#&vampire!sam.

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?"

HE DIDN'T NEED SLEEP⸻   BUT IT WAS NICE TO DISSAPEAR FOR A WHILE. Perhaps the vampireisim had enhanced that part of himself as well, maybe it was the sensitivity of his amplified hearing but whatever the case, if Sam had considered himself a light sleeper before it was almost impossible to get any shut eye now. Between Dean's rock the foundation snoring and the little quirks of humanity existing outside it was safe to say Sam wasn't going to get much sleep for the rest of his foreseeable existence, it was a good thing he liked to read.

It's as he sits, legs propped against opposite motel room kitchenette chair as he consumes more online forum posts that he hears it, the subtle click of the door knob jingle and the corresponding near silent huff when the invader finds it's locked. He's against the wall with pistol drawn in a flash, undead heart racing as ears strain to discover more about their would be intruder. He waits and watches as the handle jostles again, slightly more aggressive this time, the tiny metal tumblers screeching in protest against the flimsy lock that holds them in place.

When the sounds abide Sam moves again, silently unlatching the chain across the back of the door while in the same breath turning the sub par dead bold without so much as a click. He pauses and after a beat he throws the door open, pistol pointed dead center against the would be intruders head. "BACK UP."

HE WISHED HE'D DIED IN THAT STUPID FRONTIER LAND. Every day he struggled, every day the thirst came for him with no abandon. Over six months Sam Winchester had been afflicted with his vampireisim and every single minute of every single hour of every. single. day had been certified torture. How did the others do it? How did they walk and talk and converse with people who's jugular's pulsed and coursed with that oh so succulent crimson life force? It made his stomach churn, when he thought like that, made the Winchester sick to his stomach that in his weakest of moments he now saw humanity as walking juice boxes : no better than a capri sun. It took everything he had not to puncture their delicate flesh, to let the wormwood veins over take human features and show him for what he truly was. It was worse when they were bleeding, when the blue-ish hue turned red as a result of exposure to oxygen. How was he supposed to save people, to call himself a hunter when those he was meant to save couldn't trust him when they were injured? How could he save them from monsters when he had turned into a monster himself?

It's like that now, what ever she'd snagged herself on had sliced through pale flesh and in it's wake left a ruby shaded strip of blood trickling down the side of her calf. He hadn't noticed in the moment, had been too busy whisking Ada out of harms way, scooping her into his arms and moving them with impossible speed to a location far from the danger : which now proved impossible⸻   Sam was the danger.

It's as he sets her on her feet the smell hits him, brick wall at mach ten slamming directly into that blood hound nose. Eyes cast around, emerald shaded hazels frantically searching for the source of the smell, until he finds it. Gaze zeros in and locks as if hypnotized. "Ada . . . " Sam swallows, attempting, futile as it is, to fight back the veins that creep over his features, sclera turning black against jade iris. "You're bleeding." His voice falls flat, dirt worn boots carrying all six foot four hunter backward, as if some invisible force might save her from her fate.

He tries, lips quivering as fangs force themselves past his will, rewarding him with a wash of adrenaline that the Winchester tries in vain to protest. He doesn't want this transition to feel good, doesn't want the surge of invigoration to make him feel like the worlds deadliest predator. Sam hates himself in this moment, right down to his core : but somewhere the power feels good⸻  all against his will.

Eyes close and hands ball, fists near shaking with the will they exude. He struggles like this for a moment, maybe two, he's losing the battle and soon he won't have it in himself to stop. ". . .go." It's hoarse, a whisper he hopes she can register, but Sam's been a vampire long enough to know human ears don't pick up everything. "GET OUT OF HERE!"