I do not own Supernatural or anything related to it. I don't even own the idea for this fic as it was prompted to me over on LJ by khakigrrl. I will post the prompt at the end. I hope you all enjoy!


Sam dropped onto the bed in exhaustion. His face sank into the motel pillow, the pounding in his temples easing in his relief at finally being horizontal. He inhaled deeply, savoring the faint scent of cigarette smoke and stale sweat clinging to the sketchy looking comforter. Objectively, he knew it was probably full of germs and who knew the last time it had been washed, but it was still one of the closest things to familiar that he could count on. Bobby's house was gone, Lucifer had full run of the upstairs and, besides the Impala, the only things that made him feel safe were the disturbingly uniform, crappy motel rooms, and Dean.

Sam continued to sprawl, facedown and drifting in and out of a light doze. He knew he should get up, grab some Tylenol, grab a shower, change, but at the moment, he was completely content to lie there, lazily enjoying a moment to himself.

The door opened softly and pulled him from his partial trance. It clicked shut and soft footsteps came into the room. Sam smiled lazily. Dean must know how tired he was. As obnoxious as he sometimes could be, he did take care of his little brother.

The footsteps came closer, stopping by the head of the bed and Sam felt fingers brushing the hair back from his forehead.

"Stop petting me, dude," Sam grumbled good-naturedly, not even bothering to open his eyes. "I'm tired. I think I'm gonna take a nap. Feel free to go grab a bite without me," he yawned, snuggling farther into the pillow.

"Thanks Sammy, don't mind if I do," A strange voice came from right beside his ear. Sam shot off the bed, rolling away from the voice, heart pounding wildly in his chest and reaching for his gun in the back of his pants. He came up empty and saw his gun sitting on the bedside table where he had left it, on the other side of the bed, next to the man who had spoken to him.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my motel room?" Sam yelled, relaxing a little as he realized the man wasn't even looking at the gun on the bedside table and was much shorter and smaller than Sam.

"That's no way to treat an invited guest," the man grinned toothily.

"Invited?" Sam asked, confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh come on, Sam, don't play dumb. I mean, the flashy car that always has the same plates, the rock aliases on your credit cards. You are so easy to follow, its pathetic. Obviously, you want to be found."

"Seriously, who are you?"

"Well, I could say something horribly cliché and pithy like, 'your worst nightmare' or 'the last face you'll ever see," or the ever popular, 'your doom.' But I've never been one for those theatrical games. So hi, my name is Chet and I will be eating you tonight." His mouth opened wide, revealing sharp teeth and two tongues, completely destroying the humanity of his face, and he lunged across the bed at Sam.

Sam instinctively threw his left arm in the air as the thing bowled him over. He landed, flat on his back with the creature on top of him. It tore into his arm with razor sharp teeth and Sam screamed, blood spattering into his face. At first, it was like being ripped into by a wild animal, but suddenly, Chet's face changed. A look of bliss spread across his features and he moaned in pleasure and if Sam hadn't been thinking "OH GOD, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF," he probably would have turned bright red from embarrassment.

"You really have been hiding something from the hunting world, haven't you Sammy?" Chet whispered reverently as he released Sam's arm from his mouth. He smiled, bits of torn flesh caught in his bloodstained teeth, as he looked at the quivering mess of his prey. "I've never tasted anything quite like you."

Sam tried to shove the creature off him, but his arm was spurting blood at a rate that was fast causing his head to reel and his vision to darken. Plus, the damn thing was strong. It grabbed Sam's right shoulder and he tensed in anticipation of another bite but instead, it tore the sleeve from his shirt, wrapped it around the torn flesh on his forearm and tightened it with a fierce jerk.

"W-what are you doing?" Sam asked, cringing when he was unable to keep the fear out of his voice.

Chet grinned down at him. "You don't even know, do you, how good it tastes, how good it feels. " The monster leaned down and licked some of the blood from his cheek. "When you're looking to get good and drunk, any cheap liquor will do, but you don't get rip-roaring drunk on 100 year old scotch. No, that you drink sparingly, a finger or two in the glass. You bring it out for company when you've got some schmoozing to do. You, Sammy, are like that bottle of scotch, and I don't want you spilling on the floor."

Sam bucked his hips and twisted, trying frantically to get out from under Chet. Chet just laughed.

"Is this a game to you? I would be up for a different kind of fun," Chet shifted above Sam, purposefully rolling his hips and leaving no doubt in Sam's mind just what kind of fun he was thinking of.

Sam froze in fear, hardly daring to breathe.

"Perhaps later," the monster laughed. "Right now, we're on a bit of a time constraint. I would hate for Dean to get back and crash the party." He stood up.

Sam tried to get to his feet the moment Chet's weight was off him, but Chet was ready for him and kicked him in the stomach with one booted foot and drove all the air from his lungs. As Sam lay on the ground, gasping, he felt Chet's hands going through his pockets and pulling out his phone.

Chet stood and placed his foot on Sam's throat, not hard enough to cut off all his air, but enough to keep him weak and on the brink of unconsciousness. "Now it's time for the real game to begin," he chuckled as his face began to change, hair growing longer, shoulders filling out, legs lengthening until he was the spitting image of Sam.

"Hey Dean," Chet said, grinning evilly down at Sam as he held the phone to his ear. "I found a dead rat in one of the beds in this motel room. I think I'm gonna complain and see if I can get them to put us in a different room. I'll text you when I have the number."

Sam tried to make some kind of sound other than the choking and gagging, but it was useless.

"That sound?" Chet said, grinning toothily, "It's nothing, I think the heater's busted. Yeah, ok, Dean. I'll see you soon," he hung up the phone and smirked down at Sam, pushing just a little bit harder with the foot on his throat. "And there is nothing you can do about it."

The pain, the lack of oxygen and the blood loss became too much for Sam and he drifted off into unconsciousness, terrified that he would never see his brother again.


Dean pulled up outside the motel and sighed, not quite ready to go in. He looked down at his clothes and hands and then inspected his face in the mirror to make sure he had gotten rid of any blood. The last thing he wanted to do was have Sam find out about Amy. The kid was barely holding onto sanity as it was. The last thing he needed was to think his brother didn't trust him. He does trust Sam. He trusts that Sam believes Amy won't kill again. He even trusts that Amy believes she won't kill again. It's the monster inside her he doesn't trust, but he knows Sam will never see it that way. So Dean sits in the car and steels himself to keep a secret from his brother once more.

A pounding on the roof of the car startles him out if his reverie.

"What happened, Dean? You fall asleep?" Sam laughed as Dean opened the door and stepped out.

"No, I did not fall asleep. I was just thinking."

"Someone call the papers!" Sam teased.

"Hey," Dean protested . "I think all the time."

"Fantasizing doesn't count, Dude."

"Yeah…well…your face doesn't count," Dean shot back.

"Good one," Sam rolled his eyes. "Hey, can we go get dinner? I'm famished."

"Really? Isn't that my line?"

"Can't a guy be hungry once in a while?" Sam asked.

"Well yeah, sure. There's a diner a couple of blocks over. Do you want me to grab takeout or should we just go and sit down?"

"I'm all ready to go," Sam said, opening the passenger side door and getting in.

"Well, alrighty then," Dean looked at his brother, pensively for a moment, before shaking his head and climbing back behind the wheel. "Supper it is."


Sam woke slowly. At first, all he was aware of was an unpleasant sensation in his forearm that was quickly growing more painful. As the layers of unconsciousness melted away gradually, he became aware of more sensations, like the fact that he could not move and that his head hurt and he was unbearably thirsty.

He tried to call for Dean, but his voice was muffled and garbled. His left foot was cold and there was an unpleasant salty taste in his mouth. He shuddered as he realized the monster had gagged him with his own sweaty sock. "We really need to start doing laundry more often," he giggled hysterically to himself. He opened his eyes just a little bit and turned his head to try and figure out where he was and was hit by a wave of nausea so powerful that all he could do was scrunch his eyes tight and pray he didn't choke on his own vomit.

It felt like hours later when he could finally open his eyes again. This time, he was a little more coherent and realized that his hands were bound behind him and his feet were tied together and pulling on his bonds even a little bit brought fierce agony rushing up his arm and into his head and then into his stomach.

"Please don't puke. Please don't puke," Sam chanted over and over in his head. It worked well enough and once again, Sam managed to get his stomach under control. This time, he was aware enough to assess his injuries. Nothing seemed broken and, even though his head pounded fiercely, he wasn't having double vision or blurriness. That left his left arm. Sam gingerly tried to move the fingers on his left hand but he could hardly get them to respond. He felt around with his right hand to feel his fingers, swollen and bloated and cold to the touch and it was that realization that brought his memory rushing back and, in spite of the pain that shot up his arm at even the slightest movement, he began to struggle, testing his bonds, knowing that if he didn't break free, the monster would find him here, ready and waiting for round two.


Sam didn't look at the menu for long and Dean had already decided what he was going to eat before they walked inside so the waitress was taking their order almost immediately.

"Double cheeseburger, extra onions, large fries and coffee," Dean winked at the waitress, who blushed and giggled before turning to Sam.

"I'll have the nacho's, extra cheese, no olives or jalapenos," Sam said smoothly, smiling predatorily at the young girl, who blushed even redder and ran off without asking him if he wanted a drink.

Sam dug in as soon as the food arrived, eating quickly and gracefully. Dean watched his brother quizzically for a little while before starting in on his own food. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something just seemed off. He had to remind himself repeatedly throughout the meal that Sam had been different ever since the wall in his head had come down. Maybe he was just going through another transition of the healing process. That had to be it. Dean kept eating.

It was the little things though. Sam would wipe his fingers wrong or slurp in the wrong pitch. No one else would have noticed but Dean had made a career out of watching his brother and looking after him. Soon, Dean stopped eating, a good half of his burger left on his plate.

"Sammy, is something going on with you?" he asked.

"What? No. I'm just hungry. You wanna stop watching me. You're creeping me out, perv."

Dean backed off. The words were right, but the way he said them was all wrong. This was not Sam, but he didn't know what it was. He had watched Sam pour salt on his food not five minutes before. He tried dropping his silver knife under the table and brushing it against the half inch of exposed skin above Sam's sock when he leaned over to pick it up but got no more than a "dude! Watch it!" Dean ruled out shape shifter and demon. He supposed it could be a ghoul, but the one's that had killed their brother Adam were the exception not the rule. Besides that, there was a sick feeling in his stomach that this was something much worse.

He picked up his burger and tried to choke it down, the succulent meat turning into ashes in his mouth. He wanted to leap across the table at the thing, gun out and firing, but didn't know where it had stashed Sam, if Sam was even still alive. And if it was what he was afraid of, shooting it wouldn't do a damn thing. He did the only thing he could at that moment; he cleaned his plate.


Sam was terrified. He had been fighting the ropes for what felt like days with no change. Every creak or step outside the window of the hotel room he jumped, thinking it was his captor back to drink from him again. His head pounded and if his mouth got any dryer, they would have to surgically remove his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Speaking of surgery, Sam tried to move the fingers of his left hand again, trying to get a little bit of blood to flow into his arm. He didn't know how long it took for a limb to die but pictures of a mangled stump ending at the elbow and him struggling to adjust to using only one arm were already flashing through his head at lightning speed.

He froze as he heard a key in the door, holding his breath as he waited for the person on the other side to come into view. His heart sank when he saw his own face, twisted cruelly into a sneer.

"Miss me, Sammy?" The creature smirked. "I went out for a little snack with your brother. Loser didn't suspect a thing. I could be you for days, months, maybe even years and he wouldn't even know it until the day I stood behind him and bit his head off. If I'm really careful, I might even keep you alive long enough to see him die. It really depends on how fast I can keep you from losing your limbs. It's a shame, I'll probably have to eat this arm off later today. I guess I shouldn't have been so zealous with the tourniquet. I'll be a little more careful with your other arm. I won't bite so deep. But enough about that, what I really came for was dessert." Chet knelt on the ground, gently loosening the shirt sleeve that had been keeping him from bleeding out and bending toward him, both tongues coming out to lap gently against the blood that had congealed on his skin.

Sam screamed against the gag in his mouth as the blood rushed back into the limb. His arm swelled up to unrecognizable proportions almost instantly and Sam could do nothing but writhe helplessly on the ground as the creature began to drink.

Sam had just begun to resign himself to his fate when the door caved in, followed by a figure in a dark leather jacket pumping bullet after bullet into the creature above him. It was enough to throw the creature off of him.

Dean leapt across him and onto the monster, pulling his machete out from behind his back and slicing through the monster's neck like butter. He was at Sam's side instantly after that. His hands fluttered over the torn arm for a moment before he picked up the shirt sleeve, ready to tighten it around the wound again.

"No, Dean. No!" Sam moaned, trying to pull his arm away. "Please. I don't want to lose my arm. I'm going to lose my arm."

Dean paused for an instant and looked at Sam's arm, torn and mangled, still pulsing blood at an alarming rate, fingers swollen and blue, and was afraid it was already too late. "It's ok, Sammy, I've got you. I'm going to get you out of here, ok? Just trust me. We can get through this. Just hold on."

The moment Sam relaxed in trust, Dean reached for the shirt sleeve and tied it tight. Sam screamed once, high and horrible, before he finally passed out.

"Alright, Sasquatch, let's get you in the car," Dean sighed, glad that Sammy was going to be out for this. He manhandled him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, careful to avoid brushing the arm. He deposited Sam in the front seat of the Impala before rushing into the room and grabbing their stuff. Thankfully, they hadn't unpacked anything yet and it was simply a matter of throwing a couple duffel bags in the trunk.

Dean collapsed into the driver's seat and was preparing to back out of the parking lot when he realized he had no idea where he was going to go. The creatures had already been infiltrating hospitals and even if they weren't at the closest one to their current position, it would still make them much too easy to find. Sam's injuries would make them vulnerable. He looked at Sam beside him, still out cold. His face was much too pale and his arm…well, it made Dean want to vomit.

He pulled out his phone and dialled. "Hey, Bobby? It's Sam…Oh God, Bobby, his arm…Damn bigmouths…no, I can't. If one found us, I have to assume that more will follow…please, Bobby, is there anyone in the area…he needs medical attention…Oh, God, what if I'm too late?…Are you sure?…How long?…Ok, I can get there…thanks, Bobby. I'll let you know as soon as I know anything."

Without a conscious thought, Dean was pealing out of the parking lot and roaring down the road.


Sam took his time floating back up toward consciousness. He expected to be in a hospital but when he finally managed to prop open one eye, it was darker than he expected. Floral curtains were drawn tightly across the one window he could see and an IV bag hung from a picture hook on the wall. The air smelled faintly of whiskey instead of cold, clinical antiseptic. Only one thing was as he expected; Dean was sprawled out in an armchair by his bed, a couple days worth of stubble growing on his face, eyes closed, mouth open and snoring softly. He had probably been sitting there since he had been put in this bed, no food, no shower, only cursory bathroom breaks and even then, Sam was sure Dean would rather pee in a bottle than leave his side for one moment.

The important questions answered, Sam turned to assessing himself. All in all, he didn't feel too bad. He had a bit of a headache, but that was to be expected. He was very thirsty but that was easily fixed, so that just left his arm. Sam didn't want to look at it, didn't want to see the mess made by the teeth of the creature. Even bandaged, he was sure it would be a mess. He tried shifting it ever so slightly. That was a mistake. Pain poured through his arm from top to bottom, every muscle in screaming agony. Sam tried to keep it all inside, but couldn't stop the initial whimper.

Dean shot up, awake instantly. "Hey, hey, hey, Sammy! Calm down. You're here. You're safe. I've got you."

"Dean, hurts," Sam moaned.

"I know," Dean said softly. "You'll be all right." Then, to Sam's surprise, Dean started crying.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so damn sorry."

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

Dean looked Sam in the eyes and Sam was flooded with cold certainty. He didn't need to look at the place where his left arm used to be to know that it wasn't there anymore. "No," he closed his eyes and turned away from Dean.

"Sam, please. Don't do this."

"What do you want me to do? My arm's gone. You want me to just be ok with it? I told you not to tie the tourniquet back up." Sam yelled hoarsely, trying to hold the tears in. He couldn't look at his brother.

There was nothing but silence from Dean. He got up from the chair by Sam's bed and walked out of the room.

Sam didn't even turn to watch him go. He just faced the wall, face set like stone. He could feel his arm. There was pain all along the length of it. It couldn't be gone. It was a dream. Lucifer was playing with him again, or maybe he was feverish and imagining it all. That had to be it. He had eaten a bad diner burger and he was swaddled up in bed with Dean hovering over him, shoving Tylenol down his throat, fighting to get some fluids into him and trying to get through his fevered ramblings.

"You arm is fine, Sammy. Come on, wake up. It's right here. You think I would let a damn bigmouth bite my brother's arm off?" That is what Dean would be saying. And he is pinching Sam's arm to try and get him to realize its still there. That's why it hurts so bad. It isn't rotting in some surgeon's graveyard, bloated, swollen and blue, torn apart by grinding teeth.

For a moment, with the remnants of anaesthesia floating in his veins, he can stay in that state of denial but then he moves again and once again pain is rocketing up his arm into his shoulder and he knows, he fucking knows his arm isn't going to be there ever again. If he looks at the place where it used to be, all he will see is a bandaged stump. He steels himself against the despair and glances over. Trying to remain objective, he noted that he still had everything from his shoulder to his elbow. There should be a good amount to attach a prosthesis too.

Hysterically, he wonders if Dean will grab a sharpie and draw anatomically correct pictures on his plastic arm just like he did with every single cast growing up. One strained giggle bursts through his lips and in that moment of insanity, Lucifer steps in, demanding to be let in on the joke.

Sam reaches for his scar only to realize it isn't there anymore. The fucking surgeon cut it off. It's lying in the ground somewhere, slowly decaying, taking his mind with it.

"Let's reminisce a little, shall we?" Lucifer plops down on the edge of Sam's bed. "Oh, this does look familiar. You remember, don't you, Sammy? It was the year we were chopping bits off. Is that not specific enough for you? It wasn't any of the times we carved you up into pieces. It was really just one at a time, seeing what you could live without. Hmm, let's see, there was the time we cut off the whole front part of your feet and made you walk through those coals. I loved seeing you teetering like an old granny on stilts. Then you faceplanted and singed all the hair of your face. Good memories.

"But what was my favorite? Oh, its coming back to me. We chopped your arms off, left you just about as much as you have right now, and then we watched as you jammed those stumps into crevices in a rock face and dragged yourself up. I'm just so creative! So what should we do next, Sammy? A leg? Would you prefer to lose one on the same side or the opposite. I myself like balance but you may want to preserve your dominant side."

Sam was terrified. He didn't know what to do. He had been able to keep the devil at bay but everything had changed with the loss of that scar. Sam screamed at the devil and attacked the stump of his arm. Maybe this pain could keep the devil out. He squeezed and twisted and it hurt like a sonofabitch but the devil stayed solid, staring at him, amused.

Sam tore the bandages off, digging his fingers in good and hard to the recently stitched wounds from his surgery. Nothing was working and Sam was panicking. He could hear alarms wailing as his heart raced and his chest grew too tight to breath. He had never been in so much agony before but the devil's smirking face was still before him.

Someone was there, pinning him to the bed, calling out for a doctor, anyone. Sam bucked mightily, trying to throw the person off. He thought he heard Dean's voice telling him to calm down, that's he'd be all right, but that couldn't be right. Sam was in hell and Dean couldn't be, Castiel had pulled him out. Dean was safe.

Moments later, a haze swept over him, causing his limbs to move more lethargically and his mind to slowly descend into unconsciousness. He had one moment of clarity, enough to see Dean's worried face hovering above him.

"Dean," Sam whispered as he slid into sleep.

"Sammy," Dean whispered as he shattered into thousands of pieces.


Consciousness was not kind. The closer it got, the more Sam wanted to never wake up. It was not to be. The deeper layers were silent and empty, nothing but restful darkness, Lucifer nowhere to be found but the closer Sam got to waking up, the more the devil could step into his dreams. When Sam finally awoke, it was with panicked gasps and racing heart and flailing limbs. Or at least his limbs were trying to flail. He panicked even more when he discovered the soft cuff pinning his right hand to the rails of his bed and the strap across his chest.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy! Calm down. You're all right! You're safe," Dean was there immediately, holding his shoulders down and getting right in his face.

"Dean," Sam moaned. "Get him out, please…tied me up…can't make him go away."

"If I let you go, are you going to leave your arm alone? Do you have any idea how much damage you did when you attacked it before? Doc said we are lucky he didn't have to take off a little more."

'My scar," Sam cried. "I can't get him to go away without my scar." Within seconds, tears were streaming down his face. "Please, Dean. Please make him leave."

"What can I do, Sammy? How can I help?" Dean felt the prickling of tears behind his own eyes.

"My scar," Sam moaned. "Find my scar."

"It's gone, Sam. I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do."

"You're not real," Sam said. "You can't be real. Dean would fix this. Dean would find my scar. He would untie me and let me go. He would let me get rid of Lucifer. He wouldn't let me lose my arm. You can't be Dean. Go away! I want Dean!"

If his heart hadn't been breaking, Dean would have laughed at how like a five-year-old Sam sounded at that moment. "Sammy, it's me. I'm right here."

"DEEAANNNN!" Sam shouted, bucking violently on the bed, fighting the restraints. "Help, Dean! Please! I want my brother! Tell me where he is, you son of a bitch! DEEAANNNN!"

Dean tried to hold him still, but Sam was still strong, even hampered by blood loss and his missing arm, and made stronger by panic. Dean could feel Sam's heartbeat hammering and speeding up every moment. His breath became short and quick and his pupils were blown wide.

"Sammy, please. You're going to hurt yourself. You have to calm down."

"DEEAANNNN!" Sam shouted again, louder than before, then collapsed back to the bed, not unconscious, but past the breaking point. "Dean," he wept.

Dean sighed as he relaxed the hold he had on his brother. "You are not allowed to call me a girl about this later, ok?" he smiled sadly down at Sam. "It's me, it really is." Gently, he released Sam from the restraints. Sam struggled perfunctorily but he had already used up the meagre reserves of strength he had left. He sat Sam up carefully and slid onto the bed behind him and then settled Sam up against his chest.

He turned Sam's head so his ear was pressed against his heart. "You hear that? That's my heart beating. That's real, Sammy." He wound his fingers through Sam's hair, stroking it away from his forehead. "Lucifer may be able to make someone who looks like me. He may be able to make someone who sounds like me. Maybe he can even make someone who smells like me, but he can't make someone who is me. Think, Sammy! You know the difference. You have always known the difference. You can feel me breathing, right? I'm alive. I'm here. I've got you. You are my little brother. My name was your first word. I fed you and changed your nasty-ass, poopy diapers. I made your school lunches and beat up any bully that dared to touch you. These hands checked for fever, and bandaged up your scraped knees and held ice on your black eyes. I used to hold you, just like this, after every injury, as we rushed you to hospital's or motel's. I've stitched you up in back seats and skeevy motel rooms and even a few rush jobs in the woods. Face it, Sammy, you have one awesome big brother and there is no way anyone as twisted as Lucifer could ever find a way to clone me."

Sam started to relax as Dean rambled on. "But…the scar…stone number one…" he protested half-heartedly when there was a lull in Dean's monologue.

"Then we find a new stone, one that doesn't involve you clawing at freshly open wounds. We will figure this out, Sam."

"So…my arm…it really is gone? I'm not hallucinating that?" Sam looked up at his brother, puppy dog eyes in full swing.

Dean looked away, trying and failing to keep back the tears. "I am so sorry, Sammy. If I'd figured it out sooner…if I hadn't retied that tourniquet…who knows what could have happened."

"I don't blame you, Dean. You, you're my stone. You're right, he could get pretty close. Even when he fooled me before, I knew something didn't quite feel right."

"Ha, I knew my awesomeness could not be duplicated. There is only one Dean Winchester. Bask in my presence, all you who wish you were as cool as me." Dean practically crowed.

Sam smiled tiredly, eyes drooping. "Yes, all hail the King of Awesome and his over inflated ego."

"Sam, things will get better. We will figure this out."

Sam looked up at Dean and nodded. "Stay with me?"

Dean laughed. "You've got a free pass to as many chick flick moments as you need for at least the next three days. You might as well make the most of it. Tell anyone I said that and…"

"Yeah, I know, It'll be the last thing I ever say," Sam snuggled deeper into Dean's chest.

"You got that right, Samantha." Dean smirked, watching as Sam finally lost the battle with sleep and drifted off. He most definitely was not enjoying the solid, warm presence of Sam in his arms. He was not petting Sam or humming him a Led Zeppelin lullaby. And if he leaned forward to brush his lips across Sam's forehead, it was only to check for fever.


A.N. The prompt is this:

In 7.03, while Dean's in Amy's hotel room telling her she should've changed her license plates, there's a leviathan in Sam's telling him the same. That and how stupid it was to use the same credit card to book the room that'd he'd used at the Sip 'n Go. I mean, using a rockstar's name? How trackable can you get?However, once the Leviathan attacks and bites the arm Sam put up to defend himself, he realizes that Sam isn't any ordinary human. The taste of his blood? Better than nacho cheese! He puts a tourniquet on Sam's arm, planning to save him like a vampire would for periodic feeding, and waits for Dean's return.