This chapter could be kinda triggering for self-harmers. You have been warned.
Back at the motel, Dean handed his younger brother a beer. "So, uh, what Mary said. Was it true?"
Sam couldn't look Dean in the eye. "Yeah." He replied quietly.
"So, what, now you're psychic?" Dean sat down next to him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want to, Dean! Okay? And I'm not psychic."
Dean was quiet for a moment. He could sense that Sammy was hurting. "It's not your fault. This doesn't change anything. There was nothing you could have done."
"I left her alone. I lied to her. I should have told her the truth, should have stayed to protect her." Sam put his face in his hands, and Dean wished there was something he could say to make his little brother feel better.
"Sammy, if you wanna blame someone, blame the thing that did this to her. Or hell, blame me! I'm the one who showed up in the middle of the night and dragged you away from her."
"It wasn't your fault."
"And it wasn't yours either!"
"Whatever."
The conversation was clearly over.
Later that night, Sam lay in bed, waiting for Dean's breathing to slow in the rhythm of sleep. He heard his brother snore softly, and knew it was safe to indulge his addiction.
He quietly got out of bed and walked over to his jacket, retrieving the shard of glass. He locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked like hell. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Sam studied the piece of glass, admiring its sharp edges. Usually he used one of their hunting knives, but this was something new. He rolled up his sweater sleeves, and pressed the sharp object into his forearm. it quickly drew blood. Nice, it was sharper than he expected.
He dragged it down, adding a fresh cut to the many others that covered his arms. He bit his lip against the pain, getting a sick sense of relief out of the habit. Again. Deeper. It was as if he could still hear Bloody Mary's voice. You killed her. You deserve to suffer.
A sharp knock at the door startled him, and the glass slipped, embedding itself deep inside his wrist. "Dammit," He said under his breath. He yanked the piece of glass out of his arm and threw it in the trash, burying it under a wad of toilet paper. He grabbed a towel and put pressure on the wound.
"You alright in there, Sammy?" He heard Dean's sleepy voice on the other side of the door.
"Yeah, I'll be out in a minute." Shit. The blood had soaked through the towel. He'd nicked a vein. He ran the wound under cold water, still applying pressure. He was gonna need stitches...but Dean couldn't know.
Sam felt dizzy. This was bad.
A few minutes later, Dean knocked on the door again, sounding more alert. "Sam, you're not doing drugs in there, are you?"
"You know me, just shooting up some heroin." He joked, but he could hear the panic in his own voice.
There was a pause. "Seriously?"
"No! Geez, I was kidding."
"You've been in there a long time."
Sam's vision was getting blurry, and he was starting to see black around the edges. No, no...He couldn't pass out now. He fell back against the wall, sliding down.
"Sammy?" He could hear the worry in his brother's voice.
Dean heard a muffled thump. That was it. Something wasn't right. He kicked the door in, and stood frozen in shock at the scene that lay before him.
There was blood everywhere. In the sink, on the counter, on the floor...pooling in a puddle around Sammy's wrist. His brother sat motionless, slumped against the wall. Dean felt sick as he saw the dozens of scars and newer cuts that covered his arms. He dropped to his knees beside Sam.
"No, no, Sammy, wake up!" Dean leaned on the wound, putting as much pressure on it as he could without hurting Sam even more.
The younger Winchester groaned and his eyelids fluttered.
"Sammy, what the hell did you do..." He reached for his phone. "We've gotta call an ambulance."
"No," Sam reached out and seized Dean's wrist. "You can't...they'll recognize us...you'll go to jail."
"I'd rather be in jail than watch you die."
"Please...not that bad...you can...stitch me up," Sam said, struggling to stay awake. "Please," He begged.
"Fine, but if you pass out again, I'm calling 9-1-1."
Dean helped Sam to his feet, and basically dragged him to the bed. He held Sam's wrist above his heart, and ripped a pillowcase with his teeth, creating a makeshift tourniquet. "Keep this elevated. I'm gonna go get the first aid kit."
Sam stayed quiet while Dean patched him up. He hated seeing his little brother in pain like this. His breathing was shallow, eyes were squeezed shut, and his jaw was set against the pain. Dean could tell he was trying not to make a sound. "Sammy, why?" He asked, trying not to yell.
Sam shook his head. "Doesn't matter."
"Like Hell it doesn't! I just found you half-dead on the bathroom floor. What kind of stupid stunt were you trying to pull?"
"It was an accident."
"Yeah, and all those other cuts, those accidents too?"
Sam was quiet.
"Look, man, I'm just trying to understand here."
Sam felt horrible. He could see the fear in Dean's eyes. All they had was each other. Dad was gone. Dean needed him.
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit." Dean sniffed, and angrily wiped tears from his eyes. Was he crying? Dean hated showing weakness.
"Hey," Sam put his hand on Dean's arm. "I swear I didn't mean to cut this deep."
"Why are you cutting yourself in the first place? You know how insane that sounds, don't you? They lock people up for shit like this."
"I just...I need it. You drink, I cut. It's how I cope."
"Well you need to find something less...destructive. You're killing yourself."
"I need to suffer," Sam whispered.
"What the actual Hell, Sammy?" Dean's voice was rising. "No you don't! For the last time, Jessica dying was not your fault. Do you think she'd want this for you?"
Sam looked at his brother. Dean was visibly upset, but he was right. Jess wouldn't want him to keep punishing himself...
"Dean, it's okay...I'll try to stop, okay?"
"Try?"
"It's kind of...It's kind of an addiction." He looked down, ashamed.
"How do you become addicted to slicing your own skin open?" Dean asked incredulously. "Whatever, it doesn't matter...just...try to stop." He shook his head. "What can I do to help?"
"I don't know..."
Dean hated feeling so helpless. He wanted to fix Sam. He didn't know what to do. If only Dad were here...
Dean looked over at Sammy, sleeping fitfully. He dialed their father's number, but it went straight to voicemail again. "Dad, I don't know if you're even alive. But if you are, we really need you. Sammy..." He swallowed hard. It hurt to even say. "Sammy's hurting real bad. I think he's trying to kill himself." Dean stifled a sob. "Dad, I don't know what to do. Please come find us." He left their location and room number and hung up.
Dean knew his father likely wouldn't even check his messages. But he had to try.
Kind of an intense chapter. I had fun writing it. So what do you think, should John show up? (And Ruby, I think baby-proofing the motel room is a great Idea. I love it. The next chapter will definitely include that.)
