Sam really doesn't give a shit what Mike is sick of, his lips curled into a furious snarl as he presses his arm harder against Mike's windpipe. It'd be easy enough to crush it like this, but he's still not pushing nearly hard enough for that. Because he needs to hear the rest.
And when he does, when Mike continues, eyes flashing darkly as dread pools and spreads in Sam's gut, he finally pulls back. Not because Mike's told him too, but because he's gone cold all over. He thinks of the gallons of demon blood he has in the trunk of the Impala, the fact that he's been stocking up for days, not yet drinking a drop, but... but thinking about it. Thinking about it in a way he hasn't in nearly a year.
He hasn't spent any time questioning it, but now. Now he knows why.
"Fuck," Sam breathes and he finally pulls away entirely, pushing past the guilt and the terror clawing at his insides to get to the important parts. "Where is he?"
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And when he does, when Mike continues, eyes flashing darkly as dread pools and spreads in Sam's gut, he finally pulls back. Not because Mike's told him too, but because he's gone cold all over. He thinks of the gallons of demon blood he has in the trunk of the Impala, the fact that he's been stocking up for days, not yet drinking a drop, but... but thinking about it. Thinking about it in a way he hasn't in nearly a year.
He hasn't spent any time questioning it, but now. Now he knows why.
"Fuck," Sam breathes and he finally pulls away entirely, pushing past the guilt and the terror clawing at his insides to get to the important parts. "Where is he?"