The taste of the cadaver blood, tainted and stale, flashed through his formless mind. The mosquito perched on his hand. The suff of the owl's wings. Pacing and anxiety. His plans. His certainty.
A terrible need to vomit seized him, and he doubled up against the tie, fangs straining out from his gums, before heaving blackened blood and the water from the cure all over his forearms. He strained again. The feeding tube kinked in his throat, making it worse, and his guts cramped. He managed to puke again, his body managing to scrape up food he didn't even remember eating, then strained, dry-heaving again and again into the mess all down his front. He realized that he was back. His heart was thundering and his vision was going black. Before the world went away again, he heard a footstep on the floor.
Sam woke up after dawn. The light hurt his eyes, but that was practically normal lately. He was still cuffed -- his note had been emphatic on that point -- but there was a crinkly silver emergency blanket draped over his torso and his wrists had less vomit on them than he'd expected. His mouth burned. The feeding tube was hooked under his palate and caught under his tongue; with some maneuvering, he managed to swallow it back into place. When he lifted his head, the slight movement almost made his vision black out.
Jodie Mills was sitting crosslegged on the floor, hugging herself against the cold and watching him grimly. "When do I take the cuffs off." Her intonation was completely flat.
Sam slowly, painfully inched his head toward his hands and rolled his finger down his gumline. A fang extruded, the muscles that had worked it just hours ago now numb. It pulled free without resistance, leaving behind a small hole and a tiny string of flesh. He examined it blearily. Jodie looked on, stone-faced. "Now's good," Sam croaked.
Jodie fished around in her jacket pocket for the handcuff key, which Sam had left for her taped to the note, with the words "handcuff key" in neat block print underneath it. She released his wrists, then his feet. Sam rolled onto his back away from the railroad tie and felt pins-and-needles flare through the arm he'd been lying on. The feeding tube was still making him nauseous, the soft rubber impossibly tough and sharp against his throat.
"Explain," Jodie demanded in a low voice, "the chainsaw."
"On the note," Sam whispered, staring up at the rafters. There had been a ceiling here, once. He'd have to remember this shack, show Dean.
"Sam Winchester!" Jodie exploded, thumping the gritty floorboards with her fist. Sam winced at the noise. "'Remove my head if the cure fails.' Remove. Your head. You dragged me out here at six-am to kill you. That saw's not cheap. I know you don't carry two-stroke mix around with you. 'Everything's under control'? What were you thinking?"
"Didn't know if dead man's blood counted," Sam explained, scrunching his eyes shut. "As feeding." He picked another fang out of his mouth and flicked it away.
"Well, thanks for leaving the mother of all suicide notes," Jodie hissed, gesturing at the three-ring binder that held Sam's indexed research on Purgatory and the spell to open the portal. "Oh, wait. No. You wanted suicide by cop. You disappear for six months -- tell me, where the hell is Dean?"
Sam felt all his muscles lock up. "Read the binder."
Jodie rose and hovered over his face. "I was too busy making sure you didn't choke on your own vomit, or wake up and escape. You cruel, selfish child. Why me? I did not want to see you turn into a monster and put you down, Sam."
Re: Filled: Crash 3/4
A terrible need to vomit seized him, and he doubled up against the tie, fangs straining out from his gums, before heaving blackened blood and the water from the cure all over his forearms. He strained again. The feeding tube kinked in his throat, making it worse, and his guts cramped. He managed to puke again, his body managing to scrape up food he didn't even remember eating, then strained, dry-heaving again and again into the mess all down his front. He realized that he was back. His heart was thundering and his vision was going black. Before the world went away again, he heard a footstep on the floor.
Sam woke up after dawn. The light hurt his eyes, but that was practically normal lately. He was still cuffed -- his note had been emphatic on that point -- but there was a crinkly silver emergency blanket draped over his torso and his wrists had less vomit on them than he'd expected. His mouth burned. The feeding tube was hooked under his palate and caught under his tongue; with some maneuvering, he managed to swallow it back into place. When he lifted his head, the slight movement almost made his vision black out.
Jodie Mills was sitting crosslegged on the floor, hugging herself against the cold and watching him grimly. "When do I take the cuffs off." Her intonation was completely flat.
Sam slowly, painfully inched his head toward his hands and rolled his finger down his gumline. A fang extruded, the muscles that had worked it just hours ago now numb. It pulled free without resistance, leaving behind a small hole and a tiny string of flesh. He examined it blearily. Jodie looked on, stone-faced. "Now's good," Sam croaked.
Jodie fished around in her jacket pocket for the handcuff key, which Sam had left for her taped to the note, with the words "handcuff key" in neat block print underneath it. She released his wrists, then his feet. Sam rolled onto his back away from the railroad tie and felt pins-and-needles flare through the arm he'd been lying on. The feeding tube was still making him nauseous, the soft rubber impossibly tough and sharp against his throat.
"Explain," Jodie demanded in a low voice, "the chainsaw."
"On the note," Sam whispered, staring up at the rafters. There had been a ceiling here, once. He'd have to remember this shack, show Dean.
"Sam Winchester!" Jodie exploded, thumping the gritty floorboards with her fist. Sam winced at the noise. "'Remove my head if the cure fails.' Remove. Your head. You dragged me out here at six-am to kill you. That saw's not cheap. I know you don't carry two-stroke mix around with you. 'Everything's under control'? What were you thinking?"
"Didn't know if dead man's blood counted," Sam explained, scrunching his eyes shut. "As feeding." He picked another fang out of his mouth and flicked it away.
"Well, thanks for leaving the mother of all suicide notes," Jodie hissed, gesturing at the three-ring binder that held Sam's indexed research on Purgatory and the spell to open the portal. "Oh, wait. No. You wanted suicide by cop. You disappear for six months -- tell me, where the hell is Dean?"
Sam felt all his muscles lock up. "Read the binder."
Jodie rose and hovered over his face. "I was too busy making sure you didn't choke on your own vomit, or wake up and escape. You cruel, selfish child. Why me? I did not want to see you turn into a monster and put you down, Sam."