A/N: major self-harm trigger warnings, read with caution
Sam was getting bad again.
The past few weeks had been alright- good, actually, better than he'd felt in a long time.
But they'd gotten back from a rough hunt, he'd made a few stupid mistakes he should have avoided, and the downward spiral started yet again.
Dean had insisted that they needed drinks, to 'celebrate not dying for like, the millionth time'. He'd dragged Cas to the corner store with him. And then Sam was alone.
The urge was stronger this time than most. He'd been off his game, made stupid mistakes, endangered his brother's and Cas' lives.
He'd lied, when he said he'd thrown the last of the blades away. Lied through his teeth, but Dean couldn't tell, because Dean only saw what he wanted to see.
Sam only had at most fifteen minutes until Dean and Cas returned. That could be long enough. It would have to be long enough.
As though in a trance, Sam crossed the room to his bag. The tiny black box had found its way to the bottom of the large duffel, but Sam found it quickly enough.
He felt a twisted sort of anticipation for a few seconds after opening the box, looking over the small arrangement of shard objects. There were always plenty of knives around, but for some reason unknown to himself Sam had always kept his separate.
He picked up a tiny blade that, if he remembered correctly, had been unscrewed from a pencil sharpener. It looked miniscule and powerless in his calloused, large hand, but the contrary would soon be proven.
He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled one arm out of the sleeve, exposing his upper arm. He had to roll up his sleeves so often that his forearms had never been an option.
It had been so long since he had sunk this low. So long that all of his other injuries had faded to pale white scars.
Sam didn't really mind scars- he was covered in them almost head-to-toe. It sort of came with the job. What he minded was knowing that it was his own fault they were there.
The first cut was small, uncertain. The first one always was. The second was deeper, slower, blood welling up around the blade before it had left his skin.
He knew it was wrong. The buzz. The feeling of relief and control and happiness that the blade to his skin gave him. Metal met skin again. And again.
Sam realized too late that the droplets had run, and a few had hit the carpet. He hurried into the bathroom and closed the door before tearing off a few pieces of toilet paper, holding them to his arm.
He took a deep breath. Another. Slowly, he forced himself to relax. And then the realization set in.
He hadn't done this in months. He'd lasted so long, but now that record was gone. Wasted time, thinking it was worth trying to stop what he was doing to himself.
Sam turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The blade fell from his fingertips, clattered to the floor, and he hit again. Harder. He could feel his knuckles bruising, bleeding, but couldn't make himself stop.
The front door to the motel room opened, just as Sam's fist made impact with the wall.
"Sammy, you okay?" Dean called. Sam glanced around the bathroom. His hands were both bleeding, and trails of blood had dripped down from his upper arm to his hand, leaving brilliant red streaks. There was blood on the floor. On the wall. Everywhere. Too much to hide.
Sam was still numb with shock when Dean rounded the corner, his expression of concern morphing and distorting into horror.
"Sam-? Fuck, did you-" Sam could tell that Dean didn't mean to stare, but he was nonetheless.
"I- I'm sorry." Sam averted his eyes, avoiding eye contact with Dean or Cas, who Sam could now see was standing behind his brother. "Sorry, I'll, uh- I'll clean it up."
"No. You won't." Cas' voice sounded rough, but carefully controlled. "Dean, I believe your first-aid kit is in your bag somewhere? You take care of Sam, I'll handle this." Dean nodded and reached toward Sam with a kind of gentleness he hadn't seen in a long time. Not since Dean had caught him the first time, probably.
Dean gently grasped Sam's uninjured arm to guide him out of the bathroom, away from where the smell of his own blood, real or imagined, was making his stomach churn.
Sam kicked his bag over the few drops that had fallen to the carpet, before taking a seat on the end of his bed.
His light green flannel was probably stained beyond recovery, so Sam didn't bother to avoid ruining it further when he pulled it the rest of the way off. Dean finished rummaging through his bag, finding the first-aid kit and crossing the room to where Sam was seated rigidly on the edge of the bed.
They both sat there quietly for a moment, neither saying anything, Dean eventually broke the silence but half-whispering, "… Why, Sammy?"
"I screwed up on the hunt. You guys could've gotten hurt. And it would've been my fault." Dean's expression held a thousand emotions- sadness, hurt, anger, but the strongest of all was disappointment.
"Sam, you didn't 'screw up'. We grabbed the wrong gun. It was an easy mistake." Sam shook his head furiously.
"It wasn't. I shouldn't make those kind of mistakes. I've been doing this my whole life, I shouldn't risk you guys being in danger because of my own carelessness." Sam winced as Dean dabbed antiseptic over his arm. "… I really messed up, Dean." The change in Sam's tone of voice made it obvious that he wasn't talking about the case. "It's been a long time since I did this and I really screwed up this time."
There was a bright flash of light from the bathroom door, followed by Cas re-entering the bedroom area.
"You dented the wall when you hit it, and I figured it would be easier for me to fix it than to explain to the hotel staff." Dean nodded in his direction, but hardly took his eyes off of dressing Sam's wounds for a second.
Cas stood uncomfortably off to one side, unsure how to handle the situation. Fortunately, Sam was next to break the heavy silence, after Dean had finished with his arm and moved on to his battered knuckles.
"Sorry 'bout this, guys. I shouldn't have done this and now you're both probably worried and annoyed with me and-" Sam was cut off from what would have surely turned into a rant by Cas.
"Why would we be annoyed with you? This is a problem that we need to help you fix. And you can fix it. Sam, I know I was truly awful to you when we first met. But I can see now that you were never deserving of being insulted. You're an incredibly strong person and if you can save the word from the apocalypse, you can most certainly beat this." San nodded numbly, absorbing the words.
"Yeah, Sammy- and listen, we'll help you. I know I said that before. I've said so many times that I'm gonna help you, but I really mean it. Cas and I, we're here for you, man." Cas nodded in agreement, listening attentively. Sam slowly looked back and forth between the two of them, making a few seconds of eye contact with each before finally replying.
"I've tried. Lots of times. It's kind of easier said than done." Dean closed up the first aid kit, having finished bandaging Sam's injuries.
"We'll help you." Cas said. "So, as a first step, it would be easiest to get rid of the blades, correct?" A wave of nervousness crashed over Sam. It would be hard, getting rid of the things he depended on and hated with equal intensity.
"Ah… yeah, I guess so." Sam stood up, a lit lightheaded from the amount of blood he had lost, and teetered over to his bag, retrieving the small black box from on top of it. "But, uh- one of you do it. Please." Dean reached out a hand, and Sam placed the box on his palm. It looked so small and unassuming, if one didn't know the use of its contents.
"You want me to go now?" he asked, waiting for Sam's express permission.
"Yes." Sam said with more finality than he felt.
And then Dean left and Sam felt torn open and exposed and vulnerable. There, clenched in his brother's fist and getting further away every second, was one of the only escapes from reality he knew.
"You made the right choice, Sam. I'm glad." Cas said. He took a seat on the bed and gestured for Sam to sit next to him. "It's more common than you'd think. When humans can't figure out a solution to something, they take it out on themselves. It's been that way since the beginning of the species. But you can go against that- talk to Dean, talk to me. I know it sounds cliché, but we're here for you and you can lean on us. Alright?" Sam nodded, and Cas wrapped a hand gently around his shoulders.
It was rare for Castiel to be so sensitive to others' feelings, but not at all unpleasant. With Cas and Deans' support, Sam almost felt motivated to recover. Dean returned a minute later, not saying where he'd put the blades, and the tension was mostly alleviated.
The rest of the evening and night passed without any further incident, all three of them tip-toeing around the subject and forcing cheerful conversation.
At around three in the morning, Sam was awakened by nature's call. He wandered into the (somehow perfectly spotless, now) bathroom, and after he had finished, he saw something silver in the trash can.
It was the blade he'd dropped earlier. He could take it now and nobody would know- Dean was asleep, Cas wasn't there. He stared at it for a long time.
He refused to pick it up. If he was going to do this, it had to be all or nothing. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and went back to bed.
It wouldn't be easy, but Sam believed he could do it. He had Dean and Cas, but most of all he had his own determination to kick the habit and look towards the recovery he knew he could achieve.