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[The few days it's taken to adjust have been, well - Sam is not going to use the word 'Hell' because he's actually been, and this is crappy but it doesn't come close. Still, anyone who hasn't seen him yet might be a little alarmed at what's being broadcast: six feet and four inches of sickly sasquatch, valiantly trying to address the network, appallingly pale, sallow-faced and bloodshot-sunken-eyed.]

Hey. Uh - Sam. I'm new. I guess this is a, uh, a thing that, that people do. Is introduce themselves. And I get that - we're all looking for a way out.

[Auspicious beginnings. Who knows if anyone's even getting this? Nevertheless, he continues.]

Okay. So. No promises, but there's something I can try. Kinda like a ward, or a spell. [Magic exists, surprise. The few people he's already talked to have expressed a kind of varied interest in this sort of thing, so caution be damned.] Anyone wants to help, I'll need a couple things.

First is - salt. Table salt, any kind will do. Second? Matches, a lighter, anything that can make sparks, even for a few seconds. And then I'll need something to write with, marker, pen, spray paint - I don't care. Anything along those lines.

[He looks at something off-screen, mouth briefly twisting in what might best be categorized as 'disgust'.]

I have food to trade for it. Heard that's kind of a limited resource these days. Food and, uh. [He squints at something.] Neosporin. If anyone, y'know, needs that.

[Yeah, he doesn't get it either. He jerks off frame for a moment, face buried in his elbow. It's not enough to fully stifle the ragged, fierce coughs that leave his shoulders shuddering. Finally, signs of life trickle back through the feed, albeit muffled and with their subject mostly lurched off camera as he mutters in his more characteristic deadpan, wearily sardonic, 'so-done-with-this-shit' tone.]

Also. If anyone happens to have some aspirin on them, that'd be great.

[There's the rattling of trembling, uncoordinated fingertips trying to navigate the tablet, and the feed snaps off.]

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[Despite the possibility of not having his head throbbing like it's about to split 24/7, Sam shifts a little, unsettled.]

Well, you're not wrong. It's just, it - it's some pretty dark stuff. It was a big, long - thing.

[Deep breath. He's been pretty open about this too, and he might as well be frank if Gold thinks he can help.]

Would you believe me if I said it's kind of a - side effect of trying to close the Gates of Hell?

[There's a bit of renewed interest in his demeanor once again at that.]

Fascinating. If you like we can discuss this more in private? In person perhaps?

[He's certainly no stranger to dark magic. He admittedly doesn't know much about 'Hell' or it's gates, save what he's seen in books, but no doubt Sam could fill him in on it. However, he would prefer not to get into such a discussion over a public venue where anyone might be listening in.]

[Well, if that doesn't put him off that might be a good sign. Or a bad one. But it's not like he can make this much worse, right? Sam considers for a minute before the indecision resolves with the acquiescing supination of a palm.]

Hey, I'm game if you are. You want I should meet you in yours, or...?

[That is the question isn't it. After a bit of mulling the issue over he decided he was possibly in better shape to make the trip than Sam was. He could always rest in the other man's room to recover from the effort.]

I'll come to you. I suspect I'm in slightly better shape than you.

[Sam looks down as if silently gauging the assessment. He looks up again. He looks down again.

He looks like shit.

Not really a big question of how Gold came to that conclusion.]

Yeah, okay, fair enough. I'll leave the door open.

[He cuts off the feed and stands to do so.]

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