Author Note: This story is rated T for cutting, suicidal thought, and just an out-right screwed up Sam. If things like this disturb you, turn back now. You have been warned. Please, Please, PLEASE review!
Deep
Chapter 1: True Color
I look out of the Impala window, the rain had fogged up the glass, but the autumn trees were distinct enough on the mountain side. If I didn't know better, I'd say the forests were ablaze. I was growing impatient. A day of driving, and I was beginning to crack. If I didn't get to the hotel and take a hot shower soon, I might explode. As Dean drove past a sign, announcing our arrival to Bermuda, Tennessee, I feel my heart lighten.
Dean found an article saying that there were people being stabbed through the heart, but the weapon left a fine powder behind on the victims. Personally, I couldn't care less. I just wanted a stupid shower. We parked at a hotel, dean hopping out and saying, "I'll get us a room."
Ten minutes later, we finally got checked in to the hotel, I set my bag down on the far bed. The room was decent, a small nightstand between the beds, a little table, mini fridge, microwave, and even a balcony. I rummage through my bag, digging to the very bottom. I say, "I'm going to take a shower."
Dean merely grunted his reply and plopped down on the bed, snoring in minutes. I wrap my clean clothes around my small journal and razor, and quietly slip into the bathroom. It wasn't anything special, just a normal, white bathroom. I close and lock the creamy-colored, wooden door. I lean against the wall and allow my weak legs to give out, collapsing to the floor.
I flip to my last entry in my journal, two days ago. I pulled my rain-dampened, long-sleeved shirt up over my head, and discard it to the dark corner. My scars become visible, so many, deep and shallow, long and short. My last made cuts were still healing. I remember Dean knocking, and I freaked out, the razor slashing through my abs a lot deeper than intended. I didn't mind though, it made me even more numb. I had made a quick excuse and he had left. I trace over the cut, running from below my right nipple down to my left hip. I had thought at the time that I might bleed to death. Granted, I was extremely woozy at the time, but nothing deadly. I write in the date, followed by, place: shower, tool: razor/ fingernails, and Dean: asleep.
I've been a cutter for about eight years, since I was about eighteen. I always record it, making sure that if something bad ever happened, Dean would know why, though he wouldn't care. He would abandon me if he ever found out. I can't bear the thought, and the first tears run down my cheeks, one falling on my open journal, leaving a coin sized splotch. I closed my journal, and placed it on the sink. I put the razor down on the side of the tub, while I fumbled with the shower knob.
Once the shower was steaming hot, I stepped into the small amount of water collected in the slowly filling tub. I sank down, letting the water pound my chest. I begin to dig my longish nails into my collarbone, letting them scratch me from there to my shoulders, and off. Small spots of blood begin to well up and I get the briefest look before the hot water washes them away. The blood barley seeped out, so I continued to claw at the marks, making them deeper and wider. I watched the fear and pain well from the cuts, dripping down into the water.
I sigh, I have tried to stop, I really have. When Jess found out, she tried to help me. I was so stressed with school, that when my classmate told me about it, well….
I had been sober, so to speak, for two weeks, when Jess was killed. I shudder in the hot water. I feel so cold and alone, yet the steam tells me I'm warm, and the droplets that soar around me tell me I'm surrounded by friends. Dean's snoring just tells me that I'm safe from him abandoning me today.
I started to self-harm for loss after Jess. I just would take hour long showers and cut. It made me feel so numb, yet alive. Then, I met Castiel. I thought that if I put up a strong enough wall, he wouldn't see me cutting, or sense the pain in my heart.
A few days after we met, I had dashed to the bathroom, shudders racking my broken body, and tears streaming down my face. Dean and I had had a really bad fight, and he had left for a few days. When I reached for my razor, Cas was there. He put his hand over mine, taking the razor. I remember him saying, "Why do you do this? I do not understand. Doesn't it hurt?"
I acutely can recall his eyes, the dark blue orbs flooded with confusion, grief, and sympathy. I shook my head, "I don't know. It hurts, and then…it just feels numb."
"But why would you wish to be numb? The world is beautiful and would grieve your loss."
At that, I fall to my side, shaking and crying. I had long ago convinced myself that the world was better off without me, that no one cared. To have another living person, someone I barely knew, tell me that my life meant something, not just because I'm Lucifer's vessel, I couldn't contain the sorrow and happiness that someone cared. Cas sits there, watching me. He knows that there is nothing he can do to help, other than be there. I look up into his eyes, "Thank you."
"What are you thankful for?" he asks. Sometimes, talking to an angel feels very one-sided. I reply, "For not leaving…please don't leave me."
I grab the razor and slash it across my chest, tears mixing with the fresh blood. He was there for me. Each time I told him that I couldn't take it, he would allow me to cut, but it became something I did less and less. Each time I would cut, he would give me a strong embrace and sing the chorus of "Carry on my Wayward Son".
I would always start to sob again when it came to "Don't cha cry no more", and Cas didn't care that I got blood and tears all over his trench coat.
Then, when he died, I fell back into the same thing, only this time I had another life to grieve. I kept the strong face on, unlike Dean; he just drank everything he could find. I would always break down when I thought of Cas, but I held it until I got to the bathroom.
I dunked my head under the pouring water, letting it soak my long hair. I dug my nails into the back of my neck, not moving them, just applying pressure until I saw white spots, the blood running from the wounds all over my body, dripping into the water, and turning it pink. After Castiel died, my burning, tortured heart froze over, not letting anyone touch it. No one knows what I'm going through. No one will. I was a fool to let someone in. I punch the stone wall, amazed by the crack that now runs through that square of rock.
Drops of water jumped off my brown hair, dissolving into the steadily darkening water. I fought back the urge to scream, the pain in my neck growing. When I could no longer bear it, I moved my fingers, allowing the pain to slightly ease, gasping for air. I shake, biting my bottom lip, and I taste the sweet, salty blood enter my mouth.
I stand, still trembling, and turn off the shower. If I didn't gauze the wounds, I might pass out from blood loss. When I step onto the stone floor, and look on the sink, I realize my mistake. I had been in such a hurry to take a shower I forgot my first aid kit. I look in the mirror, seeing the scarlet rivulets running in short streams from my chest, slim crimson lines from my collarbone to my shoulders, and when I turn I can see the blood welling from the marks in my neck, trickling nearly to the small of my back. I search the cabinet under the sink until I found a small, white washcloth. Wetting it, I glide it over my abused chest and shoulders, trying to stop the bleeding. I bring it up my back, gathering the red trails, and clean the wounds they were born from.
To my building despair, the old blood is replaced by fresh blood. I sigh, maybe today is the day Dean leaves my pathetic butt. I crack the door, careful to keep my scarred shoulders hidden from view. I don't see Dean, but a little note left on the bed. I cautiously step out of the bathroom, the steam spirits breaking from their restraints. I bend over and read the note: Went to Wendy's- Dean.
I inwardly smile, set the note back down, and dash to my bed. I scavenge my large duffle bag, knowing I could be caught in seconds. My hand finds the first aid kit, and I ran back to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I rinse out the bloody cloth, the red running down the drain. As I clean the blood again, and bandage the cuts, I sigh in relief. I'm safe for another however many weeks. I generally get a scare every two weeks or so. Since I'm still in the motel with Dean, theoretically speaking, I'm safe.
I pulled on a black turtle neck, hiding the gauze, and my scarred arms. Another reason I like showers, I'm not so restricted. I slide my thumbs through the holes at the bottom of my sleeves, keeping them from coming up. Chick, pathetic, weak, fragile…things Dean could describe me as flashed through my mind.
Shattered. Worthless. Torn. Scarred. Broken.
I shake my damp head, pulling on my underwear and worn jeans. I take a deep, long breath, and open the door. Dean still hadn't returned and I was glad; it takes a lot for me to pretend to be hungry, let alone eat anything. Dean hasn't noticed my eating habits, or lack of, yet. I only eat what I must to keep the muscle I have. I have tight shirts that I wear just to show that I still have it.
After hiding the razor, journal, and first aid kit back in my duffle, I move to the front of the bed, crawling helplessly under the blankets. I curl up in a ball, my head facing the door and feet toward the headboard. I silently cry. I'm not sure why; I'm a hunter, therefore, I don't cry. Bull.
I'm tempted to dig my nails into neck again, but then I wouldn't have enough time to clean it up again. I close my eyes, and slowly, I drift to sleep.
The fireflies light up the darkening twilight, and the last of the sun's light is reflected in the deep blue lake. One of the fireflies lands on my left hand. I realize, with a jolt, that I'm wearing a t-shirt. I frantically look around, and make sure that I'm alone with the glowing insects. Another bug lands on me, this time on one of my scars. More and more fly and land on me, but only on scars.
A line of fireflies sit on my shoulders, and several more cling to the fabric above the two chest scars. I feel a tingling sensation on the back of my neck, where my nails wounded myself. I feel a single tear fall. I feel so loved, even if only by lightning bugs. The grass under me is soft, and welcoming. The mountains are black against the sky, arching to reach the midnight air. Trees of several species loom around the small lake, and the dancing fireflies set the forest ablaze with their shimmering backsides.
I stand, the insects dispersing into the night. I walk into the dark woods, staring at the scenery. The moon now was gleaming brightly, casting an azure sheen over the trees and sparse rocks. I see a fairy, a fairy! The small creature couldn't be any larger than a banana, plus wings, which were bigger than the actual fairy. She was wearing woven grass to make shorts and a halter top. Her hair was pulled into two long, wavy pigtails, stretching to her hips. The hair was the color of a green Easter egg, except for the sky blue tips. The fairy's bangs didn't hide anything from her blood red eyes, piercing into the ground, like she was staring at her prey.
But her truly show stopping feature was her wings. The translucent pair were shaped like a butterfly's wings, only with spiral ends coming off the end of each glowing, red end. The veins and spirals were scarlet, matching her fiery gaze. The shining, blue mushroom she was sitting on set a sapphire haze on her tiny body. I took a hesitant step forward, and her crimson eyes locked with mine. She said, "I'm back, Sammy!"
I jolt up, bringing the heavy blankets with me. I heard laughter, very Dean-like laughter. I lift the rest of the comforter and sheet up to see Dean chuckling, and a Wendy's bag on the table. I growl, "I was having a dream!"
Out of breath, he looked at me and said, "About?"
I shook my head. I was not telling him that fireflies helped me not feel so alone, because they landed on my scars from cutting over the past eight years. Plus, there was a red-eyed fairy sitting on a glowing mushroom. Yeah, that would work well. I wearily said, "I can't remember, but it was a good dream."
He rolled his eyes, and began to pull out our food, a burger and fries for him, and a salad for me. I didn't feel hungry. I hadn't eaten in over a day though, so unless I wanted alert him to something being wrong, I should eat. I clambered off the bed, sighing and discreetly checking my shirt to make sure that my thumbs were still through the loops. I sat down across from Dean, popping the lid off my salad.
Dean eyed me while I picked at my salad. I pretended not to notice, just barley seeing through my thick, long lashes. While I eat the tasteless veggies, I close my eyes and silently sing "The A Team" by Ed Sheeran. And they say, she's in the class A team, stuck in her daydream, been this way since eighteen, but lately, her face seems, slowly sinking, wasting, crumbling like pastries.
I open my eyes, and stick another small bite of salad in my mouth. While I'm chewing, I realize my lip is quivering. Crap, don't you dare lose it in front of him. I command myself.
My lip stops shaking. But she don't want to go outside, tonight, and in a pipe she flies to the Motherland, or sells love to another man. It's too cold outside, for angels to fly.
"Are you okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, concern filling his voice.
I nod, afraid to speak. I can only put a wall up for so long.
"It's nice out. Why not put on a t-shirt? I don't see how you stand the heat in those things," he suggests, we go through this a lot.
I shake my head, "I get cold too easily." He eyes me as if he's trying to determine how truthful I'm being but finally gives it up.
I continue to pick at the salad, gradually pushing it to the side, making it look like I ate more than I really had. Once I was sure I had made an impressive dent, I replace the lid, and put it in the mini fridge.
I silently grab my iPod and headphones from my bag, careful not to show my journal, first aid kit, or razor, and open the door to the small balcony. I sit in the olive green plastic chair, put on the headphones, and scroll down to the recording of Cas singing "Carry on my Wayward Son."
"Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done, lay your weary head to rest, don't cha cry no more," as he sings the last part, I hear myself burst out crying in the background. I had recorded this for when I needed it most, that being when he wasn't here to soothe me. I then set it to "The A Team", and look out over the balcony. It was really pretty; the hotel was on a steep hill, so the view was cast into a valley. The trees varied in height, size, and specie, while the mountains seemed to touch the sky. The autumn colors set the forests on fire, except for the dark green of majestic evergreens that dotted the fierce flames.
I hear the door slide open behind me, but I continue to stare out across the valley, acting as though I was too entranced by my music to notice. Dean sat down in the other chair, "Okay, dude, what's the matter with you?"
I shake my head, pull down my headphones, and say, "Nothing's wrong, I'm just sleepy." I try to vary the excuses, sleepy, not feeling well, thinking about the case, grieving something, and on, and on.
He eyes me, and replies, "Then sleep some more. I need to do research anyways." He stands and walks back inside, leaving the door open. I sigh and follow. As I place my headphones and iPod on the nightstand, I slip back under the messy blankets, trying to straighten them before situating myself as I was. I hug my knees to my chest, fighting the urge to cry, to scream for Cas, to beg him to come back to me. I knew it wouldn't help, Castiel is dead, and he's not coming back. I close my watering eyes and quickly fall asleep.
I took a hesitant step forward, and her crimson eyes locked with mine. She said, "I know how you feel."
"How?" I ask, confused. Well, I'm dreaming of a fairy sitting on a mushroom. Why not?
The fairy rose up from the mushroom, her wings elegantly fluttering behind her small form. She approached me carefully, and when she was close enough to touch me, she placed a tiny hand on my chest, right over the fresh razor cut, "I'm here to help you."
She motioned for me to follow her as she flew further into the woods. I warily followed her. The tree trunks became larger the farther we ventured.
Once the trunks were bigger than giant sequoias, she stopped. She settled on the root of one of the trees, "Sit."
I obeyed, sinking down on the cushiony moss and leaning against the tree. I asked, "Where is this place?" I felt a sense of belonging, and I wasn't scared of the fairy, just curious.
She smiled sweetly, kicking her petite, yet shapely legs, "Welcome to the Enchanted Forest. This is where you'll visit every night."
"Why would I do that?" I questioned, still confused why I was here.
"You can't really decide where to dream, now can you, silly?" she giggled. "I understand that it's weird. This is where troubled people go, a fairy is assigned to them, and basically we talk, and you vent. Plus, here when you have a breakdown, you'll be perfectly normal at home."
My head was spinning, "And who are you?"
The little fairy flew to the ground. She bowed and said, "My name is Haze Over the Moon, but please, call me Haze. I'm your personal fairy, and I specialize in cutting. It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam."
She fluttered over to me, and reached out her hand. I used my pointer finger and thumb to "shake" her hand.
"First, I'll be happy to answer any of your questions," Haze said, "I already know all about you."
"I want to know about fairies. What makes you a cutter fairy?" I ask, curiosity perking my interest.
She nods, her pigtails wavering, "Generally when people come here, they are really surprised we exist. Though, you wouldn't, being a hunter and all. Well, fairies are born here, in the Enchanted Forest. When we are born, according to our eye and wing color," she spreads her wings, giving me a better look, "we become a certain type of fairy. The color is known as a 'True Color'. Red stands for self-harm, like cutting, suicidal thoughts, and also rage. I've helped almost twenty people stop self-harming in a hundred years."
"If this is to help me, shouldn't it be, like, light?" I wonder.
"It would be, but it's dark here, while it's light on Earth. Personally, I like the night, the moon, and fireflies, better than the day. Though, I think I'm bias," Haze giggles, placing a hand over her pink lips. I slightly laugh, too. It's been a long time since I've truly laughed.
"See, it's an immediate effect," she smiles. "Do you want to walk around? I can show you all the different places."
I nod eagerly. Maybe this wouldn't be all bad.
Author Note: Okay, so that's the first chapter. I'll be updating soon! Please R/R.
