Warnings: Mental health issues, self harm.
The alarm goes off at 7am, blaring right in his ear, grating at his skin. Sam shudders, rolls over, and blindly slaps at his bedside table until the sound goes off. It seems like only a few seconds before it starts shrieking again.
Sam pushes himself up and glares at the clock. In the next second, the wire is yanked out of the socket and the clock is impacting with the wall. Sam plants his face back into his pillow.
Two hours. That's how long he slept last night. Only two fucking hours.
He closes his eyes and curls his leg around the duvet, hugging it close. It's cold that morning, but Sam is still hot and covered in dry sweat from tossing and turning all night long. He wonders if he can convince Dean he's sick, maybe he won't have to go to school.
"Sammy? Are you up?" Dean's voice calls through the bedroom door. Sam peels one eye open and taps his phone where it lies on a used sock on the floor. 8.30am.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
Sam kicks off his covers frantically and hurls himself out of bed. Then he notices, his torso and arms are bare. He must have taken of his sweater during the night. There's another knock at the door and Sam knows that he only has a few seconds before Dean lets himself in. He all but stumbles onto his dresser, hands rummaging through the drawers. He has way too many short-sleeved tees that he hasn't worn in months. All of his sweaters and long-sleeved tops are dirty and heaped across his carpet.
He can hear Dean sigh in the hallway, the floorboard creaks. Fuck. He's coming in. Sam grabs one of the sweaters off the floor and yanks it over his head, tucking his arms securely into each sleeve. He just manages to get the fabric over his wrists when Dean walks in.
Dean is already dressed in his greased overalls for work. His eyes go wide at Sam's half-dressed state.
"Did you only just get up now?"
Sam grabs a pair of jeans from the back of his desk chair and hops about trying to get them onto his legs.
"You've got to be at school in fifteen minutes!" Dean says. He picks Sam's backpack up off the floor and begins rounding up the text books and papers.
"I know!" Sam snaps.
"If you mess up one more time, Miss Harvelle won't be giving you any more chances!"
"I know!"
"You can't get kicked out of school, Sam!"
"I know!"
He finds a clean pair of socks in the laundry basket outside the bathroom and slips them on as he brushes his teeth. Dean lingers in the hallway with Sam's school bag over his shoulder.
"Okay. I'm driving you to school."
"What about the garage?" Sam asks, spitting mouthwash.
"Bobby won't mind me being a little late."
Sam dashes out of the bathroom and into the main room. His sneakers and jacket are on the couch. He fumbles with the laces; his fingers are shaking and it makes it near impossible to tie them. Dean is waiting by the door, tapping his foot. Sam gives up on his shoes and runs out of the apartment with his sneakers half-hanging from his heels. He ties them in the car as Dean tears down the road.
"Did you eat anything?"
"No time."
Dean reaches over into glove compartment and retrieves a Mars Bar, dropping it onto Sam's lap. "Eat your breakfast," he says.
Both of them are in such a hurry that it even takes Sam a minute to realise which route they're taking. He freezes in his seat, nails digging into the leather.
"Dean, stop the car."
"What? Why?"
"Dean, please! Please, we have to go back! Please stop!"
Dean blinks ahead, then he finally seems to realise where he's going. He stamps on the brake and the wheels shriek as they come to a halt. "Shit!"
Sam has one thought on his mind. I don't want to be here. He doesn't care that there's traffic building up behind them, he doesn't care that he has to be at school in five minutes, he doesn't care what Dean is saying to him.
He can't hear it.
All he can hear is his father's voice, the grind of tires trying to grip onto the icy road, the feeling of his entire body hurtling upside-down, the blinding pain of his bones cracking. Then, the cold and the silence.
Sam scrambles for the door and tumbles out onto the asphalt. He picks himself back up and sprints back the way they came. He's not sure how long he's been running for when he slips and crashes to his knees at the side of the road, beside him the cars are honking, drivers are staring.
He glances around, there are mostly just trees and fields surrounding this road, but he can see the roofs of houses not far away. He looks back and sees that the cars are moving again. Dean must have left. Sam doesn't really blame him.
Sam tries to get back up but his knees ache and sting. He settles himself down onto a tree stump and inspects the damage. The denim is torn and stained bloody, his skin is scraped raw and caked with mud. He bites down on his lip, tries to push back the lump in his throat. His vision blurs and his eyes sting, a single warm tear drips down his cheek. He hastily wipes it away with his sleeve.
"Sam! Sammy!"
The impala is parked haphazardly across the road and Dean is dashing in front of cars, nearly getting run over in the process. He slides on the ice but manages to steady himself, then he tiptoes carefully through the mud to Sam. He crouches down and puts a hand on Sam's cheek.
"Hey, Sammy. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't notice which road it was. Believe me, I didn't want to upset you."
Sam swallows thickly and nods. Luckily, no more tears fall.
"I'm fine. Seriously, Dean. I'm sorry I spazzed out on you."
Dean stares at him for a moment, mouth half open. "But, Sam," he sputters, then glances down and catches sight of Sam bloodied knees. "You're hurt. I'll call school for you, tell them you're sick."
Staying home sick sounds less appealing than it did when he woke up that morning. He's not sure he likes the idea of Dean hovering over him all day.
"No," Sam says, maybe a little too quickly. "Really, Dean, I'm fine. I can go to school."
Dean looks like he wants to protest but he simply nods.
"Besides," Sam points out, "I can't make you miss work."
Dean nods. "Fine. But we're going home so you can get cleaned up and changed. I'll call school and tell them you'll be in a little late."
"Hopefully Harvelle buys it, right?"
Dean frowns. "She won't punish you for this, Sam."
Sam rolls his eyes. "You think she won't mind that I almost caused a pileup for no fucking reason?"
"Sam, it wasn't for no reason. It was my mistake and – "
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Sam snaps.
The look on Dean's face makes him feel a little sick to know he's the one who put it there. Dean looks so exhausted, eyes too dark for someone who's only twenty-one years old. How much better could Dean's life have been if Sam had just gone into the system when their dad died? Dean wouldn't have needed to drop out of college. He would have been happy.
Dean offers his hand and Sam lets him pull him to his feet. The ride back to the apartment is quiet, an unknown pop song on the radio fills their silence. As soon as they're back home, Dean herds Sam into the bathroom.
"No offense, Sam, but you don't smell like daisies," he says. He stays in the hallways until Sam shuts the door, and then he waits until the shower is running before he walks away. Sam presses his ear to the door and listens to Dean's feet creak over the floorboards, towards the living room. He can hear Dean on the phone but his voice is too muffled to make out what he's saying.
Sam knows it's him that's being talked about. Well, of course, Dean said he would call the school. But it's more than just calling in late. Sam knows that Dean is talking about how messed up he is, that's one of the hottest topics of conversation among students at his school, there was even an entire article written about him in the school's gossip magazine that the teachers know nothing about.
Sam Winchester is fucked up. That was the gist of it.
He's unsure how long he lingers by the door trying to make out what his brother is saying. Eventually, he gives up and strips down. He avoids looking down, as he usually does. He's skinnier than he used to be, but he doesn't care that much about his weight, he doesn't care much about food either. It's his arms that he avoids. He knows what they look like, he's stared at them enough to know the look of them by heart, he'd be able to re-draw every detail perfectly. He's equal parts obsessed and ashamed.
The thing is, Sam knows that he's gone insane.
He didn't used to be like this. Just over a year ago, he was like any other kid. He slept around eight hours a night, he had a family, he could get into cars without his hands shaking, he was in almost every club in school, he was a straight A student, he had close friends he'd known since he was four years old, he had a sound mind.
He doesn't have any of those things anymore.
As Dean drives Sam into school at 10am, everyone is outside during break. Of course, there are plenty of people around to witness his walk of shame. A group of girls catch sight of him and begin to giggle amongst themselves, his old soccer team glare at him. They'll never forgive him for costing them a spot at nationals, dead dad or no. Well, maybe defacing the team captain's car also has something to do with their anger.
Dean leans over and pats Sam on the shoulder as he climbs out of the passenger seat.
"I'll be working late tonight so you'll have to get the bus home. You've got money, right?" Dean says.
Sam doesn't even have one cent, but there's no point worrying Dean about that. "Yeah, I've got money."
Dean forces a tired smile. "Call me if you need me."
Sam nods. He knows he won't be calling Dean even if he gets impaled by one of the javelins in the school's gym closet. Dean starts the engine, he doesn't start driving, instead he pokes his head out of the window.
"Remember you're supposed to see Mr Novak first thing."
Sam rolls his eyes. It's Monday morning, not Wednesday afternoon. Sam would rather have a meeting with a hungry great white than Mr Novak.
Dean sighs. "Come on, Sam. I only made the guy lunch to say thanks. It wasn't a date."
"Sure," Sam shrugs.
"I mean it. You were only pissed at me for a day, why are you still pissed at him?"
"Why do you care so much? Besides, I only stopped being pissed at you because I have to live with you. I don't have to be friends with him."
"Sam, this is ridiculous. It wasn't a date!" Dean barks. Sam looks around self-consciously and, sure enough, people are staring.
"Could you please go now?" Sam begs, ducking his head. Dean looks like he has plenty more to say but he keeps his mouth shut and peels out of the parking lot and out of sight.
Sam considers going straight to class and avoiding Mr Novak, but as he climbs the stairs to the main entrance, Miss Harvelle appears. She holds out a hand and places it on his shoulder. He almost flinches away from the gentleness of it, the soft look in her eye makes him want to be sick. He wants to tell her to stop looking at him like he's the saddest thing in the world.
"I'll take you down to Mr Novak's office, dear," she says. Sam pauses, but quickly manages to catch up to her. She never calls any of the students in this school 'dear'. A coil of dread settles in his stomach.
Why does he need to see Mr Novak? Why is the principal escorting him there? Does she not trust him to go there by himself?
Sam has envisioned scenarios like this one countless times. Sometimes, he's in bed when they come for him, sometimes he's in school, but in every way he imagines this, it always ends with him strapped to a gurney, carted off by men in white scrubs.
They turn the corner into the corridor where Mr Novak's office is and Sam tries to clamp his shaking hands together. He lets out a breath at the sight of an empty corridor. No cops or orderlies prepared to cart him off to the looney bin.
"I don't want you to worry about missing the first two periods this morning," Harvelle says, "and don't worry about missing more classes today. You can speak with Mr Novak as long as you need and you can head back to lessons when you're ready."
Sam blinks dumbly at her. She nudges him gently towards the door. Sam finds himself with no other choice but to knock. Mr Novak appears immediately, he smiles at Sam and swings the door open wide. Sam glances over his shoulder, hoping for some sort of protection from Miss Harvelle, but she's already gone.
"Take a seat, Sam," Novak says, closing the door. He sits down behind the desk and waits patiently until Sam joins him. The first thing he says is, "how are you?"
Sam shrugs. "Confused."
"And why's that?"
"We have appointments on Wednesday afternoons, not Monday mornings. I don't understand why I'm here."
Novak's expression is irritatingly difficult to decipher. He wears the smallest smile, but other than that his face is blank.
"Well, Sam, your brother informed the school about what happened this morning and the principal and I thought it would be best if you would come and talk to me."
Sam rolls his eyes. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?
"This is stupid," Sam says.
"Why do you think so?"
Sam huffs irritably. "Are you paid just to ask dumb questions? Do you even know anything? No offense, but I don't trust a school counsellor to fix my problems. So, what? You took a three-week course on basic psychology online and now you're qualified to tell people what to do?"
Novak's lips quirk. He looks amused.
"I have a college degree in psychology, if that puts you at ease," he points a thumb over his shoulder to where the degree is framed and pinned on the wall.
"Oh," is all Sam can manage. He pauses. "Why do you work in a high school in the middle of nowhere then? You could have had a fancy office in the city."
"I've never seen the appeal of the city nor fancy offices," Novak replies.
"So," Sam says awkwardly, the same thing that's been on his mind all weekend is all he can think of right now. "Are you dating my brother?"
Novak's smile drops. "I assure you, I'm not. He made a friendly offer and I accepted. It was a mistake, I realise now, it was unprofessional. I certainly did not want to upset you."
Sam chews the inside of his cheek and contemplates. "My brother said the same thing. Swear you're telling the truth."
"I swear," Cas doesn't miss a beat. Sam studies his face for a moment before deciding to believe him.
"It would have been majorly awkward if the guy who I'm supposed to tell my deepest, darkest secrets to was banging my brother."
Cas clears his throat, just managing to cover a choke. "Sam, I'm glad you've gotten that off your chest, but there's a reason you're here to talk to me this morning."
"Right," Sam agrees. "What if I don't want to talk about it?"
"I can't force you to do anything, Sam, but I hope you will let me help."
Sam shrugs. He tries to turn his thoughts away from last December and every horrible thing that happened that night after school. These memories come to him like creeping shadows, ready to engulf him in the dark. They caress him at night and rouse him from sleep, the play out in front of him while he's eating lunch, when he's with Ruby, when he's walking home from school.
They're more painful than is imaginable. There are few things that make them go away.
Sam could tell Novak all of these things, instead he says, "There's nothing to talk about."
Often, at night when he should be sleeping, Sam is awake, almost breathless with the sobs he plugs with his pillow, trying to avoid the dark shapes of his room, the particular shape at his desk which he suspects is his dad. These nights, Sam prays for Dean to come into his room and turn on the light and hold him in his arms, and when Dean really does walk by in the corridor and linger by Sam's room, Sam also prays that Dean will go away.
He craves comfort and solitude in equal amounts. He can't have one or the other. Solitude is simpler.
"Do you know what a trigger is, Sam?" Novak asks, snapping Sam out of his thoughts.
"No."
"Well, a trigger is something that sets off a strong memory, or a flashback, to a situation that was particularly traumatising. Triggers are very personal and are different for everyone. Sam, did you experience a memory or flashback on the road today?"
"No," Sam lies. He's not crazy. Well, he is, but no one else can know that.
"Okay," Novaks says slowly, jotting something down in his notebook. "Maybe you didn't experience a flashback, but the memories the road evoked were difficult ones, yes?"
"Clearly," Sam says bluntly.
"Are there any other things you avoid other than the road?"
"Our old house, Benny's Diner, the soccer team," Sam answers before he can stop himself.
"Do you have any ideas why you avoid these things?"
Sam sighs. He's tired of hiding all the time. There are some things that even he has to set free.
"The night that – " he gulps, takes a breath, and starts again. "The night that it happened, my dad picked me up from soccer practice, we went to Benny's for dinner, then we were headed home. We got into an argument at Benny's because he wouldn't let me go to some dumb party, we were still arguing in the car and then – "
He clears his throat. "Well, you know the rest."
Mr Novak's expression is carefully schooled.
"It's not uncommon for people to avoid things that cause them anxiety or stress," he says. "And sometimes, avoidance can be positive as it keeps us away from unwanted feelings or memories. But in the long run, avoidance only makes the problem worse."
"Where have you been?" Ruby demands. It's lunch hour and Sam has finally been released from Mr Novak's clutches. The first thing he does is make a dash for the bleachers where he knows he'll find Ruby.
Sam shrugs nonchalantly. "Just around."
Ruby raises one eyebrow and puts her hands on her hips. "Meg saw you get dropped off by your brother at ten this morning, she said you disappeared with Harvelle."
Sam shrugs again. "Harvelle has a thing for me, what can I say?"
Ruby grins and punches him in the shoulder, harder than you'd expect a girl her size to be capable of. Then, she grabs his hand and pulls him along after her, up to the top of the bleachers where Meg, Scott and Brady are lounging around like they own the place.
"He's alive!" Meg exclaims as soon as she sees him. She blows out a puff of smoke, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. "I thought for sure Harvelle had crucified you."
"I didn't see you in History," Scott mutters suspiciously. He doesn't look up, too busy tickling the flame of his lighter with his index finger.
"You weren't in English either," Brady adds, "and I thought you were gone for good."
Sam drops down onto the bench next to Ruby. "Nope. I'm still here."
"I'm glad. No offence to these guys but this place would be way duller without you," Ruby says. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out of her bag and offers one to Sam. Sam shakes his head.
"I'm on the straight and narrow, remember?"
Ruby raises an eyebrow. "You were serious about that? Who gives a fuck what Harvelle thinks?"
"Um, me? I kinda want to graduate from high school, Ruby."
Ruby rolls her eyes and mutters, "Pussy."
Sam can't say that's the first time she's called him that, among other things. He also can't say that it hurts any less.
The thing about Ruby and her friends is that they don't give two shits about anything, which is all kinds of awesome. One thing they don't give a shit about is what happened to Sam last winter. Almost everyone Sam comes into contact with gives him the wounded look, like just gazing at him is painful. When Sam's dad died, people stopped treating him like a person and started treating him like a charity case.
He couldn't take that from anyone anymore, not even from his best friends. He tries his hardest to avoid Charlie and Andy and the others, even flunking his AP classes just to get away from them, all but pretending he never knew them to begin with.
Even with Ruby's sharp tongue and quick temper, at least she treats him the same way she treats anyone else.
"Sam?" Ruby snaps. She's glaring at him hard enough to knock him over.
"W-what?"
"My party next week, are you coming?"
"Oh… I'm not sure. I'd have to ask my brother."
Ruby rolls her eyes again, she does that so much that it's surprising they still look in the same direction. "Your brother isn't invited so what does it have to do with him?" she demands.
"Yeah, I know. It's just that I'm kind of grounded for the rest of eternity."
"Sam," Ruby sighs. She takes his hand and caresses her thumb over it. "Dean isn't your dad. You can't let him control you like this."
"He's not – "
"Sam, you can make your own choices."
Sam thinks that maybe she has a point.
When the bell finally rings at the end of the day, Sam is the first out of his seat. He's in the corridor before it fills with students and he manages to navigate his way to his locker without being elbowed in the stomach. Once Sam has grabbed the text books he needs, he swings his locker shut.
Andy Gallagher is standing right next to him. Their lockers have been next to each other since the first day of high school. It used to be the greatest thing ever, now it's just plain awkward.
Finally, Andy realises Sam is there. He blinks at him, mouth hanging open. It's probably thrown him off a bit that Sam is actually looking at him.
"Sam, hey," Andy finally manages. "Um. How are you?"
Sam shrugs. "I'm fine," he answers. He considers just turning and leaving but it's actually nice talking to Andy again. "Uh. What have you been up to?"
Andy breaks out into a grin. "Ansem is being an asshole, as usual. He's totally stalking my girlfriend, by the way."
Sam smiles. "You have a girlfriend?"
"Yeah! She goes to the private school. I met her while I was camping with my parents this summer. Her name is Tracey and she's way out of my league, man."
"I'm sure you guys are great together," Sam insists.
Andy suddenly perks up. "Hey! I'm having the guys over on Friday night, we're gonna watch movies and eat way too much junk food. Do you think… do you want to come?"
Sam doesn't even get a second to think that offer over because Ruby seems to appear out of thin air and latches onto his arm. She stares at Andy like he's something caught on the bottom of her lace-up boot.
"There you are, Sam," she says, curling one hand around his. She sneers at Andy. "What are you doing talking to him?"
"I was just…"
Both Andy and Ruby stare at him expectantly.
Sam sighs. "Nothing. I wasn't doing anything," he mutters. "Can we just get out of here?"
Ruby beams up at him and grips his hand tighter in hers, then she stalks off down the hallway with Sam in tow. Sam just manages to glance over his shoulder before the doors swing shut behind him, but Andy is already lost in the crowd of students.
Meg, Scott and Brady are leaning against Brady's expensive silver Ford Taurus in the parking lot.
"I only just saved him," Ruby announces. "Sam was talking to that freaky Gallagher twin."
"Stalker or Star Wars stoner?" Meg asks.
"Meg, you're a stoner too," Scott points out quietly.
"And you like setting things on fire," Meg snaps back. She turns back to Ruby, questioning.
"Star Wars stoner," Ruby answers. She turns to Sam. "So, are we doing anything?"
Sam stares at his shoes, looking at anything but her. "I have to get home. Sorry."
Ruby sighs deeply. "Don't be such a pussy, Sam."
"Seriously," Sam grits out between his teeth, "I need to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
Ruby looks less than pleased but, thankfully, she doesn't push him any further. She gets up on her tip-toes and Sam leans down to receive the kiss. It starts as a peck but the next thing he knows, her tongue is caressing his, her arms are around his neck and her leg is curling around his thigh.
She pulls away with a wet smack of their lips and Sam nearly loses his balance. Brady lets out a wolf whistle, Meg feigns complete disinterest, and Scott is staring at them with sick fascination. Sam isn't entirely sure what he and Ruby are, if they're anything at all, but he can't deny that he thinks about her lips way more than is healthy.
"Bye," he manages, voice raspy. He begins to walk away, following the stream of students heading out of the school gates. He glances back, but Ruby is too busy hanging from Brady's arm.
It's a long way home by foot, especially in this frigid weather. He plugs in his iPod and lets his feet wander wherever they choose to go. The sun is beginning to set earlier and earlier lately and by 4pm it's beginning to get dark.
He stops and looks around. He's walking in the middle of a road, which is thankfully deserted, but this isn't just any road.
This is the road.
He can hear it, just under the bass line and guitar strumming in his ears, he can hear the screech of wheels trying desperately to hold onto the asphalt. Sam jerks around, but there are no cars. He pulls out his headphones and keeps moving. His breathing picks up, his heart hammers against his chest.
"Sam, would you stop ignoring me?"
He feels the bite of the wind on his cheeks, the tips of his fingers and nose are numb.
"Sam, please. I don't want to fight, kiddo."
Sam stops. His dad's voice, as clear as if he were standing right next to him. He looks around, just in case. Just in case his dad is hiding behind a tree, like he might pop out any moment and reveal that the past year was all just an elaborate prank.
He's alone, nothing but the empty road and the surrounding trees and fields for company. That, and the memories.
He didn't realise the car had crashed until he was hanging upside-down by his seatbelt. The moments before, when the car was skidding then tumbling, that happened far too quickly to register.
It had taken him fifteen full minutes before he realised his dad was dead.
"Dad, I'm stuck. I-I think my arm's broken."
It was hours before rescue came.
"Dad! Dad, wake up!"
Sam stumbles off the road and drops to his knees in front of a thick tree. It's totally stripped of bark at the bottom, a chunk of wood is missing, a small piece of metal is dented into it. Sam reaches out his shaking fingers and brushes them against the tree trunk.
This is it. This is the tree they crashed into.
All around the base of the tree are shards of red glass from his dad's truck's headlights. He finds the largest piece and pockets it. Once he manages to stop himself from crying, he gets to his feet and walks home.
Dean is fast asleep and snoring on the couch when Sam gets back. There are four empty bottle of beer on the floor and he's still wearing his work uniform. Sam drops his bag on the floor and tip-toes close. He considers waking Dean, instead he pulls the couch blanket over his brother's body and retreats to his bedroom.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Ruby has left seven text messages, none of which Sam replies to.
He can still hear his dad's voice. Even worse, he can also hear his dad's silence. He leaves his phone on his desk and drops down onto his bed.
Sam pulls up his sweater sleeves and examines the rows of tiny red cuts up and down both of his arms. Months and months in the making, a collection of sorts.
"Dad, please wake up!"
He pulls the headlight shard from his pocket and fiddles with it, it's sharp and scratches at his fingertips. Sam tilts it in the bedroom light, gazes at its glinting edges, then he directs the point of it towards his arm, a healed patch of skin near his elbow. He presses it down and drags. The memories retreat.