A/N: Ok so this is my very first Fanfic, Supernatural or otherwise. Hopefully more to come. Reviews are love people, do it. Pleease! Free virtual hugs to any who reviews (even if it's bad, I want to hear from you)
Trigger warning: this contains self-harm and a lot of angst. Don't like it, don't read. Ok, enjoy XD
Sam watched as a sea of green flashed past his window, contemplating how much of a screw-up his life really was. He thought of Jess, of his mother, of the endless hunting. When would it ever stop?
Whenever you want it to, you know that, Sammy,said a small voice in his head, forcing his thoughts to the switchblade in his back pocket, thinking of how much he wanted it right then. Sam glanced over at Dean, singing loudly (and horribly off key) to some Metallica song, feeling somewhat guilty for what he was about to do.
"Hey man, you gonna drive all night or can we finally stop for today?" he asked, sitting up and looking at Dean.
"What's the matter, Sasquatch, need to stretch?" Dean smirked, glancing at him.
"Shut up jerk, we've been on the road for hours" Sam replied, punching his shoulder.
"Whatever bitch," replied Dean, "there's a motel a couple miles out. Think you can stand my company that much longer?"
"Whatever" muttered Sam.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A few minutes later, Sam watched as Dean entered the crappy little office, booked a room, and came out jingling two sets of keys.
"Catch" called Dean, chucking one room key at Sam's head, sticking the other in his own pocket. Sam dodged and managed to catch the key before it impacted his face. "Feel like makin' some money tonight, lil bro?" he asked, swaggering toward Sam.
Just leave already! thought Sam. But aloud, all he said was "Nah, I think I'm just gonna hit the sack. Go have fun."
"Alright, your loss," came the reply as Dean jumped back in the Impala.
Finally alone, Sam walked into the room, dumping his duffel on the bed farthest from the door as he made his way to the bathroom, relief flooding him as he pulled out the switchblade, watching it glitter in the dim bathroom light. He closed the bathroom door, leaning against it and sliding down its smooth surface until he was sitting, still looking at the blade.
After what seemed like hours of watching it glitter in the light, so silver and beautiful and deadly, Sam rolled up his sleeve, at first just resting the edge against the fragile skin of his wrist, then pushing down with more and more force, felling the pain and thinking Yes, finally. He thought of all his mistakes, and the blood running down his wrist and hand felt like absolution, like repentance. Suddenly he heard a door opening and Dean's terrible off key humming. Sam scrambled for the lock just as he heard the slightly bemused call of "Sammy?"
"Right here!" he called back, his voicing sounding shaky even to his own ears. "Be out in a minute."
"Sam? You alright?" called Dean, concerned at his brother's reply.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam lied, now running cold water over his arm and biting back a hiss of pain. "Just gimme a sec." Finally, he managed to wrap a motel towel around his wrist and unlock the door, smiling shakily at Dean. "Thought you would be gone all night. What's up, I was just going to shower?"
"No good bars around here," replied Dean. "You sure you're ok? You 're lookin pretty pale there. Here, let me see." Dean walked toward Sam, extending his arm, but stopped short as Sam retreated, something almost like panic in his eyes.
"I'm fine Dean! Seriously, I just wanna go shower," said Sam as evenly as possible.
"Sure Sam, just let me see if you're running a fever or something," replied dean as calmly as he could, teking another step, Sam stepping back again. This time his heel hit the wall and he realized he had nowhere to run. His heart raced, and he could feel blood pumping out of his sliced wrist. He glanced side to side, looking for a way out, not finding one.
"Sam, it's ok. I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to see if you're alright," said Dean in the kind of voice you would use with a wounded animal that might attack. "I won't do anything to hurt you, you're fine."
Finally, Sam made his decision and bolted for the door, praying Dean hadn't locked it yet. He had taken only a few steps when Dean grabbed his wrist through the towel, trying to stop him. Pain screamed through Sam's arm, sending him to his knees. Dean dropped his wrist as though it were burning him, only to grab Sam's shoulders and steady him as his vision greyed around the edges.
"Sammy, what the hell man?" asked Dean as he guided his six foot four brother onto the nearest bed. As soon as he was laying down, Sam curled protectively around his left wrist, the one covered by the cheap motel towel, the one, Dean saw, with a red stain spreading from where it covered Sam's wrist.
"Sam, what… I don't... what happened?" he asked, trying to pull away the towel, only to have Sam clutch it tighter to his chest, as though hiding something. Dean tried again, this time grabbing Sam's arm and pinning it to the bed, peeling away the now half-saoked towel to revel and thin, neat, deep gash in Sam's wrist. Sam screamed and thrashed "NO! LET GO DAMMIT! LET GO OF ME!"
"It's ok Sammy, it's just me. What happened?" Dean asked again, keeping Sam's arm pinned where it was.
Finally Sam seemed to exhaust himself, lying limply on the bed, shivering.
"Sam, I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, ok? Just stay there, I'll be right back," said Dean, trying very hard not to think of the fine, lace-like pattern of scars that covered the inside of Sam's left arm. As he let go, Sam barely moved except to breath. In a flash, Dean had retrieved the kit and was sitting oncemore next to his brother. He stitched the cut gently then cleaned it and covered it neatly in gauze, all the while pointedly not focusing on that latticework covering the skin he set the stiches in.
When Dean had finished, he glanced up at Sam, now asleep, though unconscious might be a better word. He thought about moving to the other bed, but eventually opted for dragging over a chair, resting one hand on his brother's chest, feeling it rise and fall smoothly. He fell asleep like that, not wanting to leave his brother until he got the full story.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Dean was awakened by a soft groan, and opened his eyes to find Sam's lids fluttering slowly open.
"Hey Sammy. Feeling better?" asked Dean cautiously, not wanting his brother to start screaming again.
"Dean?" asked Sam, turning his head toward his brother. "What happened?" Then Sam looked at his left wrist still covered by the soft, white gauze and swore softly. "Oh. I was hoping that was a dream."
"Yeah well it wasn't," said Dean, trying to keep the anger and hurt and betrayal out of his voice. "What the hell, Sam? How did this… when did… why? Why would you do this?"
"I don't know, Dean. Maybe because I deserve it? For all the pain I've caused? Maybe because it fells real? Maybe because it's the only way to make it stop? Take your pick, they're all true!" Sam was shouting by the end, fully awake now, trying not to show how much he enjoyed the slow burn of a fresh cut as he glared at his brother.
"Make what stop, Sam? I don't understand."
"Of course not, how could you, Mr. Perfect? The perfect soldier, perfect son, perfect gentleman. How could someone like you know?"
"Then explain to me," said Dean gently, looking Sam in the eye. "I want to help."
"Well you can't!" yelled Sam sliding out of bed on the side away from his brother. "You can never understand this guilt...this crushing…awfulness. I started the apocalypse, Dean, it was my fault. My fault mom is dead, and Jess, and Dad."
Sam was crying now, tears sliding down his face, now contorted in pain, physical and emotional.
"Shhhhh, hey it's alright. It's not your fault," soothed Dean coming around the bed, gently lowering Sam to the floor as his knees gave out. Of course, he also quietly pulled the switchblade out of Sam's back pocket without him noticing. He wasn't mad, but this was going to stop. "Easy, just breathe. I'm not mad, I'm not leaving. I'm right here Sammy. Forever."
Dean held his brother gently as he cried, just as he had been doing since Sam was a baby recovering from a nightmare. "Forever," he whispered once more to himself.