Chapter Text
Sam falls sick about a week before the call that changes his life, with some kind of fever that leaves him twisting in the sheets, sweating and half-delirious. Neither he nor Amelia are sure what is wrong – everything hurts. In his lucid period, it reminds him of the way his terrible psychically induced migraines used to hurt: the light is too bright, the TV is too loud, Amelia's perfume is too strong.
Everything about Amelia is too strong, too overpowering, too not-right, even though he has no idea why. He feels like a dick, the lowest of the low, for asking her to sleep on the couch when she's trying to nurse him back to health, then feels even worse because of how much better it is once she's gone.
Weirdly, the dog – Riot – doesn't bother him at all.
For three days, he burns on the bed, pining for an absence he can't define. His shoulder aches and cramps, sharp spikes that feel like someone is carving into it with a knife. In a moment of clarity, he wonders if maybe someone's hexed him, but there's no blood, no scars, no scent of magic or the infernal anywhere in the room or house.
The fever breaks on the morning of the fourth day. Legs trembling, he drags himself to the shower, stealing some of Amelia's exfoliant scrub to slough away the dead skin and any remaining signs of illness. He doesn't look any different in the mirror afterwards – a little thinner from three days of chicken soup and water, maybe, eyes sunken and dark from the dehydration. Nothing a few meals and some solid rest can't fix.
He looks the same on the outside, but somehow he knows that something irrevocably has changed on the inside.
The shape of his life has changed. Amelia no longer fits.
Amelia's been his refuge ever since he crashed into her vet's office. She helped the world make sense after Sam lost everyone he loved. She gave him a reason to live when he'd run out of hope and places to look for answers. He loves her, and yet-
When he exits the bathroom, towel wrapped low around his hips, she smiles and rushes to hug him – and he backs away, hands flying up to fend her off.
It's nonsensical.
It's instinctive.
He stutters out something about checking to see if he's still contagious first, and her smile dims. They both know it's a lie.
She doesn't try to hug him again.
He takes the couch apologetically after that, blaming the mysterious illness, but he can't hide the way he involuntarily flinches whenever she comes close. The way he can't help shying away when she rests her palm on his forehead to see if the fever is returned.
There's no more gentle conversation over dinner, no quiet moments on the couch watching movies. There's just a guilty silence on Sam's part, a resigned hostility on hers.
It doesn't make sense. Just to be sure, he pours the salt circle, drinks the holy water, plays the exorcism – nothing. She's done nothing wrong. She's just wrong.
When the call comes in for her saying that her husband is alive, it's honestly a relief to both of them. He's already packed and half out the door, restless and ready to set out for a destination he doesn't know.
When the call comes in for him, he's on the road without a backward glance.
He takes the dog with him.
* * *
It takes Sam a little under a week to get to the cabin. He's still exhausted by whatever bug had laid him out – he can't do the long, non-stop hours of driving, and even when he wants to push himself to the brink, one look at Riot reminds him of what he could hurt if he does that.
Riot is quiet at first as the miles piled up between them and Amelia, like he knows they're never going home. But about halfway through the second day, it's like a switch flips and he's wagging his tail, hanging his head out the window and howling along to ACDC's Thunderstruck.
"Driver picks the music," Sam warns him, "shotgun shuts his cakehole." Riot licks his face in response, and Sam imagines doing that to Dean. He has to pull over after the laugher comes billowing out, half joyful, half hysterical.
He can't call Dean back, a fact he laments nightly, but the first call had come in on a stolen phone. If Dean has things to say about it, he can call Sam back and bitch to his face.
He wishes he would.
At night, Sam and Riot sleep curled up together in the car. In the morning, he wakes to dog breath and determined licks until he staggers to his feet and drives them to some roadside breakfast. He doesn't know why exactly he brought the dog with him – pack, his brain says nonsensically.
He did always want a dog.
* * *
On the fifth day, he stops at a diner for a dinner salad and finds himself ordering a steak instead. He doesn't think anything about it at the time.
* * *
On the sixth day, his toothbrush catches on the edge of his teeth while he's brushing. He bares his teeth at his reflection in the mirror and sees nothing wrong in the slightly pointed canines. Old toothbrush, he thinks with a shrug, tossing it in the garbage before he leaves.
"You're going to meet Dean tomorrow," he tells Riot, who barks happily back at him. "How about we get steak and eggs for breakfast to celebrate?"
* * *
On the seventh day…
On the seventh day, Sam reaches the cabin.
Three hours later, Sam runs.