Who: Sam and OPEN. Basically to anyone who might be at the Winchester's apartment. So that includes Dean, Jo, Heather, Jessica, John, and any potential visitors. What: He's sulking around. When: Evening. Where: The Winchester's place. Rating: TBD.
God, he hated this. Sitting around, trying to ignore the pain in his leg, and basically staring off at the screen of his laptop for what felt like must have been hours was not something that Sam Winchester wanted to do right now. Not while monsters like Lilith and Azazel were roaming the streets, potentially and probably hurting anyone they pleased. He was supposed to be out there. That was what all of that damned training had been for, after all. Taking on the demons. Lilith, in particular. It was like the fates were screwing around with him; hell, they were probably mocking him behind his back. Sam couldn't go out. Not without the extra help. So now he was condemned to sulking around his apartment with absolutely nothing to do.
Groaning in annoyance, Sam shifted a little on the couch that he was sprawled across. He pulled his laptop shut and awkwardly leaned over to set it on the coffee table beside him. In that moment a sharp pain shot up his leg and he instantly winced. There were plenty of painkillers resting on the table next to his laptop, but Sam didn't dare reach for them after the first round. He had gone insanely loopy and he sure as hell wasn't interested in doing as much again. Not if it made him look like more of a fool than he already felt.
He'd been shot by Bela three times now. The first time was about a year ago, when he and Dean were dealing with that cursed rabbit foot. It was only a graze on the shoulder back then; nothing too serious. Now, however, Bela had put him down good and proper. He couldn't even go far without extra assistance and it annoyed him to no end. There was so much going on right now. He couldn't afford to be playing ill while there were deals being made and demons on the loose.
Sam was supposed to fight them.
Slumping back against his pillow, he folded his arms over his chest and started scowling off at the ceiling. If he couldn't go around killing demons or, hell, even venting out his frustrations on something else, Sam would instead blame the ceiling for his problems.
"I hate you," he decided. "You get to be up there. Standing all by yourself. Me? I have to lay on this stupid couch all day and watch stupid TV and..." He trailed off then, realizing that he was talking to himself.
Oh, that was great. Just great. Now he was going insane.