Chapter 1

They knew they fucking knew.

Sam walked over to his nightstand and pulled out his butterfly knife then tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He was calm, and relaxed because he knew exactly what he was doing, moving with a fluidity that only someone who had done this before could possess. Sam walked into the connecting bathroom of his bedroom and locked the door behind him. Sam didn't even spare a glance in the mirror before he sat down on the closed toilet and untucked the knife from the waistband of his jeans. He wasted no time bringing the blade up to his arm and began making meticulous cuts on his wrist and forearm. It was natural at this point to him, a way of life almost and he was way too focused on self-deprecating thoughts to hear the footsteps creeping up to the bathroom door. A sharp knock made him drop the knife with a loud clatter. Sam cursed and put a hand over his bleeding forearm.

"Sam! You in there?" Dean yelled through the door.

Sam swiped for his towel that hung on the bathroom door and sloppily wrapped it around his arm, grunting at the pain it invoked. Sam closed his eyes, looked toward the ceiling, and took a deep breath and just like that any sense of panic or worry left his body and he was numb again.

"Sam?! Sam, open the door!" Dean kicked the door.

Sam opened his eyes and sighed, unwrapping the now bloody towel from his arm. He was trapped and he knew it. Sam didn't care enough to try to think himself out of this. With a look of utter resignation and numbness, Sam got off the toilet, unlocked and then opened the bathroom door. Dean looked like he was about to make a joke of some sort before he stopped, noticing Sam's bloody arm. Sam watched as his eyes widened and his mouth opened to start letting accusations fly out but Sam pushed past him and stalked over to his nightstand. He opened the drawer that stored his butterfly knife and began fishing out gauges, creams, alcohol wipes, and medical tape. The clean up.

"Sam!" Dean yelled and stormed over to Sam. Sam ignored him and ripped open one of the alcohol wipes with his mouth and rubbed it viciously against his open, wounded arm, ignoring the burning sting.

"Sam" Dean yelled again, grabbing Sam by his shoulders. Sam looked up at Dean silently. "What the fuck is going on!" Dean yelled at him. Sam just stared at him, his actions frozen. Dean raised his eyebrows impatiently, "well?!" he questioned loudly. Sam didn't speak. Dean yelled out in frustration and let go of Sam, pacing. Sam went back to cleaning his arm while throwing glances at Dean.

"What was going through your head Sam? You could have talked to me! You could have asked me for help, not cut your fucking arm!" Dean yelled and ranted, his eyes never leaving Sam's form.

Sam threw the dirty alcohol wipe onto the floor and grabbed a small brown towel from inside the drawer to press into his arm. He hissed slightly at the pressure. Dean mock laughed.

"Yeah it fucking hurts Sam, you cut your arm, on purpose!" Dean yelled at him, throwing his arms up into the air. Sam shook his head silently and kept taking care of his arm.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Dean stood in front of him now with his hands on his hips. Sam looked up at Dean.

"Are you going to tell Dad?" he asked quietly. Dean's eyes got impossibly wider and he gave another fake laugh.

"You bet your ass I am Sam. This isn't healthy." Dean emphasized the last word like Sam was a child. Sam just shrugged.

"I figured," he answered, already back to cleaning up his arm.

He didn't care about much anymore.

Now, Sam sat in the backseat wearing a hoodie and jeans on the way to a therapist's office. An interesting situation he had found himself in. Dean had told their father, John had yelled at him and then called Bobby. Bobby wanted to speak with Sam, but Sam didn't say a word as to why he did what he did, Bobby gave John a number.

Sam stared out the window as they got closer and closer to something foreign entirely. A therapist. He didn't mind, it's not like they could make him talk which he didn't plan to. His family was understandably upset but Sam didn't really get why. It's not like he cut them, he cut himself because he has something going on with himself. No big deal, really. People cut themselves everyday, some accidental, some not. What does it matter? Apparently, a great deal because John and Dean had been on his ass ever since. Checking his arms 24/7, doing daily scavenger hunts to find any of his sharps that they might have initially missed, and giving him lectures on how what he does doesn't just affect him. Technically, it did but Sam didn't say anything, he always stayed silent because there was nothing for him to say. He was sorry? No. He wouldn't do it again? Yes, he would. Did he want to get help? In his eyes, he's perfectly fine. Nothing he said would please them so he decided to stay silent.

"Come on Sam," Dean called before exiting the passenger seat and slamming the door shut behind him. Sam got out of the car silently and walked lazily inside the small building, taking a seat in one of the many chairs that lined the wall. He placed a hand over his left forearm and pressed down, the pain was immediate though not as satisfying but it still made him hiss slightly. Dean looked over at him sharply then down at his hands. "Stop," he commanded through gritted teeth and Sam stared at Dean as he moved his hand away from his left forearm. Dean shook his head at him before looking away and whispering back and forth with John; nothing new.

Sam shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and leaned his head back against the wall behind him, closing his eyes. He drifted off peacefully; this lasted for about two minutes before Dean shook his shoulder aggressively to wake Sam up.

Sam opened his eyes squinting up at Dean while he slowly sat up out of his slouched position.

"The doctor's calling you," Dean said in his no-nonsense, big brother voice. Dean was angry with him; nothing new. Sam got up with his hands still tucked into his hoodie pocket and walked into the small office, his head down shielding him from the disappointed looks his father and brother gave him as he walked past. They could be disappointed all they wanted, Sam thought to himself, he didn't give a shit really.

Sam took a seat opposite the therapist and stared at them. Dean and his father sat on either side of him.

"Hello Sam, I'm Lucy or Lucilia Mill." She greeted him. She was young, a brunette, and had a nice smile. This would be interesting. Sam could already tell that Dean and John would get tired of her within a week and they'd be done with this bullshit, pro-mental health nonsense. Yeah, he could dread her for a week.

"Hey," he said, evenly. She smiled again, but Sam didn't.

"How's your morning going?" She asked, sweetly while she rearranged some things on her desk and placed a few papers onto a clipboard.

Sam shrugged, "I'm alive so-" Dean elbowed him, hard. Sam grunted but kept talking.

"-so it can't be that bad." Dean's cheeks colored slightly and Sam reveled in that. Did Dean really think he wasn't above making suicide jokes to a therapist? Because then he'd be right but he would at least get to know her first, he had some class.

Lucy or Lucilia smiled and Sam just gave her a blank look.

"Well," she said after taking in a deep breath, letting it out as she spoke. "Should we get started then?" Sam shrugged and Lucy or Lucilia kept on smiling. "Okay, let's get started then." She looked down at her clipboard and then back up at Sam.

"How old are you Sam?" She asked casually and readied her pen against her clipboard.

"Sixteen," he answered, quietly.

"What color are your eyes?" Sam fought not to furrow his eyebrows at the random question.

"Green."

"What color is the shirt I'm wearing?" Sam shifted slightly in his chair.

"White."

"How old is your mother?" Everyone tensed at that, already unsatisfied with the answer they knew Sam would give.

"Dead," he said bluntly and Dean elbowed him again, right in his ribs making him suck in a breath.

"It's true," Sam mumbled as he held a hand to his stomach, looking down at his lap and trying to breathe evenly.

"Yeah, well you don't have to be a dick about it," Dean said through gritted teeth. Lucy or Lucilia held a hand up.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave Dean, I'm sorry but we cannot have this kind of behavior and expect to positively help Sam," Dean grumbled something under his breath before storming out. Lucy or Lucilia passed another smile on her face and looked back at Sam and John.

"Are you okay?" she asked and Sam stopped rubbing his abdomen, straightening up from his hunched-over position.

"Just peachy," he grunted out as his abdomen stretched. Lucy or Lucilia nodded and looked down at her clipboard.

"Do you have any pets?" Sam just shook his head.

"Do you play any sports?" Sam shook his head again.

"Have you ever been sexually assaulted?"

"No."

"If you were to be, would you tell your family?"

"Yes."

No hesitation.

John scoffed and Sam shoved his hands back into his hoodie pocket, looking down. Lucy or Lucilia looked over at John fixing him with narrowed eyes. "Why do you scoff?" she asked, sounding absolutely puzzled.

"The boy was trying to saw off his arm and didn't tell us, I doubt he'd tell us if he got raped," he explained sounding like he could truly care less. Lucy or Lucilia put her pen down and leaned forward.

"Would you believe him if he told you either of those things?" and that made John pause for a second but it was enough and both Sam and she saw it.

"Of course, he's my son but with kids these days-"

"What about them, Mr. Winchester?" she inquired, eagerly. Sam looked over at John too but not because he was interested in what John had to say but more so because he knew what he would say.

"Well, you know, they want attention," John shrugged offhandedly and waved toward Sam. "Lord knows he gets enough though, being the youngest and all." John thought Sam cut himself for attention. Interesting development but very unsurprising. Never mind the fact that Sam never told anyone and still wouldn't say much about it.

"So why do you think Sam did it?" Lucy or Lucilia asked, leaning back into her seat, and folding her arms.

John gave another shrug. "It's no secret the boy hates moving so my guess would be that," he shrugged again. Sam looked away from his father. Could he be any farther from the truth? Lucy or Lucilia just nodded her head and looked over to Sam, locking eyes with him. Sam didn't flinch, almost as if to say "See," and Lucy or Lucilia kept nodding her head to say, "Yes, yes I do see."