AN: Hey, guys, it's been a while. Summer's finally come, and high school is officially over for me, and I'll be working two jobs for a while, so that's why I've been gone lately.
Now, if this wasn't already obvious, this story is very different from any of my others. Not only is it a reader-insert, but it deals with very sensitive issues such as depression, and self-harm, both of which are issues I understand the severity of, and are both issues I have personally dealt with in the past. To me, this is the story that some people may simply want to read, but maybe some of you out there really need to read it too. And if you are struggling with these kinds of issues, I beg of you, seek out some help. I spent so much time unnecessarily dealing with this on my own, but there will always be people out there who know how to help. Don't bottle this stuff up, guys, believe me.
With that said, here is And We'll Heal the Scars, story title taken from a Mumford and Sons song, Learn Me Right.
The first time you ever saw Sam Winchester, you couldn't help but admire his body. Six-foot-four of him, but it still wasn't enough. He'd shown up at your house in a really, really nice suit, asking about a friend you'd lost long ago. As upset as their death had left you, the sight of Sam was a hard one to ignore. His long, beautiful hair that occasionally fell in wisps over his sweet, kind eyes. His voice seemed to rattle the room, full and deep, and oh, his lips. You'd eventually learned of all the things his mouth was capable of, but at the time, it had been particularly distracting.
Almost a little too close of a call had occurred soon after. You'd been sitting in your house when the room suddenly became very cold, and your lights had started to flicker. The ghost of your friend had shown up, and before you had the chance to run, the ghost was on you. Just when you thought it was all over, Sam had stormed in, waving some metal tool through the spirit, and you were free. He'd explained how and why the ghost had returned, and how it had lost sight of who it used to be. There was a bit more fighting between Sam and the ghost, but eventually it had burst into flames, and Sam had told you that it was finally gone.
Now, you were undoubtedly grateful to Sam. How could you not be? And you had noticed the way that he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, so you figured that there was only one good way to thank him that would please you both. And damn, were you both pleased. Pleased enough that he'd given you his number afterward, along with the instruction to call if anything ever happened to you again.
Nothing had really happened, but you'd called him anyway, and you'd met up. And then you'd called him again, and you'd met up another time. Then another call, and you met up once more. For the purpose of saving money on gas, Sam had eventually asked you to come live with him and Dean. They'd taught you how to patch up injuries and help with research, but you had no desire to ever join them on hunts. They took care of you, and you took care of them, and when Dean wasn't around, you and Sam really took care of one another.
And that's where you are right now. Snuggled up next to your boyfriend, both recovering from all the fun you'd just had. Sam has his strong arms wrapped around your much smaller body, his chin atop your head, giving you the impression of being tucked in, You're both warm, hot even, but neither of you really care. Too much warmth is well worth it so long as you have each other.
You're in the midst of gently stroking his arm when you see the scar. Two of them, actually. They run horizontally down the length of his arm, starting at his elbow, and ending at his wrist.
"What are those?" You ask.
"Hmm?" He asks back, clearly a little lost in the moment.
"These." You clarify, brushing a finger along them.
"Oh." He shifts a bit, sitting up a little more now. "Those are from a hunt. Ghouls. Remember what those ones are?"
You pause for a moment, going through the archives of your brain to recall what a ghoul is. "They're kinda like shapeshifters. They usually feed off the dead, and then they turn into whoever they eat, right?"
"Right. Well, I got these from when one turned into my younger brother and then tried to put me next on the menu."
"'Younger brother?'" You ask.
"Long story." He answers.
You nod, accepting the response, and you continue letting your eyes drift over his (beautiful) body.
"What about this one?" You ask, pointing to a scarred circle on his shoulder.
"Got shot." He gestures to another series of holes on his chest. "These are all from getting shot."
"Geez, how the hell are you alive?"
"Well- I kinda wasn't."
... What? "Okay, explain."
"Well, the simple version, my brother and I- it's pretty hard to keep us down. We, uh- we kind of die a lot."
"Well... That seems normal."
Sam chuckles. "For us, yeah, it kinda is. The job's dangerous, but it's worth it."
It's almost like a game now. You scan his body, finding scar after scar, and hear story after story. You wince at the one of how he died the first time when that asshole Jake stabbed him. But each scar is another little tale that helps define Sam, and you love it. The two of you laugh, and then he starts to play too. Your stories are less exciting. There's the childhood injury that required a trip to the E.R, the one cut that you couldn't stop picking at, but you know- you know that he's going to ask about the others soon.
You can pinpoint the exact second that he sees them, because the smile falls from his face. One big but gentle hand holds your arm, and the other rests on your hip, fingers lightly brushing against what you both know to be scars different from the rest. Because these ones were self-inflicted. You both know, but he asks anyway.
"What about these ones?" His voice is much softer now, not that it wasn't before, but, sadly, the light and somewhat cheery tone that had been surrounding you has now turned somber.
You bite the inside of your lip. You knew it was coming. You can only see a person naked so many times before they notice things like this. But he'd opened up to you, he told you all about his life and his scars. It's only fair that you now do the same.
"You-" He says. "You don't have to if you don't want to."
Shaking your head, you tell him, "No, I-I want to." You nod, mostly to yourself, determined to do this.
You feel a light kiss to your forehead, and that just says so much right there. You know that you can trust Sam with your life, so you should be able to trust him with this.
"So." You start. "You know me, Sam. You know that I try to be a good person, take care of everybody."
He nods, silently prompting you to go on.
"It-it's not always easy. I feel like I have to be strong for everyone else, so- I never let them see me hurt. I try to keep that smile on all day long, but- when I'm alone..."
One of his hands has moved to grasp yours, his thumb gently stroking it as you continue.
"I-I try to be in control." You explain. "And, when I'm not, sometimes I just- I don't know what to do, how to deal with it. So I found something that I could control. Pain. I decide how much it hurts, an-" You close your eyes now as they begin to fill with tears. "And I feel like I've finally got a handle on things. At least- that was how it started. I-I thought I was the one in charge of it, but- I got to the point where I wasn't the one in control anymore. Every little screw up made me feel worthless, and I decided that feeling pain was better than feeling empty."
You have to pause to swallow and wipe away the almost humiliating amount of tears that have fallen. Sam pulls you a little closer, and another tear falls at that.
"It-it's so stupid, Sam." You choke out. "You're out there saving the world, and I lose all self-control over every damn thing I do wrong."
"Hey." He says softly, taking your chin in his hand and lifting your head until you're looking at him. "My problems aren't any more important than yours."
You let out a laugh that's mixed with a sob. "That's a lie, and we both know it."
"It's not." He insists. "And this stuff isn't supposed to be a competition. My problems might save or damn the world, and yours might not, but who cares? Comparing your issues to someone else's isn't going to solve them, because whatever upsets you, it's you, and protecting you is just as important as protecting the rest of the world."
You're completely still for a while, trying to figure out how to react to that, but you eventually decide to throw your arms around him and sob into his shoulder. He just cares so much. How can he possibly have so much love after all he's been through? But there's an even bigger question, and once you've regained the ability to speak coherently, you ask.
"Wh-why me, Sam?"
He gives a small chuckle, followed by another light kiss to your forehead.
"I've seen a lot of crap over the years. Crap that would make most people go crazy, make them lose hope of there being any good left in this world. I've almost gotten there quite a few times, but then I meet you. You prove that I'm right in fighting for humanity, because there are still so many people that deserve to live, deserve to be happy, deserve something better. I used to be fighting for a faceless hope, but now?" He smiles that oh so Sam smile, and you can't help but smile with him. "Now I've got you to come home to. And I'm gonna fight for you and the rest of the world until the end. And I want you to do the same, okay? Even if I'm not here, you're gonna be strong and always keep fighting, got it?"
"'Always keep fighting.'" You repeat. "Okay, Sam." You nod, squeezing his hand as you make the vow to both him and yourself. "I'll fight."
You find yourself looking at his ever-comforting smile once more, and soon, those lips are on yours, and you've never felt so safe in your life. You let Sam's three words continue to buzz through your head, and you know that while you may slip up sometimes, you're never going to give up. Because if Sam Winchester is willing to fight for you, because Sam Winchester believes in you, then you should believe in yourself too, and always keep fighting.
AN: Like I said, I hope any out there struggling with these types of issues are seeking help, because this is not the kind of stuff to bottle up, because you can only contain so much before you tumble over the edge. Thank you for reading, and take Jared's advice to always keep fighting, and until next time, carry on my wayward sons.