SAM WINCHESTER

#SHOTGUNSCN   ⸻   a  highly  private   &   mutually  exclusive  writing  page  for   SAM  WINCHESTER   of  the  series   SUPERNATURAL.   portrayal  based  on   seasons  one  through  five   with  some   heavy  canon  divergence.  as  so  adored  by   Britt   [   she  +  her   ,   32   ,   canada  est   ]   no   personals  or  minors   at  all.  crossover   &   original  characters  are   highly  encouraged.  focusing  on   heavy  plotting   as  well  as   headcanons.

[   IMPORTANT   ]    ⟢    CARRD   ,   MEMES   ,   GRAPHICS  BY  SASHA COMRADES   :  @alchadex , @perpetval ( across all blogs ) , @devilsnare , @griefkill BLOG ROLL shaepschift voxxation archaevil

A  STUDY  IN    ⟢     family  dysfunction   &   self  loathing   ;   most  of  the  time   i  can  hide  it   but  i  am   ANGRY.   i'm  mad  at  everything   !!   i  used  to  be  mad  at   you  and  dad   ⸻   then  lilith  and  now  it's  lucifer.  and   …   and  i  make  excuses   ,   i  blame  ruby  or   the  demon blood     but  it's   not  their  fault.   it's  me   ,   it's   inside  of  me   and  i  am  mad   all   the  time.

HAVE DEMONS ALWAYS SMELT THAT BAD? Nose crinkles and Sam finds himself nearly reeling as he holds back a balk as the waft hits him point blank. "⸻ugh!" He chides and wriggles his hand within his sleeve in an attempt to use the now free fabric to cover his nose to no avail. It permeates the air and penetrates the thin flannel as if it were made of a thousand tiny daggers. She smells like burning sulphur all wrapped up with a gasoline bow⸻  and he thought he hated demons before. "⸻guh, lets make this quick. Do you know about any CURE TO VAMPIRISIM OR NOT?"

PRISCILLA WOULD KNOW HOW TO HELP HIM. At least, that's what Sam hoped. Through all the research he'd scoured, all the accounts of her immortality and benevolence the youngest Winchester knew better than to put all his eggs in one basket. She was a deathless woman, under different circumstances Sam and Dean might have seen themselves on her door step with the intent to cure her of that fact⸻   but then, it wasn't as if she had been harming anyone. Where his brother had always considered all monsters worthy of being ganked Sam had felt rather grey about the topic. So long as they weren't harming anyone who was to say they deserved death any more than the Winchester's did? Lenore would always be his prime example, she and her family had done their best to feed on animals, stay out of humans way and co-exist along side them⸻   so far as Sam could tell she'd been doing just fine until Gordon had come around. . . . Gordon⸻   it was hunter with mind sets like him that had Sam on edge now. He'd had a big enough target on his back when he'd simply had demon blood in his system, now he was a full on dracula⸻  not all hunters saw things in shades of grey like he did : a whole hell of a lot of them saw things in black and white. Despite the life time of bad luck fortune seemed to shine on him, at least in this moment. Of all people to have a potential contact for the immortal it had been Bobby Singer. He'd known someone who knew someone who had the number of someone who might be able to reach her : supernatural circles were close knit it seemed. And so he'd managed, explained to her in detail his predicament over the phone and had agreed to meet her in public, alone : so long as she'd just give him the time of day.

He sits now just outside a small café, one leg bouncing nervously as both hands clasp together nestled within his lap. He watches, eyes darting from one person to the next, lanky fingers clumsily fiddling with the daylight ring he'd been bestowed by a witch in Bobby's inner circle. It's near torture for him to be surrounded like this, hearts thrumming on either side of him, human scents wafting against the breeze promising succulent sedation should he choose to let loose: all he had to do was give in. Sam can feel the ache in his canines begin to bubble over, hands lift from lap and draw over features, pointer fingers used to scrub eyes until tiny dots formed within the darkness. If she didn't show up soon, Sam would have no choice but to leave : information or not the hunter had to think of the wellfare of these people. HE WASN'T SURE HOW MUCH LONGER HE COULD LAST. 

THEY HAD BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH ALREADY. Between the semi truck accident, the progression of Sam's psychic whatever and the loss of John : to say the Winchesters and the Alchemist had been through the ringer would be putting it lightly. And now this? What more could life throw at them? What more could this trio possibly be made to endure?

Hands rake over features, the lights still overtly offensive with their florescent flagrance, the sounds of electricity catching in his now over tuned ear : and their hearts⸻  the constant thump a reminder of what flows beneath their skin, the knowing forcing an ache that permeates around Sam's canines and forces him to think of something, anything but the way he wants to tear Dex's throat from his neck.

He's not sure what to say. He wants to say something, to reassure Dex that he isn't a monster, that he needn't be afraid : but how can he? How can he know any of those things when here, now, in this very moment he's forcing himself to listen to the words the Alchemist says and not the drumming in his chest. Sam thought he was a monster before : now he was a whole new level of freak. "So what⸻  I have to feed or I die right?" A question raised and one Sam knows Dean's answer to : Dean who at the moment is out at the Impala no doubt calling Bobby, already trying to find a cure, all without admitting the horrible truth that now befalls them. "So I guess . . . I guess I SHOULD START SAYING MY GOODBYES . . ."

HE CAN SMELL IT. The blood that clings to her, the way it wafts in waves on the breeze and draws Sam like a siren to the ocean. He's been this way for over a year and despite his best efforts the youngest Winchester still finds himself struggling with his bloodlust on the daily. It takes everything within him not to pounce when he finds her, when the street light above them illuminates the graphic diorama unfolding beneath her delicate dexterous devious hand. She wields a knife and from the looks of the victim beneath her has plunged it down and through several times over. She rests on her knees and her chest heaves with the veracity that suggests had he been here just a few moments sooner, Sam might have been able to save two lives tonight.

"Stop!" He rushes, and in the whirl wind of blood and adrenaline forgets himself, launches against the stranger too quickly revealing himself to be anything but human. He knocks the blade from her grasp and presses her frame against the bare brick holding her there as if she were just another of the many posters stapled against the telephone polls lining the city. Sam cranes his neck and glimpses the carnage that sends another shroud of anticipation throughout his body. Wormwood veins crawl over flesh and fangs pernitrate gum line as sclera turns from white to black. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"