Hunger.

Summary. . . . . . . . . . Sam's first months alone after the big fight are not as easy as he thought they would be.

Disclaimer. . . . . . . . . As always all recognizable figures belong to Kripke.

A.N. . . . . . . . . . What can I say, my stomach rumbled and my muse came up with this. For my story, I'm gonna have Sam leaving well before his scholarship at Stanford started, I'm gonna hazard a guess that you get quite a few months notice before you have to be there, and if not, well in my fic you do. Happy reading. Peanut x

He quickly closed the thread bare curtains, the tattered cloth sheets barely meeting in the middle and doing little to keep out the mid day sun. He staggered almost drunkenly across the small room and crawled upon the bed, feeling the rough sheets beneath his fingertips as he moved towards the head and the thin pillow that lay there. He closed his eyes as dizziness assaulted him, and buried his face deeply within the musty smelling confines, anything to try and keep the glaring light from battering his eyes.

He groaned as smells from the diner across the way, drifted through the gap in the window that refused to close, his stomach growling with hunger, and his mouth salivating at the thought of just a tiny morsel of that food passing his lips. He pushed his face even further into the pillow, until the air grew thick and hot, and breathing became too hard, certain that he would never be able to remove the smell of must, and stale sweat from his nostrils, but he refused to move for fear of smelling roast beef, or French fries, or apple pie.

He willed his mind to shut down, to sleep, the only thing that eased the discomfort, to pass away the rest of the day in a deep oblivion where he felt nothing, but he knew from past experiences, sleep would not come to him that easily, knew from past experience that his empty stomach would keep him awake; or if he did manage to drift off, he would awaken feeling so much worse, the lethargy seeping deep within him, the dizziness intensifying until it became even an effort to move.

He turned over and looked towards the small kitchen his room supplied, and the two slices of bread he had left. He sat up and waited for the nausea and faintness to pass, clasping his shaking hands together in an effort to stop them, before standing slowly, his hands now reaching out to steady himself against the wall. He moved across the room, his eyes longingly looking at the feast the two slices offered him, his fingers reaching out to grasp them, only to pull back as he realized the consequences of his actions. It was only Thursday, his next pay check wouldn't be until Monday, when after his rent was paid, this vicious cycle would start all over again.

He turned back, and grabbed his coat and key instead, striding from the room and into the cold wet weather outside, he would walk, pass away some hours and taking his mind of his hunger, by pounding out some miles, killing two birds with one stone. He ignored the rain as it poured down upon him, ignored the stares he received from passersby as he kept his pace slow and leisurely compared to their hurriedness, instead concentrating on just putting one foot in front of the other, step after step, mile after mile. By the time he returned he was soaked through, bitterly cold, and ready for sleep, but he knew he had to shower first, knew he couldn't afford to become ill. He stripped quickly and stepped beneath the hot spray, hoping to relax his body even further. The heat though had the opposite effect, reminding him of his weakness, assaulting him with wave after wave of wooziness.

He slumped to the bathtub after one particularly bad bout, his whole body a quivering mass of jelly. He took deep breaths to try and quell his rolling stomach, but it did little to ease the pounding of his blood rushing through his head. He placed his head in his hands, this couldn't go on, but what could he do? Deep down he knew the answer to that, deep down he knew he had a way out, but could he do now, what he had hated doing for all these years? He knew though he had no choice.

Climbing carefully out of the tub, he wrapped a threadbare towel around his waist before moving over to where he has stowed his duffle. Reaching deep within his small bag of meager belongings he pulled out an envelope his brother had pressed into his hand the night he had left abruptly, grasping the object inside he removed it, the small card fitting easily into his palm. Reaching for a pen he quickly signed the back, he would use it sparingly, just enough to get by, and he would pay it back, no matter what he would find some way to pay it back.

The End.

A.N. . . . . . . . . . Well how was it? Did you enjoy? Thank you as always for reading, will be back soon, Peanut x