The Best of Kansas

Point of Know Return

"Sam, this has got to be the stupidest idea you've ever had."

Sam let out a sigh and looked up from the sweating, moaning, shaking form on the bed. "Dean, I looked him up, and all I can find is work-related stuff. There are a couple mentions of his mother but no contact information, and everything else is papers and dissertations and case reports." He pressed the back of his hand to the young agent's neck. "I don't like calling the FBI any more than you do, but what choice do we have?"

"He's an adult," was Dean's immediate reply, feet carrying him from one end of the room to the other and back again. "We help him through his withdrawals and send him on his way." He ran a hand through his hair and gestured to the topic of conversation. "He would probably agree with me if he weren't so out of it. I seriously doubt he wants his FBI buddies to find him in a seedy motel with two alleged psychopaths helping him through a withdrawal."

Sam watched Dean pace, staying silent long enough to prompt his brother to meet his eyes. "If I were having withdrawals, I wouldn't want you to know, either." Which is why I didn't tell you. "But you would want to know, and that would be best for everyone." Theoretically.

There were a few beats of silence, and then Dean started cursing under his breath, a sure sign he had already surrendered to Sam's way of thinking. If Dean displayed any resistance now, it was all for show.

Sam smirked a little—he couldn't help but revel in the control he had—but his attention was quickly grabbed by another spasming groan from the bed.

"Spencer." Sam shook the young man by the shoulders, using the name from the badge they found. "Spencer, my name is Sam. Can you hear me?"

Spencer tilted his head to the side and then let it fall back the other way, exhaling slowly. "Smmm..."

Sam looked at Dean, who stared uselessly, and then back at Spencer. "Hey, I need you to tell me what you were on. Okay?"

Spencer let out a groan and slowly sat up, though he didn't appear to have a goal in mind. "I..." It seemed he was moving toward voices and human contact, only half aware of what was going on around him. "Dilaudid..."

It was Sam's turn to curse, and he tried to stand up while still holding onto Spencer. He looked at Dean, who clearly didn't understand, and propped the agent against himself. "It's a hardcore narcotic. Coming off this stuff..." He shook his head.

Dean's brows shot up, concern flashing through his eyes. "Will it kill him?"

Sam shook his head. "Generally speaking, the only withdrawals known for being deadly are benzos and alcohol... sometimes Methadone." He looked down at Spencer, rubbing his shoulder. "But opioid withdrawals are the most painful, and there's not a lot you can do for them."

Dean gave Sam an odd look, but Sam refused to answer the unspoken question. He didn't need Dean to know how much Castiel's warning about demon blood had scared him—didn't need Dean to know he spent several days in a panic, wondering if demon blood had withdrawal symptoms at the dose he was on, what it would be like if it did, and whether he would survive or not. He didn't need Dean to know the answers were yes, excruciating, and yes.

He also didn't need Dean to know he spent three days in agony after saving Dean and Castiel from Alastair. He didn't need Dean to know things had gotten so unbearable he considered suicide for the first time since Dean got out of Hell. He didn't need Dean to know that, in a motel room just as cheap and seedy as the one they were in now, Sam had screamed into a pillow and begged for someone—anyone­—to help him, all the while knowing no one would answer that call, because no one cared about Sam the Junkie. Sam the Scholar was liked, Sam the Brother was loved, Sam the Hunter was respected, but Sam the Junkie? There was no room for the likes of Sam the Junkie. Sam the Junkie was cut off, isolated, left to fight his metaphorical demons alone.