TRIGGER WARNINGS: non-graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and references to past suicide attempt.

A/N: Please note that I am in no way attempting to romanticize self-harm or suicide, and if you're looking for a sappy fic where he finds out that the reader self-harms, professes his love to her, and saves her from herself, then you should probably look elsewhere. In my experience, that's not how it works in the real world, and I've tried to express that reality in this story. And while I am not personally triggered by stories of this nature, I recognize that it will most certainly be triggering to others, and I would advise them not to read. But writing this story has helped me work through my own personal urges, and I sorely hope that in posting this, others may take comfort in it as well.

It takes you little more than a few minutes to realize what deep, deep shit you've gotten yourself into. After all, your life never has been very peachy.

Waking up in a room with sunlight streaming in through the windows and onto your eyelids is your very first clue, before you even open your eyes. Your bed and the room that you've been sleeping in are the perfect temperature – the air around you is cool but not cold, and you're swathed in luxurious, comfortable blankets. And at this point, you finally realize what woke you – the smell of bacon cooking.

You really, really want to enjoy this. You try to delude yourself into thinking that maybe you just got blackout drunk the night before and somehow made your way into a stranger's bed – a kind stranger who would wake up before you and, instead of fleeing, would cook you breakfast. That would explain why I can't remember how I got here. But no, that little thought is a mere fleeting fantasy as your breathing grows shallow and you are overcome with dread – because with a lot of effort (more effort than you'd usually be able to muster up before your morning coffee), you begin to recall where exactly you were last night. Or earlier this afternoon, rather.

It was just another goddamn case. Something was kidnapping people and shit – probably fucking vampires or something – and weren't giving them back. The boys were busy and you were going stir crazy being holed up in the bunker, having been put in charge of research and first aid after a recent… incident. They didn't tie you down and lock you up, but they didn't want you anywhere near their cases, it seemed – apparently, the boys didn't get the memo that you can have deep-seated personal issues and still be a damn good hunter. Hell, it's practically part of the job description. So, you just resolved to never tell the boys anything personal – like, ever again. You knew they were just trying to protect you, but they should know that practically locking someone up with their own worst enemy is just a little bit counterproductive.

So you decided to take a case: one that would have you stabbing things or chopping the heads off of some evil fuckers – or so you thought. Three people had now gone missing from a rural town in Pennsylvania, so you seized the opportunity for a solo hunt. You told the boys that you had some family business to deal with there (because giving them the location made what you were doing seem less suspicious, and just in case you needed saving, they'd know where to look – if they even cared enough to look, that is) so as to not bother them with more stress or worry.

You were afraid Sam's face would get stuck in that perpetual quirked-eyebrow-frowny-face thing that he did whenever you had a conversation with him. Every interaction between you and Dean consisted of you grumbling petulantly and him shaking his head and sighing for what seemed like several minutes straight. And whenever you saw Castiel, he gave you this weird, sad smile, like he doesn't know how they work or when to use them appropriately in social situations.

So, unbeknownst to the Winchester boys, you set off on your own toward Pennsylvania, following the GPS from the latest vic's phone to some barn on an abandoned farm. The barn had a cellar hatch, and you went to reach for it, and—

You groan internally, pulling the covers up over your head as you try to stave off a panic attack. Jesus Fucking Christ. Of course it wouldn't be vampires. Or werewolves. Or even demons.

Because that would be too fucking easy.

"I really don't think we've got anything to worry about, Sammy," Dean says, flipping idly through the pages of another lore book.

"Dean, she doesn't even have any family in Pennsylvania." Sam paces around the library, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his forehead.

"Well then what exactly do you think she's doing there?"

"I don't know – a hunt, maybe? Or, god – what if she's—"

"I'll stop you right there," Dean says, closing the book he's been reading to address the issue once and for all. "She's an adult. She can do whatever the hell she wants, and if she wants to, you know – we can't stop her."

"Oh, that's a great attitude to have. So we should just let her go down that path, is that it?"

"No. What I'm saying is, we shouldn't try to fool anyone – ourselves included – into thinking that we can stop her." They exchange angry, seething glares for several long moments before Dean relents, shaking his head. "If you're so worried, why don't you track her phone?"

Sam laughs in response.

"Oh, don't tell me you're beneath that now."

"No, it's just – I, uh, I already did. Earlier this morning," Sam admits, albeit reluctantly.

"Oh, yeah? And where was she?"

"…"

"Sam?"

"… She was in Pennsylvania. Exactly where she said she'd be."

"And you're still worried?"

"I am."

"Then check again."

So he does. And you're in the exact same spot that you were in earlier. "She hasn't moved at all. It's been, like, 12 hours since I last looked."

"Maybe she left her phone behind when she went out."

"At an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere?"

"I just – I wouldn't call that cause for worry yet." Sam shoots him a puppy-dog look – one he is all too familiar with. "Look, if she hasn't moved by tomorrow, I'll drive. Okay?"

"Yeah, alright. Fine. See you in the morning."

The only thing you can really do right about now is get up, quit wallowing, and face the world for what it is. As you roll out of bed, you notice one thing in particular that throws you off-kilter: it's not the beautiful, brightly-lit bedroom, or the silky-soft pajamas that you're wearing – it's that your arms are free of the scars that have become etched into your memory as much as they have been into your skin. Oh god. What the fuck is going on? You scramble to look into the nearest mirror and find that you're still in your own body, but you look different – your face has filled out, your complexion a healthy tone. The characteristic bags are missing from underneath your eyes. You barely recognize yourself. Am I dreaming?

"Why, does my cooking really smell that good?"

You flinch hard at the sound of Sam's voice from where he stands behind you, jovial and smiling in the middle of the bedroom, tray of food in hand. Breakfast in bed?

"Sorry, I – I didn't realize I said that out loud."

"I thought you'd still be sleeping. I wanted to surprise you," he says, smile widening as he gestures to the tray in his hands. When you don't respond the way he obviously expects you to, worry bleeds into his expression. "Are you alright, babe?"

Babe?

"I, uh – yeah, I just, um, I don't feel very well, I guess," you lie, giving him your very best sad smile.

He frowns. "Well let's get you back into bed, then, hmm? Maybe some breakfast will make you feel better?"

You smile and nod, letting him lead you back to bed by the hand and place the tray of food over your lap. It's then that you notice the engagement ring on your finger (oh shit, oh shit, oh SHIT): a beautiful, diamond-studded infinity band. It's what you'd always wanted, what you'd always dreamed of – something simple and pretty that wouldn't get in the way. You sacrificed fashion a long time ago – clunky jewelry and noisy bangles and manicured fingernails are really just hindrances to your hunting, at the end of the day.

Sam has gone all-out and prepared your favorites – fried eggs over-easy, bacon, rye toast, pulp-free orange juice, and a cup of coffee, dressed exactly the way you like it. There's two daisies in a small vase on the corner of the tray, too. He sits on the edge of the bed beside you and watches you eagerly.

The worst part is that you know that Sam would never feel this way about you. He would never sit this close to you unless he was forced to. He would never play house with you for a case. He would never smile and bite his lip and call you babe, even if he was being held at gunpoint. So this must just be a sick, sad fantasy.

"So, what's the occasion?" you ask, digging into the plate of food in front of you, giving him a fake smile. As suspicious as I am of my current predicament, I'm starving, and it all just smells so good…

"Oh, I don't know – Sunday morning, I guess. Just felt like it," he says, biting his lip.

"This is really, really good, Sam. Holy wow," you say after having practically inhaled your entire breakfast.

He laughs and smiles that gorgeous, dimply smile that you're so fond of (the one that you haven't seen on him in a very long time) as he moves the tray off of your lap and onto the floor beside the bed. Then, much to your astonishment, he crawls up the bed and good lord if that isn't the sexiest thing you've ever seen… Of course, you kind of saw this coming, with the flirty looks and the engagement ring and the adoration in his eyes when he called you 'babe.'

But that doesn't lessen the blow when his lips actually connect with yours, leaving you absolutely breathless and a little more than bothered. You feel like you're floating, even as your lungs constrict and the knot in your gut tightens and blood rushes to your head (and, well, other parts). You can't help the half-moan-half-whimper that escapes you, and in response, he places a hand reverently on your cheek and deepens the kiss. Your hands scramble for purchase, one taking up residence on his chest and the other finding its way to the back of his neck. And as you card your fingers through this hair and across his scalp, he lets out a long, delicious moan, drawing back to look you in the eyes before trailing kisses down the side of your jaw and along your neck. And as his head is lowered, distracting you from your obvious predicament, a small knock at the door pulls you out of your trance. You're too stunned to respond.

Following the small knock is an even smaller voice, asking "May I come in, please?"

And even after being interrupted, Sam still smiles up at you before responding happily, "Yes, you may."

The sight that greets you as the door opens leaves you in utter shock. It's a little girl, maybe five or six years old, clad in her lime green pajamas, with light brown hair tangled atop her head and a teddy bear clutched in her arms. She's the spitting image of your mother, and you fear for a moment that she's supposed to be yours.

"And how can I help you this morning, Miss Lucy?" Sam mimics the child's adorable, overly polite tone as he kneels on the ground in front of her.

"I'm hungry, and I know it's impolite to bother grown-ups when they have the door shut, but someone put the cereal on top of the fridge and I can't reach it." You can't help but giggle into your hand – she's the cutest fucking thing you've ever seen.

"Now, Lucy – remember what happened last time you tried to pour your own milk? Your Mommy would be very mad if we wasted another whole gallon mopping the kitchen floor," he says, resolve setting on his face as he continues, "You know what? Who needs cereal when you've got Uncle Sam's Awesome Sunday Breakfast? Go on, get the cartoons going and I'll meet you in the kitchen in a minute, okay?" The little girl giggles and runs from the room excitedly.

"Now you," he says, turning his attention back to you. "Jenna called and said she won't be home for another few hours, so why don't you get some more sleep and come down when you're feeling a bit better, okay? We'll be back at the bunker in our own bed before you know it."

My… my sister, Jenna? My dead sister?

You nod your head, muttering a quiet, 'okay,' and you know that you're not very convincing, but Sam seems to buy it. He tucks you back into bed, saying, "Alright, feel better babe." He drops a chaste kiss to your lips and whispers, "I love you." And you have just enough fantasy left in you to say it back.

As soon as Sam is out of earshot, you get dressed quickly and grab the set of car keys off of the dresser. You climb out of the bedroom window, scaling down the side of the lovely little suburban home before booking it across the backyard lawn, over the fence, and into what looks to be like your car. It's only now that you realize that you're in your home town. Next thing you know, you're just driving. You need to think.

It takes a while, but you finally realize exactly what brand of shit you've gotten yourself into – you've been the boys' researcher for the past several months, for fuck's sake. You know what a djinn dream looks like.

It's perfectly tailored to you. You're engaged to Sam Fucking Winchester, the man of your dreams, and your sister is alive (and you have a goddamn niece) – but the most unrealistic part of this whole fantasy is that your gory, scar-ridden past has been scrubbed clean, and you are a solid, relatively healthy individual. There are things about this reality that make perfect sense, in your case: you'd never want to get out of The Life, knowing what you know now, and no amount of dream-healing can fix the broken, jaded, cynical part of your brain that needs to save the world from monsters to feel even a shred of self-worth. And of course, there's no way that you'd have a daughter in your own dream reality (the mere thought fills you with dread) – because you'd never be so selfish so as to curse another human being to be anything like you. It's a fate you wouldn't wish upon anyone.

You drive and drive until you reach a familiar vacant parking lot outside of an abandoned strip mall. This is where you and your delinquent friends used to go to drink or smoke pot or whatever you did when you were in high school. You climb through the same gap in the fence that has been there for over a decade now, making your way inside of the old furniture outlet. You need to think in peace.

In the middle of the dusty, grimy old floor, you sit down and curl in on yourself, realizing that this is it – this is what you have left: your own misery and empty fantasies. This is how I die.

"But I thought that was the point, though, wasn't it? Or have I missed something?"

The person standing before you is a very convincing copy of your sister, but you know better. At the sight of her, your mind is instantly flooded with the gruesome memories of her death – of the demon who possessed her body and spoke with her tongue, of the steps she took off the roof of that factory, of the way the demon continued to wear her like a meat suit until—

Obviously, the creature senses your fury and relents, switching its face to Dean's. "I just want to speak to you. I know you know what I am and how I function, so I won't try to hide it from you. Who would you like to see?"

Tears stream down your cheeks as you grit, "You. Just show me you."

"Of course," it says, bowing its head before transforming into its original djinn form – one of tattooed skin and flaming blue eyes. It doesn't alarm you. "Do you know why I brought you here? Why I gave you this world?"

"Because you're a sadistic son of a bitch who needed a snack and I was practically delivered to your doorstep."

The creature is not offended or fazed by your outburst. "A sad, bony heap of self-loathing, tears, and regrets is hardly an appetizing snack," it deadpans. Well, you do have a point there... "I brought you here because you wanted it – you were begging for it. I could feel your desire from miles away – your desire to die, to leave your life behind."

You are stunned for a moment (how can it speak so plainly about this?) before recoiling. "Yeah, maybe – but on my own terms!"

"Well, let these be your terms: I can give you a lifetime of exactly the world you want, however you want it. I can give you more time than a crossroads demon ever could, without damning your soul to hell for eternity. And while you'll only last a few days in the real world – which you already know to be true – you wanted to die anyway. This way, you'll no longer feel like a burden on the Winchester boys' lives; they won't have to worry about saving you any longer. And here, in this world, you can love Sam freely and feel his love in return. You can have your sister back. You can have exactly what you wanted – you can leave your sad little life behind and be happy."

You mull this over for several long moments, the Djinn waiting on you patiently. "But… but, it's kind of pathetic, isn't it? Pretending, when I know it's not real?"

"Oh, who says it can't be? It's the perfect image of Sam and Jenna, erected from your memories: this is as real as it will ever get for you, my dear."

"This is ridiculous. I know what you are. I know that you're killing me."

"You were killing you first," it quips. You don't have a good comeback for that one. "So, what do you say?"

"Drive faster," Sam orders from the passenger seat of the Impala.

Dean presses harder on the gas pedal, feeling the worry coming off of Sam in waves. He knows that now is not a time for jokes or sass, so he shoots for reassurance.

"We'll find her, Sammy. She'll be okay."

"You can't possibly know that for sure."

"No, I can't, but I have a feeling."

"Me too. But mine is telling me that we need to haul ass and find her before it's too late. If it's not already too late."

You have to admit, it's not easy giving in and going along with the ruse when you know what's really going on. But after a few days, the weirdness and the hesitance starts to fade away – because it actually stats to feel incredibly real. Your sister is solid and warm and alive when you hug her. Dean reacts the same as he always does to your jokes and references, and you still disagree on what TV shows to watch, but he's not walking on eggshells around you anymore. He doesn't look at you like you're a ticking time bomb, waiting to explode your guts all over the bunker (which he'd inevitably and begrudgingly have to mop up).

Sam is the same, but noticeably happier. And now, you can touch him the way you've always wanted to. He comes up behind you in the kitchen each morning when you're cooking, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your neck. You still have the same deep, intellectual discourse, but at the end of each day, he shares a bed with you, his breath crawling down the back of your neck, and a small voice in the back of your mind reminds you that this is a fantasy. You wish it would just shut up and let you enjoy it.

The hunts are still intense and the threats are still there, but the ones you love are close to you – and they stay that way.

You haven't given Fantasy Sam (as you've taken to calling him) any opportunity to be intimate with you. You feel like having sex with him would be taking things too far – because apparently, living your entire life inside of a fabricated, fantasy dream-universe isn't crazy, but defiling the mere image of Sam in your memory would definitely be the last straw. God, if Sam ever found out about this…

But he's not going to. You'll be dead and he'll never know what a depraved lunatic you truly are.

This argument runs through your head every single time Fantasy Sam gets too close to you. But as this is your dream world, where everything is exactly as you like it, he never pushes you. But even in the real world, you reason, he doesn't seem like the kind of person who would anyway.

One day, several weeks into this fantasy of yours, you feel what can only be described as a glitch in the matrix – you feel a phantom grip on your shoulder, then a loud ringing sound resonates in your ear, blocking out the conversation that you're having with Dean.

And even with your obvious display of discomfort, Dean doesn't flinch at all, reminding you once again that this is all a dream.

The boys find you, your phone still tucked in your pocket, inside the cellar of the abandoned barn. You're unconscious, sprawled out on some sort of operating table, your wrists and ankles bound to the corners. You're hooked up to an IV drip. It doesn't take long for them to realize what's going on here; after all, they've witnessed it firsthand before.

"She's not waking up, Dean. I don't understand," Sam says, frantically trying to wake you from your dream state as he cuts you free of your binds and carefully extracts the IV.

"Me neither. She knows exactly what to do when captured by a djinn. We've talked about this."

They split up to try to locate the djinn, but it's proving impossible. When they meet back up in the cellar, they find a note on the operating table that holds your unconscious body.

I'll have moved on by the time you're reading this. Don't bother coming after me.

I just thought you should know that she wanted it; I was only doing her a favor.

I hate to leave unfinished business, but it's no huge loss to me. Her sadness left a bitter taste in my mouth anyway.

"That was oddly poetic," Dean says, the note throwing him off. His usual answer is to gank the son of a bitch and save the vic – what is he supposed to do now? "Well, it looks like we have a very literate djinn on our hands, I suppose."

"Out of our hands, Dean. It got away." There's a long pause – a heavy, sinking reticence as the boys process the situation. Sam is the first to break the silence. "Okay, so how do we get her out of this if we can't kill the djinn? Her pulse is weak and her breath is shallow – she's fading fast. She doesn't have much time left."

"At this point, it looks like the only one who can save her is her."

"And you and I both know that she may not be willing to do that." Sam sighs, searching his brain for an answer – for some way to contact her. "Okay, hang on – I've got an idea!"

"Don't strain yourself, Sammy," Dean jokes, but Sam knows that it's his own way of saying, 'let's hear it.'

"I need a couple of things from the Impala. Please tell me that we still have some African Dream Root."

"I think we do, and I like where you're going with this. What can I do?"