The First Cut Is The Deepest.
Summary. . . . . . . . . Just a small oneshot, looking at how bad things could have got for Sam after he found release from Lucifer through pain.
Disclaimer. . . . . . . . All characters belong to Kripke.
The first cut is the deepest, isn't that what the song says? It wasn't for me; well I suppose you could say it was, but at least that one had been an accident. I tried to blame others for what happened next, my Brother for showing me that pain brought back reality, Lucifer for invading me in the first place, Ruby for sending me down that treacherous path, Jess for leaving, my Dad for shrouding us in this life, my Mom for dying; anyone but me, cause if I blamed myself then that would mean everything the devil spoke would be the truth. I was not strong enough; I would never be strong enough. So I blamed others, and used the pain Dean showed me to push back what was wrong for a little while. But the truth was I wasn't strong enough, and soon the pain from that cut was not enough.
The second cut had been an accident too. Dean had gone to get supplies, leaving me to clean and sharpen the weapons, the already razor sharp knife slipping at Lucifer's sudden reappearance, its blade slicing easily through my soft flesh as I jumped, startled. The knife and block fell to the floor as I rose quickly, already backing away from his apparition, my eyes already turning downcast as I waited for vicious words to fall from his lips; only to find, as the pain hit, that none were forthcoming. I slowly raise my eyes, thinking for a moment that it is yet another one of his tricks, but there's no one here but me.
It didn't register at first I was too busy trying to stop my heart thumping within my chest, and trying to get my muddled brain to calm down and straighten out if he was really there. Only later when I caught the sides of the wound as I changed for the night did it enter my mind what could have happened, and after that thought got into my head there was nothing I could do to stop it from growing. As I lay there later listening to Dean's soft snores, I knew I had to find out and started making plans.
A few days later I got to test out my theory. I'd claimed first shower, the hunt we'd just finished had ended only after I had taken a dunk in the freezing river the water spirit lived in. Dean's knocking on the door had stopped me from using up all the hot water but not before I had coated the whole bathroom in a mist of steam. I'd taken out my razor, lathered up my face, and was just about to use my arm to clear a path through the cloud of condensation that clung to the small mirror, when I felt the air around me change. Reluctantly I dragged my arm down the glass, knowing before I even looked, what vision lay behind me. He lounged there by the door, his arms crossed across his chest, one leg crossed over the other, that damn grin upon his face, and I knew I couldn't take it, knew I wouldn't be able to stand what words he spoke. The casing broke easily beneath my grip, the small pieces of metal clinking against the porcelain of the bowl as they were released. Without looking I pick one up, without looking I place it against my arm, without looking I drag it across my flesh. I can't look because I have to know, I can't look because my eyes have to stay upon him. I smile as the pain hits, and he fizzles away.
After that it gets easier. Every time he comes I know what to do, everywhere I go I know I have to carry something with me; but as the weeks pass into months, he begins to fight back and the cuts become deeper as the pain I need to create to chase him away intensifies. I begin to realize I'm in trouble; begin to realize I'm solving one problem by creating another, but I see no way out, see no solution. In the end it's not me that creates the solution, it's Dean. It's not me that sees a light at the end of the tunnel, it's Dean. He's mad of course, I don't think I've ever seen, or ever will see him, as mad as he was when concerned about my sudden re-liking of long sleeves and multiple layers, he picks the lock of the latest motel bathroom and sees me sprawled across the grimy floor, my jeans around my ankles, a mixture of terror and bliss upon my face, one hand holding a dripping knife, the fingers of the other pressing into a new bloody cut that's carved into a thigh crisscrossed with scars and healing tissue; but he doesn't shout, he doesn't yell, he doesn't even call me selfish and stupid, even though I know that's what I am, and that's what he's thinking. No he just pulls me up, takes me to the other room, cleans me up, and tells me everything will be alright, that we'll work through this, that we'll find I way, together.
A.N. . . . . . . . Thanks for taking time out to read this. Peanut x