When he came back in the cabin, all was quiet. The TV was still going, but Charlie was curled up on her side asleep, hands tucked under her chin, snoring very softly. All the lights but one were out. Sam carefully pulled an afghan off the back of the sofa, draped it over Charlie's sleeping form, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She stirred, muttered something, then curled tighter. He smiled, and headed down the hallway.

Soft light poured out of Dean's room. He poked his head in. Dean was stretched out on the bed on his back, hands behind his head on the pillow, earphones in.

"I'm turning in," Sam said.

Dean started, cracked his eyes open, pulled the earphones off.

"Hunh?"

"Bed. I'm going to bed."

"Yeah, yeah, you do that," Dean said. He laid there looking at Sam for a moment, then gave him a wry, fond smile and a thumbs-up. Sam returned the thumbs-up, smiled back, and continued down the hallway.

His room was dark. He searched around in the dim light from the hall for a lamp, found it, turned it on. He closed the door, yawned, stretched.

Something on the top of the dilapidated dresser caught his eye. He wandered over, curious.

A box in cheery wrapping paper. A card. Another gift?

He pulled out the card, opened it.

"Thought you might appreciate a little pick-me-up. Love and kisses, C." The "C" had a little stylized crown sketched atop it, tilting drunkenly.

He frowned, stared at the cheerily wrapped gift as if it would bite him. Then he drew in a determined breath, picked the box up, sat down on the bed, and slowly began unwrapping it. He opened the box, looked in.

Nestled in a bed of soft black velvet was a silver flask engraved with a riot of roses peeping out from behind leaves and vines twining around. The bigger, more open roses had little skulls in the centers, with tiny black enamel eyes. A small card hung from the neck of the flask, tied on with a blood-red silk ribbon.

Sam flicked the card open with his fingertips.

"Call me when you need more, darling. Xoxo, C." Again with the little crown sketch.

Not "if". "When".

He hissed in a breath. He knotted one hand in the threadbare quilt on the bed, twisting it hard. Then he reached in, pulled the flask out, uncapped it, sniffed.

Salty. Sweet. Warm.

Blood.

The craving slammed into him.

He recapped the flask with trembling fingers, laid it carefully down on the quilt, then abruptly, angrily, swept the box off his lap, flinging it across the room. Black velvet tumbled out as it flew through the air, landing in a dark puddle of fabric on the floor. He rocked forward, resting his arms on his thighs, tangling his hands in his hair, eyes clenched shut. He rocked forward again, slamming his feet on the floor.

He sat there for a long, long while, despairing.

Then he opened his eyes, slid them to the side to look at the flask. He licked his lips in a tiny, involuntary gesture. He reached out, picked it back up, uncapped it...hesitated...then lifted it to his lips.

All done, loves. I'll start posting the sequel, Bad Blood, tomorrow. If you liked Bindings, would you do me a favor and review it? Thanks so much!