a doubt.

"I didn't have a choice, Dean!"

It's a lie, and he knows it, but it sure hadn't felt like much of a choice at the time. There's always been the opportunity to ask for help, Emma had alluded to as much even if she hadn't known the truth, but he hadn't wanted to let his brother down. Again. Especially when he knew full well he'd already dealt with this before.

Look how that had panned out. Screwing up seemed to be all he was good at lately.

"When I got here I'd just...I thought it was fine." That the ship had cured him somehow. But the pangs had hit hard when they came, and it had been so much worse than before, because of how much he'd needed to finally kill Lilith.

Enough to make his eyes turn black.

"And it was just sitting in my locker. Waiting for me."

Dean might not be talking about it, but he sure was, because he'd kept it a terrible secret for too long, even before all this.

"So, what, you're just gonna lay me out and carry away someone from SEC and think they're not going to ask any questions? Yeah, I'm sure that's going to go over really well." He stares at Dean for a moment, as if he can expect any answer other than yes. Glancing back at Blake doesn't help him either, because Dean clearly asked him to be here. It's blatant 2-1 odds, and even with access to his psychic crap, they'd eventually get what they wanted.

And he can't lie to himself forever. Eventually it was going to run out, and he'd be in this boat anyway. Thinking otherwise is only him fooling himself.

"You have no idea what this is like," he says finally, though he sounds resigned at least, despite the anger and frustration in his eyes.

I didn't have a choice is the same old song and dance, and as much as Dean didn't want to have this conversation, it looks like it's coming out anyway. Truth be told, he just didn't feel like rehashing all the lame excuses, all the lies, all the bullshit, because somehow hearing it coming out of Sam's mouth was even worse than his addiction in the first place. Hearing his brother vocally shredding the trust between them to substantiate substance abuse was the worst part of this whole thing, and Dean's patience flies out the damn window.

"We're not talking about this," He repeats, voice gruff and snapping, a barking order as he surges forward, jaw set, shoulders tense, to wrap a hand around Sam's elbow. "I don't give a crap, I honestly don't. You might as well shut your damn mouth, because you're not even saying anything real. You sound like a goddamn junkie."

And with those harsh, unsympathetic words, he gives Sam a firm tug, nodding his head toward the elevator. "Come on. Take a walk. We're doing this now."

Because Dean Winchester has never been known for his patience, or his gentleness, or for taking the soft and reasonable approach. Time to jump the gun and ram the square peg into the circle hole.

His mouth snaps shut, cutting off any reply he may have even given at Dean's accusations of his addiction. It hurt to hear that, hurt worse than most things he could have said, but it hurt mostly because it was probably true. He may not have gone entirely off the deep end, but he was probably well on his way, and no amount of excuses or words could change that.

He was silent for a long moment, chewing over his options in his mind, but any of them besides relenting were thrown out. In all honestly, it was probably good he'd already had his fix. He wasn't desperate for another one yet and could actually take the time to listen and think.

He didn't have to say anything, but when Dean tugged on his arm, Sam moved his feet. He tugged his arms out of his brother's grip, but only insofar as to keep from looking like he was being dragged anywhere. He could walk there just fine on his own.

"Are you going to be able to keep this quiet?"

Maybe he was selfish for wanting to prevent some people from knowing, but they still had a life to live here. He didn't want nor need the judgmental stares from people who couldn't even begin to understand.

Not to mention that they might interfere if they saw what it was doing to him mid-dryout, and that wouldn't be good for anyone.

Sam jerks out of his grip and Dean's hands come up in a sort of fine, suit yourself asshole gesture of pure exhaustion and frustration. As long as his stupidly long legs are moving in a productive direction, Dean doesn't give a crap. He does, however, deign to pull the bitchiest, most unimpressed face he can muster at that question.

"I'll have to retrat my statement from the tabloids, Mrs. Hilton, but I think we can freakin' manage." Jesus Christ, what the hell kind of question was that even? He shoots a look at Blake, then shakes his head. "Trust me, the last thing I want is for the rest of the damn ship to know you've been huffing satanic paint thinner in the basement garage like a friggin' crackhead. Blake's here because he already knew, and because the last time we went through this you broke my fucking nose."

So it's not like there isn't a justifiable reason for the escort patrol.

"Just stop talking and keep walking." He snaps finally, mashing the elevator button.

From there, it's a short trip to the locked, cleaned-out room he had set up. There ain't much in it besides a bed and a couple gallons of water, but the beauty's in the simplicity. He'll make regular check-ins from there, but as long as Sam doesn't fly off the handle, the rest of the trip will pass with grim, unpleasant serenity.

But for real, Fuck Ruby.

Even if Dean appears harsh, Blake doesn't. He knows this is serious, understands all the implications, but that doesn't mean he's over-invested or disappointed or exhausted or frustrated — Dean's doing enough of that for all of them at one. Instead, he's aiming for... solid. Solid's good enough for these purposes. Later he'll offer the elder Winchester a chance to vent a little more, but that's definitely not necessary right now before the dust's even started to settle.

Job complete, n his way out, he offers Sam his support with a firm, but friendly grasp of his shoulder. He'll check on the other man later, but for now there's plenty of detox to deal with and the sooner it begins, the sooner it'll be over.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Remember what the dormouse said...

let me know if this works

perfect~

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