The bunker door slams open, announcing Cas' presence. He finds Dean in the library, chin resting in his hands as he death stares the table.
"Dean?"
He jumps at the sound of his friend's voice. "Cas."
A moment of silence passes before he asks, "Where's Sam?"
Dean lets out a shaky breath and stands. "He's in his room, sleeping."
"So he's okay? What's the emergency?"
"No, he's not okay." Dean takes another breath and looks up at Cas. "Sam's not eating again. It's been days since he ate something and kept it down, and last time this landed him in the hospital, and if something doesn't change, I think that's right where we're headed," he rambles.
Cas frowns, concern darkening his features.
"It's getting worse, Cas," Dean adds, his voice breaking. "I don't know what to do."
Cas steps forward and pulls him into a hug. After a couple minutes, Dean pulls back, wiping at his face with the back of his hands.
"So, can you… can you fix him?" he asks.
Cas frowns. "I don't know. It's not some physical injury I can heal, it's in his head. His body is breaking itself down, and if Sam won't give it what he needs, there's not much I can do."
"Great, that's just great." Dean turns to face the wall.
Cas sighs. "I'll try to heal any organ damage, but even if I can, if he keeps doing this to himself it's just going to keep happening."
Dean nods. "Yeah. I know. I've just gotta help him, Cas. He's my little brother, I'm supposed to take care of him. It's my job."
Cas puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I know."
Sam groans as consciousness finds him, dragging him back into the painful reality he tries so hard to escape from. His frustration doubles as he recalls the events of a few hours ago. Dean's never going to leave him alone again. He turns to sit on the edge of the bed. But he's not here now…
Sam's eyes drift to his nightstand. Against his better judgment, he opens it to pull out the shiny blade hidden within.
Even with all the knives, machetes, and razor-sharp instruments around the bunker, and even just his room, nothing quite matches the simplicity of a razor blade. So pure and basic, its clean, sharp slice like nothing else.
He makes sure his door is locked before taking off his jeans. Old scars litter his thighs, some from hunting but the majority self-inflicted. He runs his fingers over the raised skin, feeling each painful night, each surpassed calorie limit, covering his skin.
He should feel something, have some emotion toward his marred body, sadness, anything… but all he feels is empty. He needs to feel something.
Without a second thought, the blade digs into his leg, slicing his skin open and sending a rush through his body. He looks down at the cut in time to see red fill it and spill over, his pain bleeding out with it. Another cut, and another, his sheets staining red, until he hears a knock on the door.
"Sammy?" Dean calls.
Panic grips him. "Y-yeah, Dean?"
"You good in there?"
"Yep, fine."
"Sam, let me in," Dean says. Something's off, and with the way things have been going lately, he's not taking any chances.
"I'm fine, Dean." Sam's voice is icy. "I'll be out in a minute."
Everything in him is screaming that it's a lie, but Sam clearly doesn't want to talk about it. So Dean just says, "Come to the library," and knows that if he's not there in a couple of minutes, he'll check on him.
"Where's Sam?" Cas asks when he gets back to the library.
"Coming."
Back in his room, Sam does his best to stop the bleeding and puts his pants back on, praying that the cuts won't bleed through because he doesn't have time to bandage them right now. Dean already sounded suspicious when he came to get him. When he walks into the library, he's shocked to find Cas standing next to Dean.
"Cas? What are you doing here?" he asks, sounding pleasantly surprised.
"Dean told me," he responds gravely, sadness in his eyes.
Sam glares at Dean.
"It's Cas, Sam. He just wants to help."
"Well, he can't," Sam snaps. "Not with this."
"I'm going to try to heal you," Cas says as if he hadn't even heard Sam.
His face pales. "No. I don't want you to. I'm fine."
"Why not, Sam? Are you trying to kill yourself?" Dean asks angrily.
"No… I…" Sam stutters.
"Wait, Sam," Dean interrupts. His tone is softer, coated with fear. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"
Sam turns around, running his hands over his face. "Dean…"
"No, Sam, answer the question!"
He turns back around. "No! Ok? And as I've said, I'm fine." His voice quivers. "So just leave me alone."
He tries to walk out of the room, but Cas stops him. "Sam, please. Just let me try."
Sam's prepared to say no again, but Dean cuts him off. "Sam, you either let Cas heal you voluntarily or I will hold you down while he does it." Sam opens his mouth again to object, but he can tell that Dean's not messing around.
"I don't even know if it will work, Sam. But I have to try," Cas tells him.
Hesitantly, Sam asks, "What are you healing exactly?"
"Well, I can't heal your eating disorder because it is a mental illness. At most, I can fix any organ damage you may have done. Or damage to your esophagus and teeth from purging."
Sam sends Dean another glare for telling him all of that but reluctantly steps closer to Cas. "Alright, fine. You can try."
"Thank you." Cas puts two fingers on Sam's forehead and a warm glow emits from them. A moment later, he removes them in confusion.
Dean is watching intensely. "What? What is it?"
"The organ damage – there isn't much, and I've healed it, but there's something else. Sam, you're injured."
"What?" Dean snaps. "Where?" His gaze is on Sam now, but the question is meant for either.
Sam's gaze drops to the floor. "It's nothing. I just got scratched by the wendigo."
"The wendigo didn't touch you," Dean retorts. "Cas?"
"Dean, seriously, drop it," Sam says with warning in his voice.
"You're hurt. I'm not dropping it." Dean's tone carries as much authority as Sam's, causing Sam to shrink in on himself.
"It doesn't matter," he says quietly.
"Like hell it doesn't, where is it Cas?"
Cas pauses for a second, feeling awkward. "Uh… his thighs."
"Take off your pants, Sam," he demands.
"Wha– Dean! No. It's nothing, really."
"Oh, like you starving yourself is nothing?"
"I'm not…" Sam shakes his head. "This is stupid."
"Sam," Dean says firmly.
Sam shakes his head again, turning away but this time to hide the tears forming in his eyes. He finally takes a shaky breath and slowly takes down his pants to show the damage, old and new.
Dean hisses sharply. "God, Sammy…" Sam's head lowers in defeat. Dean kneels down in front of him, lifting his boxers a few inches to show even more cuts, some still sluggishly bleeding from his session just a few minutes ago.
"Sam, did you…" Dean starts quietly. Sam looks at him, and Dean doesn't have to finish because the guilty look on his brother's face tells him everything he needs to know.
"Ok, ok, wh…" Dean stops and takes a shaky breath, clearing his throat to stop his voice from shaking. He can't break down right now; he has to stay strong for Sammy. "Let's get these cleaned up."
"N-no, Dean, it's fine, I–"
"Sam, you can't... you gotta let me do this."
He leads Sam over to a chair, setting him down as if he's afraid to let him out of his sight. Sensing this, Cas offers, "I'll go get the first aid kit."
Dean sits down in the chair next to Sam and looks up at him. Sam is staring at the ground, trying to keep his eyes away from his bare legs, from Dean, trying to forget that Dean knows.
"Sam, I need you to look at me."
Sam squeezes his eyes closed, feeling tears escape down his face. He can't bear to see the look on Dean's face, the disappointment, the anger. But when he finally looks up, he sees none of what he expected.
Dean's eyes mirror his own, filled with tears and looking just… broken. Torn up inside.
"Dean, I-I'm sorry," Sam says.
Dean shakes his head. "No. No, Sammy, you…" He takes a shaky breath. "Man, you gotta talk to me. Why would you do this to yourself?"
"I-" Sam's just shaking his head. He doesn't know how to explain it. It hurts to see Dean like this, so hurt over something that Sam didn't think even mattered.
Dean doesn't bother trying to hide his tears if it will just get Sam to see. What he means to him, how much he's worth and just how much this is breaking his heart.
Just then, Cas walks in with the first aid kit and solemnly hands it to Dean. "On second thought, I could just heal him," Cas offers, but Sam shakes his head.
"It's ok. You don't need to waste your grace on me," he says, flashing him a small smile.
"It wouldn't be a waste," Cas answers.
Sam pauses, then starts shaking his head and goes to pull his pants back on. "This is stupid, they're not even that bad, they'll heal up on their own."
"They'll get infected on their own," Dean retorts softly, reaching out to stop his brother. "If you won't let Cas heal you, at least let me clean them up."
Grudgingly, Sam relents and moves his arms out of the way. As Dean cleans Sam's wounds, wiping them with antiseptic and wrapping them in gauze, he can't keep the tears from flowing, the anger from building up. But not at Sammy. Never at Sammy. At himself. How had he missed it? Sam is starving himself again, and now he's cutting?
He takes a deep breath as he finishes bandaging the wounds that are far too deep for Dean's comfort. He's been trying to prepare words, something to say, anything that could help, but he's at a loss. Finally, the words just come out, raw emotion that he can't filter.
"You know what, Sam? I have always protected you. Always. But the one thing I can't protect you from is yourself. Well, like hell I can't! I want to help you get better, Sammy, I do. In your head, get you feeling better. But that could take a while, so in the meantime, I'll force your physical health if I have to. Like eating. You're gonna eat, Sam. And this…" He gestures to his now-bandaged legs. "This has gotta stop. Because you're not dying on me, Sammy. Understand?"
Sam looks up at him, tears in his eyes. "Dean… I can't," he chokes out, emotion filling his voice at the helplessness he feels.
His demeanor softens, and suddenly he feels like he's 12 again, comforting a crying Sam who just wants a mom and a dad who doesn't leave. "I know, Sammy. I know. That's why I'm here. You just let me help you, okay?"
Sam nods, closing his eyes and no longer fighting the tears that stream down his cheeks. "Ok, Dean."