The fluorescent bathroom light reflected on the cold, sharp metal. It was so tempting. Before he had a second chance to think about it, the blade ripped into his pale, bruised skin. His eyes were clouded by fresh tears as he vaguely saw the scarlet liquid ooze out of his wrist and drip onto the dirty motel bathroom floor. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling before passing the blade another time across his trembling wrist.
It was an odd feeling. It was as though a completely other person had done it. He curled himself into a ball of shame. How was he supposed to cover the cuts from everyone? Punishing himself for his stupidity, he drew the blade once more across the other cuts.
He came out the bathroom with seven ugly red scars, some lined neatly and some scattered diagonally, up his left arm.
He felt like a completely different person, although he was still the same weak, insignificant, depressed fourteen year-old kid.
Four days before
Sam opened his eyes to slits and glanced at the clock: 8:14.
"Shit, I'm late!" He exclaimed rolling out of bed and practically threw his jeans on.
Why hadn't the alarm rung?
"Sam?" Dean rasped from the bed next to him as he slowly sat up. Sam was dazed and still not completely awake. He was standing in the middle of the room looking for his shirt.
"Yeah," he answered with a stiff yawn.
"Sam!" Dean cried, making Sam confused. That's when he realized that he was standing topless right in front of Dean. Dean's eyes were wide with fear, confusion and anxiousness, as his eyes scanned his little brother's scarred body. Sam hated to see him that way. It made a knot in his stomach guilt ran through him. He didn't know what to say, so he grabbed his hoodie awkwardly and quickly pulled it over his bed hair. Dean jumped out of the bed and towards Sam. Sam hated how he took every step with heed.
"I'm late," Sam said, grabbing his bag on the way out of the door.
"Sam." Dean said brokenly, having nothing more to add. He was downright horrified.
The door slammed shut.
SPN-SPN-SPN
Sam was late, as predicted.
"Samuel Winchester," the math teacher said with, yet again, a condescending voice. "This is high school level math, if you can't even tell the time I suggest you go back several years." The class snickered. Sam looked at them when his eyes met Jessica's. She rolled them indicating her hate for the snooty teacher. Sam sat in the back of the class. The whole lesson he spent pissing off the teacher for spacing out, but he couldn't help it. He still didn't know how to explain his scars to Dean. How and what was he supposed to tell him? If he told him the truth, his father wouldn't hesitate for a second before killing him. He tugged his hoodie sleeve further over his hand.
Six days before
Mydadtriedokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme, mydadtriedtokillme...
The perpetual words kept ringing in his head, driving him nuts.
Four days before
Sam had just arrived home and slumped down on the bed with a sigh. He picked up the remote and flicked through the channel. Dean came out from the shower five minutes later.
Dean's voice was soft and cautions.
"Sam," he said sitting on the bed next to him. His hair was still damp and Sam could see the wet spots on his clothes. Dean had obviously hurried out of the shower, not bothering to dry himself properly, when he heard Sam came home.
Sam rolled his eyes, annoyed at his brother for acting like a therapist. He knew that what he had done to himself wasn't good - at all - but it relieved his other pains, physically and mentally.
He turned the volume of the television up, indicating that his brother should drop the conversation. As expected, he didn't.
Dean reached for the remote and turned it off.
"Sam," he repeated. Sam stared at his brother's chest, feeling guilty as ever. This wasn't supposed to happen, Dean wasn't supposed to find out ever. He took a deep breath, trying to stop the tears from spilling.
"How… How long?" Dean asked at last. Dead silence. Sam reluctantly met Dean's eyes and saw his brother's eyes welling up in tears. A knot in the younger boy's stomach formed itself. If he had made his brother - the strongest, nicest person he knew, cry, he would never forgive himself.
"A while," Sam croaked at last.
A tear rolled down Dean's cheek that he didn't even bother wiping off.
I'm never going to forgive myself for letting this happen, Dean thought.
"Why? Sammy… Why?" Sam had never heard his brother sound this broken. He couldn't answer. His throat was as dry as ever. He glanced at the familiar, dull motel wall trying to blink away the tears. He bit his lip.
"Tell me, please," Dean cried, his voice urgent and pleading. Sam covered his face in his hands.
Why was this happening?
"Is it the assholes from school?" Sam shook his head.
"Does it have to do with school?" Another shake. His scars started prickling beneath his hoodie.
"Is it… hunting?"
"No."
"Is it dad? Is it… me?" Sam's mind went blank. He jerked his head up towards his brother.
Not Dean, never Dean.
"No, Dean," Sam said, tears falling heavily. "No, how could you think that?" His voice was equally broken.
Dean jerked his head to the side facing the window. The sudden movement surprised Sam. Dean let out a humourless huff.
"How could I think that?" He said a little too loud. "Sam, how could you think that low of yourself to the extent of…" His voice trailed off. Tears were flowing uncontrollably down his cheeks. Sam stood up. He walked grabbed his jacket, not able to be in the overwhelmed room anymore. He opened the door, letting the chilly air fill the room.
"Sam," Dean croaked one last time before the door closed shut. How he missed his father at that moment. He clung on to the hope, that he would return soon and fix this shitty mess. He had called him earlier today, but with no luck. He would try again later.
Eight days before
Was Sam hallucinating or was Jessica actually smiling to him?
Sam sat alone at the lunch table, like the loser he was. He swallowed his food suspiciously before returning a smile.
"Hey," Sam heard Louis whisper from behind him. He turned around.
"Look, you're really nice Sam, but honestly, being together with you, I really don't think it's good for my image. No offence man."
"What image?" Sam blurted out, before he could stop himself. He didn't care though. He returned back to his sandwich. He looked in Jessica's direction again, but she was talking together with her friends.
She wasn't smiling at you, who would smile at a freak?
Ten days before
"There's a hunt in a town nearby, I'm going with Bobby and Rufus. I'll be home in a couple of days." John stated, his duffel already packed.
"What?" Dean asked. "I'm coming with you." He said, standing up.
John shook his head.
"Dean, you have a concussion-"
"Had," Dean corrected, "and it was very mild." John gave a short laugh, which made shivers run down Sam's spine.
"Dean, I know you're eager to get out the house-"
"Damn straight I am."
Sam wondered what would happen if he talked and interrupted to John like that. Nothing good probably.
"-but you still need to rest and take care of Sam. Make sure he doesn't do anything strenuous. I have full confidence in you," he looked behind Dean at his younger son, "-both of you," he said, sounding caring. How Sam loathed the guy. Every now and then, John would pull something like that in front of Dean, and try to act as though he gave a fuck about his second son, so that his best son wouldn't suspect that anything was wrong.
And it worked. Every. Fucking. Time.
Sam also knew the real reason why he had to leave; John couldn't unleash fits and blows in front of the wonderful son, and he knew that Sam would be at the motel for couple days under Dean's care.
"Fuck you, John," Sam nearly spat, but was able to hold his tongue with difficulty.
SPN-SPN-SPN
As their father had told them, John came home just two days later - a Thursday night (eight days before). He barged in loudly, just as Sam rested his weary head on his pillow. He looked up at his father, startled at what he saw. His father was smiling at him. Sam was scared to the core.
Dean, where are you? He thought glancing around the room, remembering that he had gone out half an hour ago.
John went over to Sam's bed. Sam squirmed over to the corner. John's laughed boomed throughout the room.
"No need to be frightened, Sammy," he said with a mocking smiling. He grabbed his younger son's leg, hard. He grabbed the other equally forcefully and pushed it down towards the mattress. Having both legs pinned to the bed, Sam couldn't move from his father's strong grip. He wondered how the bruises would look after. He had no time left to wonder when John face was so close to him that he could smell the usual stench of alcohol. He hoped that John's liver would fail - or that his own would. Then, he wouldn't be around to be a pathetic pain in the ass.
"Sam, good news. There's a hunt tomorrow, a quick and easy salt and burn." He snickered. Sam felt nauseous.
Both hunters heard the recognizable sound of the Impala park in front of the motel.
Dean, come on, hurry. Barge in when you still have time, Sam hoped unrealistically. His father escalated from him and Sam dragged the duvet up to his chin, and over his head. Slumber overtook his frail body and mind promptly.
A/N: Thanks for reading, reviewing, favouriting and so on. It makes my day!