A/N: That season 5 angst fest. BitterSweetJoy, here's your post-Bobby "lose my number" scene. Probably not canon-complicit because I didn't rewatch, so . . . take with a grain of salt.

Turn Your Face Away

Sam stared at his phone. The urge to toss it into the ditch by the sidewalk was overwhelming, to the point that his hand twitched.

Lose my number. You're a vampire, Sam. Lose my number. You're a vampire, Sam. Lose my number.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He had to . . . he had to focus. Stay on task. He had so much to make up for, and he couldn't do that if he let himself get sucked into a spiral of despair.

"Are you going to buy something or what?"

Sam flinched, looking up at the bored, middle-aged woman running the occult shop. "Sorry. Just, um, these herbs."

She rang them up, eyes tired and dead. Sam knew the feeling.

"Thank you," he managed.

He got a brief nod in return. Sam stumbled back onto the street, blinking in the bright light. He had to get back to Bobby and Dean.

There was a split second. Sam saw it and knew he had a choice. There was a man hauling garbage next to the curb, and a truck hurtling around the corner.

Sam had failed so much, but he could save this one. He lunged forward, using the bulk of his weight to propel the man out of the path of danger. Though he hadn't gone too far into the truck's path, Sam knew it wasn't enough. The edge of the truck slammed into the left half of his body, sending him spinning away.

Sam blinked up at the sky. Shock slowly faded, leaving sharp pain up his side and shoulder. Sound filtered in—the raised voices of shock and alarm.

"—okay? Can you hear me?"

Sam rolled over, pressing upwards with trembling arms. His shoulder howled in pain.

"He shouldn't move, should he?"

"He saved my life!"

"Someone call for help! Right? I mean, the police, or an ambulance or something."

"That sonuvabitch just drove off. Should've been arrested."

Sam batted away helpful hands and stood. He had to . . . had to get back to Dean and Bobby. They didn't want him there, but at least he could try and atone for everything he'd done.

You're a vampire, Sam. Lose my number.

"Where the hell is he?" Dean groused.

Bobby was silent, examining the devil's trap on the ceiling.

"You did this sigil wrong," he said.

Dean looked up at it. "Sam did it."

Bobby's lip curled a little. "Well, that might explain it. Unless the guy wants us to die."

Dean twitched at the pure venom in Bobby's voice. He'd never really heard Bobby sound like that. "Sam's tired, I'm sure it was a simple mistake." He scooted the ladder over, staring at the painstakingly painted symbol again. "Are you sure it's wrong?"

"You questioning me on this, boy?"

Dean acquiesced, grabbing the paint.

"Hey."

Dean turned, seeing Sam leaning on the door. "Took you long enough."

"S-sorry."

"Where are the herbs?"

"What?"

Dean scowled, getting off the ladder. "Seriously, Sam? You're gone for hours and then forget what you left for? Did you go off to drink some blood?"

Sam stumbled back like he'd been hit. "No!"

"Dean. Fix the sigil."

Dean blinked, looking back at Bobby. "What?"

"What sigil?" Sam asked.

He pointed up at the one Bobby had been talking about. Sam squinted.

"Why would we change it?"

"It's wrong," Bobby said.

Sam's brow furrowed. "No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is." Bobby's voice was weirdly insistent. Dean took a deep breath.

"Bobby could you grab me that paint over there by the window?"

Bobby crossed his arms. "Let Sam get it."

The alarm bells in Dean's brain were ringing. "Well, I need Sam to steady the ladder."

Somehow, it wasn't a surprise to be tossed across the room.

"Bobby," Sam breathed. Next to him, Dean was stock still, the only thing in motion his trigger finger, which was twitching rhythmically.

"I suppose saying, 'this is a pickle,' would be an understatement."

Sam wasn't able to find the humor as he stared at Bobby's wheelchair. "Can you . . . is there any um, anything the doctors said . . ."

"Not likely," Bobby said shortly. Sam flinched away, feeling another layer of thick guilt wrap around his heart.

"You need anything from us?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Gonna need a whole hell of a lot, getting set up back at my place."

Sam eagerly grasped the opportunity. "You don't have to worry about anything, Bobby, we'll take care of it. Anything you want."

Bobby's gaze, fuzzy from painkillers, sharpened a little on Sam. "Sam. What the demon said, it wasn't—"

"I'm going to get started," Sam blurted out. "You'll need a ramp, right? And we can move your bedroom to the first floor, in your study. I'll keep your books organized."

"I'd appreciate it," Bobby said slowly.

Dean spoke up again, voice filled with sorrow. "Bobby, we're sorry."

"For what? I'm the idiot who got hisself possessed. Stupid of me, especially with everything going on. Naw, you boys help me get set up and we're square."

"You got it." Dean took a few steps forward, briefly touching Bobby's shoulder. Sam felt a weird surge of emotion; nostalgia, jealousy, love, looking at the two of them. Bobby deserved a son like Dean. Without saying another word, he slipped out. He had work to do.

"Sam."

He jumped, whirling with hammer upraised. Dean was there, raising his hands defensively. "Easy, cowboy."

An irritated comeback was on the tip of Sam's tongue; he swallowed it. "Do you need anything?"

"I made lunch. Bobby's saying my chili tastes terrible, so I need you to back me up."

Sam grimaced. The pain from his ribs was making him drained and nauseous, the last thing he wanted to do was eat Dean's famous questionable chili. "I want to finish this up. I'll eat later."

Dean eyed the ramp. "Right. Well, no offense Sammy, but you could use some lessons in woodworking."

Sammy. It had been so long. It almost felt like his heart had quivered when Dean had said it, but it was a slip of tongue, nothing more. Sam took a shuddering breath. "I'll try and fix it.'

"Alright. Your choice."

When Dean had finally disappeared, Sam doubled over, muffling his cough in his sleeve. Pain wrenched through his chest. He'd need to take more cough syrup. It had been nearly a week and his cough wasn't going away.

He straightened up and tight bands cinched across his chest. Sam toppled over, wheezing as his ribs felt like they were on fire.

"Dean," he called weakly.

He coughed again, only able to get his hand up in time to cover it. There was blood when he lowered it.

Dean would find him. Maybe. If he didn't decide to follow up on his promise and finish Sam off.

With that comforting thought, Sam let the darkness swamp him.

Dean stared at the fading yellow and green bruises on Sam's torso. He'd seen Sam was hurting and done nothing. Mom would've been ashamed of him. Of course, it would've helped if Sam hadn't lied to him.

"Sam."

Sam's head turned. His brow creased like it had when he was a baby and waking up from his nap.

"D'n."

Said his name the same way too. Dean smiled sadly, swiping Sam's hair away from his sweaty forehead. "You're sick, Sam. Open your eyes."

When he was finally able to look Sam in the eye, fondness slid away into something more bitter. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" he demanded.

Sam's bewildered gaze wandered up to the ceiling before settling on Dean again. "Hurt?"

Bobby coughed from the corner. "Dean, maybe—"

Dean ignored him and gestured violently. "Broken ribs, you idiot. You didn't breathe right for a week and got pneumonia."

"Sorry."

It was too easy to turn and walk away. Dean paused at the doorway though, thinking of the expression on Sam's face when Lucifer rose.

"Sam," he said. "If we're going to stop the apocalypse, you can't lie to me. Not anymore. If not . . . that's it. It's over."

"No!" There was a thump and Dean whirled to see Sam half-sprawled off the couch, reaching for Dean. "Please, I'll do better, I swear."

Bobby cursed, rolling forward. "Git your butt back into bed, Sam."

Sam stared up at both of them with liquid eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll leave, I swear."

Dean blinked, startled by the turn. "What? Who said anything about leaving?"

His brother was mumbling under his breath and Dean strained to hear him.

"Lose number, vampire. Lose . . . lose number. Vampire."

Dean reached out, gathering Sam off the floor and getting him situated again. "Crap, Bobby, he's burning up. I think he's delirious."

Bobby looked a little pale. "Gimme a sec with hIm?"

Loathe to leave Sam, Dean hesitated. "But—"

"Just for a minute."

"Fine."

Sam was burning, like he deserved.

"Sam."

The voice was too kind; Sam ignored it, he knew it wasn't real.

A rough hand clasped his own. "The demon said it, Sam. I'm with you, boy. I screwed up before, but I ain't cutting you out, you hear me?"

Sam frowned, turning his head a little. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, Sam."

"Don' . . . hot."

"Yeah, that'd be the fever, kid. Just hang in there. It'll get better, I swear."

Sam sank into the confusion a while, but a bit of him calmed as Bobby's voice continued to rumble on. He could figure the rest out when he woke up again.

A/N: bad news . . . this is the end.

When I started this, I had the grand idea of posting a fic every few days, filling tons and tons of prompts. Months later, here we are. I did finish most everyone's prompts, just not any multiples, so I'm happy for that at least! I think when it comes down to it, as great as it is to work off of prompts, I find it difficult to go off of ideas that don't mesh with where my writing is at the moment . . . or something. Being busy with work hasn't helped that either.

In any case, it may have been difficult to write these prompt fics, but I have loved doing them! You all have such amazing, creative, and chock full of hurt!sam ideas, I wish I could finish all of them :(

All of that to say, thank you all for such a fun time. I definitely will come back to a few of these prompts in the future, and the leftover extra prompts will be in my idea list! Thanks for everything, and I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did :)