Sleeves
TRIGGER WARNING: THIS FICTION INCLUDES SENSIBLE TOPICS, SUCH AS DEPRESSION, SELF-HARM AND SUICIDE. IF YOU'RE NOT IN THE RIGHT CONDITION TO READ THIS STORY, PLEASE SKIP THIS STORY AND REACH OUT FOR HELP. YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN THIS FIGHT. I, THE AUTHOR OF THIS STORY, SELF-HARM TOO, AND THROUGH THIS FIC, I DECIDE TO LET SOME LIGHT INSIDE MY MIND. JUST TO BE CLEAR, I KNOW THAT SELF-HARM DOES NOT MAKE ANY GOOD. THROUGH SAM'S POV, I WILL GIVE THESE THOUGHTS LIFE AND A VOICE, SO THEY CAN BE HEARD. IF YOU HAVE A MINUTE, PLEASE REVIEW THIS FIC. REVIEWS ARE LOVE! :)
HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS FIC :)
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"The blade sings to me. Faintly, so soft against my ears, its voice calms my worries and tells me that one touch will take it all away. It tells me that I just need to slide a long horizontal cut, and make a clean slice. It tells me the words that I have been begging to hear: this will make it ok."
― Amanda Steele, The Cliff
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Sam was the one that saw Jack's last breath before his chest went still and his body stopped moving. The young Nephilim's hands, resting at each side of his body, were now getting colder, and Sam was trying to keep himself from falling apart in front of Dean and Cass. Jack was dead. Jack was fucking dead and he could not do anything to bring him back. Depressing thoughts took him back to the times where he was looking for his possessed brother, pretending to be okay, being the leader of many apocalypse survivors that needed to learn how to hunt properly without being killed in the process, and also the memories of himself drinking coffee to keep himself awake through endless days and nights. Nothing could fill the void inside his chest, consuming all the oxygen in the environment that sorrounded him.
He lost count of the panic attacks he had had in silence, as his tired eyes focused on the screen of his laptop one more time, doing what he knew the most, researching for new hunts or for a hint of Michael doing whatever he planned to do on this new universe.
Now, Dean was back, and when he felt complete again, the kid he practically raised along with Dean and Cass stopped breathing in front of his eyes, while Cass was talking to his brother, trying to convince him to stay next to him as he died. Sam didn't know how many hours he spent reading books about the Lord for answers to his thousand questions, or the calls he made to Rowena in the middle of the night to, magically, try to find another way to save him. He found nothing but desperation and anger though. There was nothing he could have done, right? He had to accept that, but he couldn't even look at his loved ones without being teary-eyed, feeling guilty and ashamed of himself for feeling so defeated. He had stopped a damn apocalypse, yet he couldn't save the ones he loved. His unconscious self kept repeating the same sentence over and over again, even though he tried ignore his messed up inner voice.
Bleed to make it right.
Bleed to make it right.
Bleed to make it right.
His mind travelled through the bunker, making a quick tour towards his room, focusing on the small blade hidden away inside one of his favorite books, where no one could find it. If Dean knew about his new self-harm habit, he'd kick his ass. He could go to his room and feel better for a few hours, but his conscious self was the one that was stopping him from doing it, telling him that it was dangerous to be near Dean or Cass when in need to do it. They didn't know about it, and he didn't want to let them down too. He hadn't cut since the day Dean came back home, after being possessed by the Archangel Michael. Sam made a promise to himself. He promised he would stop cutting, he promised to be stronger than a toxic ' coping skill' to survive. Apparently, keeping that promise alive was way more difficult than he initially thought.
Sam could almost feel the relieve he needed when the tip of the blade was against his arm, that under a certain ammount of pressure, penetrated his skin; blood starting to cover the hurt area. It made him feel good, almost like when he was drinking demon blood while Dean was in hell, another period of time when he was as useless as a cop. Some things had changed since then, too,if he gave the past a place on his mind and took the time to analyze the differences. One of those differences was that he was not the same naive young man that thought he could do good things on this planet on his own. Another one was that he knew now that, sometimes, good intentions could lead to hell before you reached heaven with dirty hands, covered in blood of innocent people.
He needed his brother, and his brother needed him too. Cass and Jack joined them along the way, being a team as the years went by, becoming their family. "Team Free Will 2.0", as Dean would say.
"Alright, well. Two salty hunters, one half-angel kid, a dude that just came back from the dead... again. Team Free Will 2.0, here we go."
When Dean mentioned giving Jack a proper hunter's funeral, Sam could not keep his poker face any longer. Walking away from his angel friend and big brother, he went directly towards his room. Sam knew he couldn't stay in the bunker while Jack were still dead in his bed. He needed some fresh air and adrenaline to let all the anger and sadness go away for a few hours. Dean would not allow him to get drunk on his own in a bar or hurt himself, so he would have to leave when he were not in sight. Sam considered taking Cass' car, but the Impala seem to be the best option. Once he packed everything in his old duffel bag, including the blade, still hidden inside the book, he tiptoed his way towards the main door of the place he called home. The door was louder than he remembered when manipulating it, so he hurried his way to the car. Dean hid the keys inside one of the cabinets of the kitchen, mainly to keep it away from everyone, including his own brother. To be honest with himself, the place where his brother hid the keys was a place that Sam rarely reached for something, since the elder brother was the one that cooked for them these days, however, his sibling was not aware that he knew it. Being a silent and observant person was not so bad now that he thought about it.
He'd have his ass kicked when he came back to the bunker,there was no doubt about it, but that wouldn't hurt as much as Jack's death did. He'd take the consequences without bitching about it. What he had been thinking for the last few weeks made him a be a walking mess, but physical pain made him stop feeling numb when nothing else worked. He felt pain, he felt what was real. When self harming, he could not sense the mental pain that blinded him from what was important. Seeing the blood pouring out of the wound was a relieving feel. He'd wipe it off, making pressure on the fresh cut, seeing more blood sorrounding the area, that action releasing adrenaline to keep it clean until it stop bleeding. To his eyes, it felt like a child being amazed by the smallest and meaningless things. The more the cut bled, the better. Wiping it off with a handkerchief made him feel that he was in control of the situation. He could control something as irrelevant but important as his life. Some people would say he hurt his body cause he wanted to kill himself, but that was far from the truth. It was a way he found to cope with his toxic thoughts. It was a way to find the strenght he needed to keep on fighting.
Sam drove for three long hours before he booked a motel room with two king beds, threw the duffel bag on the floor and sat on the nearest bed he found. He was extremely tired, but he had to do it. He had to take that blade and see his own blood escaping his body, and for that, he had to be alone, without his protective big brother trying to stop him.
Sam was not dumb. There was a high chance that Dean would find him before he went back home, even though he turned the GPS off his cellphone. He knew his brother would do it, even if it was the last thing he did. Maybe he wanted to be found, to be comforted. It was a selfish act from his part, but he couldn't help himself. The three of them had lost Jack, and he was gonna create another problem for them. He was a pathetic and damn bastard that always thought of himself when things could not be fixed. Cass and Dean loved the kid too, but there was one thing they would never understand about his relationship with Jack.
Jack was the person he had been able to save from a dark destiny warned about before he was even born. Since he couldn't save himself from being addicted to demon blood, losing his brother's trust, or being possessed by Lucifer, he tried to save Jack for a change. Luckily, it was a big succes for the both of them. Jack had been a naive boy who wanted to have a normal life, to save people and be loved by his family. Destiny granted him with all of that, but it all came with a high price. He should have died instead of him.
Anxiety started to consume Sam, so he decided that it was time to do it. He could resist no more. Taking the blade from the duffel bag, he sliced his warm and soft skin, creathing one new horizontal line, deeper than the ones that were healing. He didn't reach any veins, so he would be okay. Sam could breathe again as another cut decorated his scarred arm. Everything would be okay. It had to if he was going to survive another hit.
All of the sudden, an idea crossed his mind. Maybe he could bring Jack back. All it would take to perform it was some pills, and consequently, Billie. She was now the main reaper, and he could make a deal with her. It didn't matter if he had to die. Jack was gonna be okay.
TBC...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys! This a topic I needed to write about it. If you want me to continue this fic, please review! Love you