Sam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He can do this. He kills demons all the time, the least he can do is quiet the ones in his mind. He rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands as he tries to think of anything but cutting open his skin.
For a second, he thinks about calling Dean, remembering the promise from that night a couple of weeks ago. That he'd try not to cut, but if he had to, Dean would watch; make sure he was safe. That he didn't go too deep. He had agreed to it, but he can't do that to Dean, so he resolves to just suffer.
He hasn't cut since then, not that he hasn't wanted to. He's tried to be strong, but to be honest he's never really tried to stop before. He didn't realize what a hold this had on him until it was too late.
His leg is shaking, tapping rapidly against the concrete floor. His breathing is shaky, and it's starting to remind him of detoxing from the demon blood. The itch burns under his skin, and he can't relieve it with anything other than a blade. Any blade, really, he thinks as he lifts his head to the gear bag on the table, containing so many things that could help. Just make the itch fade, calm the tense feeling in his entire body.
Just then, the door opens to reveal Dean, back from a beer run.
"Heya, Sammy. Got beer." He grins and heads toward the fridge when he realizes Sam hasn't responded. Hasn't moved, really, since he came in. "Sam? You alright?" No response. Fear spikes in his gut, and Dean heads to his brother, beer forgotten on the table. "Sam?" His voice is soft. "What's up?"
"Nothin'. 'M fine," he mutters, chewing on his lip. A particularly harsh bite draws blood, and Dean's hand immediately goes to his brother's lip.
"Hey, don't do that," he says. "What's going on? Talk to me, Sammy."
"'M just... you know..." Sam ducks his head, ashamed to say it.
Dean nods, somehow understanding what's going on even without much help from Sam. "Did you...?"
He leaves the question open-ended, and Sam quickly shakes his head. "I said I wouldn't."
"Yeah, yeah you did." Dean takes a deep breath. "Ok, so... what do we do? Do you need a beer? Go for a drive? What do you need me to do?" he questions, not really sure what will help, but knowing there must be something. There has to be.
Sam just looks up at him, watery eyes full of fear and pain. "Dean... I gotta... I have to." He nearly whispers the words that almost send Dean flying back. When he gets no response, Sam adds, "You said-"
"I know what I said," Dean snaps. He sighs, "Sorry. I just... we haven't exhausted our resources, you know? We have to at least try. There's gotta be something else that can help. I mean, a drive would take your mind off it, right-"
"Dean," Sam cuts him off, voice small and pained. "You promised."
Dean turns around, facing the bathroom door with tears in his eyes. Remembering a time, just a few weeks ago, when he walked into a bathroom just like that one to find his baby brother cutting himself. When he'd allowed himself to promise that he would let him do it again if he had to. That he would watch.
Only a few moments of silence pass, but if feels like an eternity before Dean says, "Okay."
At the word, Sam stands and makes his way to the gear bag where all their knives are. He grabs one, the same one that he always uses, and moves to go into the bathroom.
"Sam, where are you going?" Dean's words sound a lot stronger than he feels.
"I-I'll come out when it's done. You can... patch me up. Or whatever," he says, eyes glued tightly to the floor. This feels dirtybadwrong, but he doesn't have another choice, can't hold out for another minute.
"No, the deal was, I watch. You let me watch or you don't do it at all," his brother replies, voice firm in a way that says he won't be argued with.
"Dean, you can't... I can't do that to you," Sam says as the first of his tears fall.
"Then don't."
Sam looks down at the knife in his hand, then up at his brother. It feels like a choice between the two, one he can't make. The weapon trembles in his shaking grasp, and Dean steps closer, putting a comforting hand on his arm. "Don't."
A tense moment passes, a battle raging inside Sam's head before he makes his decision. His death grip on the knife loosens, and Dean quickly tosses it across the room, pulling his brother into his arms as he breaks down in sobs.
"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry," are the first words he manages when the sobs have started to fade.
"It's okay, Sam. It's okay," he hushes, holding his brother tight in fear of what might have just happened. What could have gone down differently. The thought makes him tighten his grip on Sam's shirt as he hushes him. "You're okay."