warning: allusions to self-harm, eating disorders. possibly triggering, and all over the place. my apologies.
At sixteen he is rail-thin and exhausted. After the poltergeist in Chicago he collapses on the motel bed.
"Okay?" Dean's voice drifts from across the room. "Okay, Sam?"
Sam realizes that he's only caught the last few words of what must have been a fairly impressive rant. He nods, lets Dean continue.
"And you know he didn't mean it. He's just…it's just Dad. That's how he is."
That's how he is. Right.
For a moment, Sam thinks about fighting back, about flying fists and his own inability to cope with his father's demands. A small, frustrated sob escapes him and he turns away from the one-sided conversation.
"It's an easy hunt. You know how this works."
Their chorus of "yessir" is almost as familiar as the Zep song blaring out of the dash.
"Sam, I want you as backup. You know you've been slow lately, and we're gonna talk about this once we get back tonight. Dean, you'll be my cover."
Dean's chin thrusts forward, an unconscious show of pride.
Sam leans against his seat, circles thumb and forefinger around his wrist. Thinks, they don't know it, I've got a secret and wonders if they'll ever figure out why he can't catch his breath after the morning runs.
The bullet goes wide.
John is on his hands and knees in under a second, digging into the crook of Sam's neck to feel for a pulse. Dean can hear the desperation in his father's barely-audible "fuck…fuck, Sam!"
A pause.
And a sigh of relief. John scoops Sam against his chest and grunts something about the car. It takes Dean a few seconds to snap out of it.
Dad just shot him. Sam. How-
The aftermath was going to be hell.
They manhandle him into the room, lay him on the bed and pull the bullet out. They cut the hoodie off, then the shirt, and Dean is at once disgusted and fascinated by the peaks of his brother's hipbones, the jut of his ribs.
John's guilt is too all-consuming for him to see anything except the rivulets of blood on his son's sides, but Dean is more than aware of Sam's sudden smallness. He… no, he would have noticed if there had been something going on. Sam is smarter than something like that, anyway.
At first it's Dean holding his shoulders down, in case he starts to wake up, but John has to take his place. Dean's fingers are smaller, he'll be able to get the thing out faster. There is method even in this madness.
They cover him with a blanket, so that John won't have to see the bandages and so that Dean won't see the bones.
Sam wakes up crying, and it's the saddest thing Dean's ever seen. He knows the slow burn of stitches, the agony of forceps twisting deep inside you. And even though Sam doesn't know (can't ever know) that it was Dad, Dean is sure that somewhere deep down the fact that it was inflicted by their father makes the pain worse.
But there's nothing he can do- no pain meds to give, not for another hour, so instead he cradles his brother in his arms and tries not to feel him shaking.
Sam is finally awake for most of a day, and Dean takes the opportunity to grab something from a diner. He comes back, slams the door behind him. Sam shoots upright from the bed closest to the door, forgets his stitches and the hours and days of pain he's already been through.
Dean is at his side before he can fold all the way over, little screams of pain cutting through clenched teeth. He checks under Sam's shirt, sees no blood on the bandages and mumbles a prayer.
"Please, Dean. Please."Sam is sobbing against him, one arm tightened clumsily against his stomach, the other twisting Dean's shirt. "C-can't…oh god please Dean no please make it st-"
Dean presses his nose into Sam's hair, confused as he's ever been. All he can do is murmur I gotcha, gonna be okay. He brushes his fingers against his brother's wrist and Sam slams backwards, breath hitching, scuttling away from him.
His throat goes dry. "Jesus, Sammy."But Sam is already tugging his sleeves down, hiccupping, looking everywhere except for at Dean. He's still hunched over in a way that makes Dean want to reach for the morphine.
"Just- I can't, Dean, please."
Dean slides the auto-injector out of its plastic case and sets it against his brother's arm. Tries not to see the look of bliss when the needle slides in. Tries not to see the small white lines (the size of freckles- Sam has always been so careful about staying inconspicuous) that crawl across his skin.
This is not how they deal with things, Dean knows. This is not the Winchester way.