Chapter Text
"Y/N!" You heard Sam's voice calling from the innards of the bunker. You jerked in surprise, feeling the razor blade slicing an accidental cut on the flesh of your upper arm. Shit. "Y/N, are you almost done?"
"N-Not yet!" You called weakly. "Just give me a sec, okay?" You yelled, hoping your voice sounded stronger. Sam didn't respond, so you could only imagine that he'd rolled his eyes before giving in and waiting a bit longer for you.
You really didn't deserve him, you thought. He was too kind, too patient. You took advantage of everything he was, and then of everything he wasn't. There he stood, anxious in the belly of the bunker waiting to get on and meet Castiel, while you kept him waiting just so you could slash open your own skin. There was a word for what you were, you knew, and it was selfish. You were selfish.
Your fingers spasming with emotion, you threw the blade in the toilet and kicked the flusher to vanish it. You had plenty more hidden in a box under your bed. It was getting dull anyway.
You met your own gaze in the mirror. You were unfamiliar, from your saddened skin to your sunken eyes. You saw only in the corner of your eye the blood trickling scarlet down your arm. Your eyes were drowning in their own pupils. You looked almost like a demon.
"Selfish, selfish," you muttered to yourself as you daubed your blood from your arm with a black towel to hide the stains. You pulled your black sleeves back down once the bleeding stopped. The cuts disappeared. The stranger in the mirror vanished. All that was left was a small girl staring back at you who looked even more unfamiliar than the stranger covered in blood.
"Sammy!" You cheered as he returned to the bunker library, holding two glasses and a bottle of red wine. "SAMMY COME BACK," you sang, "SAMMY COME BACK TO ME ~~"
"Y/N, you haven't even had a drink yet," laughed Sam, shaking his head. His hair danced around his face, and you smiled idly as a single gold-brown strand got caught in his scruff.
"I don't need to drink to be a star, Sam," you said, batting your eyelashes at him. He rolled his eyes, sitting down cross-legged across from you on the library floor, where you'd both amassed stacks upon stacks of books on various lore. "I can't help it if you just can't handle my star power."
"Right," he said. "Star power. So when the doctor asks me why I'm deaf in my right ear, I'll tell him, 'it was too much star power'?"
"When was the last time you actually went to a doctor," you countered, snatching a glass from his long, nimble fingers. "Hit me up, babycakes," you said, nodding your head at him like you were Joey from Friends. You saw Sam's cheeks blush a bit pink. You wiggled your eyebrows, and you extended your glass back over to him so he could pour wine into it. You didn't think about the fact that your sweater sleeve was a little short; you didn't realize that the sleeves would run up and reveal the thick web of slashed scars and lines on your inner arm.
"Since when do you call me 'babyca...'" Sam's voice trailed off when he saw your wrist. His eyes widened.
"What?" You asked. "Sam? What's wrong?"
Sam's hand shot out and latched onto your wrist. He pulled you abruptly to him, so suddenly and with such force that your body knocked the wine bottle over as you smushed up against him, squeaking in confusion. You felt the wine saturate your white skirt, and you had half a mind to yell at Sam for ruining your new clothes until you realized what exactly what was going on.
You stopped breathing when you saw Sam's fingers brushing over the harshest and ugliest of your scars. "Y/N..." he whispered.
And just like that, you felt tears welling in your eyes, spilling over the brim of your eyelids, and running down your cheeks to meet with the wine on the floor. You couldn't manage to speak, couldn't manage to explain yourself, so all you did was sit stiffly on Sam Winchester's lap as he cradled you, shaking, and murmured incessantly in your ear about how you were beautiful, and perfect, and strong, and kind, and how you didn't deserve a single one of the cuts on your skin.
You found yourself choking on your own past.
You remembered the day you'd quit. You remembered Sam calling out to you as you cut over the sink and misspeaking. You remembered him startling you into a laugh, and you remembered how that laugh-- and Sam's beautiful laugh-- had started pulling you out of the blackest abyss you'd ever known. You remembered how Sam's infectious sweet disposition had pulled you out of your own mind.
"Y/N, Y/N," choked Sam, "please tell me you aren't doing this anymore. Please tell me you don't cut."
"Sam," you began. "It's really not a big deal," you insisted, as tears ran down your cheeks. "It doesn't matter. I-- I quit, like a year ago, okay? I've only relapsed a couple times, it's no big deal--"
"--Y/N--"
"-- it's fine; it doesn't mess with my hunting; I'm fine really," you said. "It's not a big deal. Just a few cuts, every now and then." You were babbling. "Sam, it's not a big--"
"Stop saying that!" Sam shouted, clutching you to his chest, puling you in so that the wine was soaking your thighs, looking very much like blood. "Stop saying that! It is a big deal, because you're perfect, and you're wonderful, and you don't need-- you shouldn't be-- 'every now and then' isn't good enough!"
"I'm not good enough?" You heard yourself shooting at him, your words hateful, your hands clutching desperately to Sam's sweater.
"No, you idiot, that's not--" Sam buried his face in your hair. "No, no. You're good enough. You're more than good enough; you're insufferably flawless. I just-- I just don't want you to be hurting like this... relapse, it is a big deal, okay? When was the last time you marred yourself like this?!"
You felt your stomach clench as you got defensive of your destructive habits, like an addict. Maybe you were still an addict. "I don't have to tell you," you snarled, and you pushed back from him, falling on your ass in the wine-puddle after you teetered off of his legs. You glared at him through your hair. "It's none of your damn business, okay?" You hated the puppy dog look he was giving you. You hated the way he was acting like you were still an addict. You weren't still an addict.
A cut or two every now and then was fine. The five cuts on your thigh from the night before were no big deal. Everything was fine. You loved Sam Winchester, but he needed to back the fuck off before you lost your goddamn mind. Like an addict.
"It is my business!" argued Sam, who leaned forward, on all fours, advancing on you, leaning over you like he was about to kiss you. As if. "Y/N, you're my best damn friend-- you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen-- you're brilliant, and vibrant, and glowing, and for you to treat yourself as any less than a queen is abominable to me, and--"
"And what?" You snapped. "It doesn't matter how you feel, Sam! It doesn't matter how you feel, because it's my wrist, my thigh--"
"Your thigh?!" Sam looked like he was about to start crying. "No, Y/N, no, no. Do you even realize how easily you could cut in the wrong place and kill yourself?!"
You smiled sickly up at the boy you secretly loved, the boy who had made you quit, and you said, "that's the fun of it."
Sam stood so quickly that you felt whiplashed. He had the most serious look on his face, a stark, suffering scowl that so strongly contrasted his usual humorous bitch face that you wondered for a moment if he'd been possessed. "No," he said, his voice low. "You know what, Y/N? I don't care if you don't think it's my business. Okay, I'm gonna make sure you never do this to yourself again."
"Sam--"
"Shut up," he said sharply, and you felt your heart freeze at his tone. "Shut up, Y/N, just shut up. You want fun? Let's get a fucking puppy, then, that's fun. Making fun of Dean because he's a midget next to me is fun. Playing Russian roulette with a razor blade and your thighs isn't fun. It's fucking terrifying." Sam leaned over and latched a large hand onto your thin arm, yanking you to your feet.
"Sam, what the fu--" You crashed into his body from lack of balance. You shoved back from him as best as you could with him still holding onto you like you were dangling over a massive cliff. Maybe you were. "Sam, let go of me."
"No fucking way," Sam said, shaking his head with a scowl. He started dragging you away from the wine spill like a child who'd done something naughty. You didn't like the feeling. With his free hand, Sam dug his cell out of his jeans pocket and tapped through it with his thumb angrily, like he had any fucking right to be angry, which he really didn't. He hit the screen with considerable force and lifted the phone up to his face to speak. Your stomach sunk. He did not just--
"Dean," said Sam in a very short tone of voice. "No-- no, no one is on fire---" you heard cursing on the other side of the line. "No-- dude, no one is dying, I just--" Dean was grumbling to Sam. You couldn't hear what he was saying, but he didn't seem happy. "Well, if you let me speak, I'll fucking tell you why I called." You heard Dean say something like "okay, fine." Sam cleared his throat. "I'm taking Y/N out. I don't know how long we'll be gone. I don't know when we're coming back. She needs to take a break and I need to be with her. I'll call you when I have more of a clue about what is going on. Bye."
Sam hung up before Dean could protest. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and looked over to see you glaring at him with the blackest of looks.
"Don't give me that look," he said.
"Sorry dad," you snapped, and you tried to jerk your arm away from Sam without success. He tightened his grip and pulled you flush against his body. You felt your skin darkening with anger. "I didn't realize that you were my dad, Sam, but I guess we're both just learning shit all over the place tonight! I'm a cutter, you're my father-- isn't this just fucking fantastic?! You know, I really fucking appreciate you deciding that I get to go on a field trip with you, dad, honestly, you're such a good fucking fath--"
"You know what, Y/N? Maybe a father is what you fucking need!" yelled Sam. You glared up at him like you'd never glared at anyone before in your life. "Maybe you need someone who doesn't put up with your self-destructive bullshit! You know, I've always noticed that you get a little more injured than Dean and I on hunts, but I figured that maybe you were just easily distractible. But that's not it, is it? You fucking do it on purpose, don't you? Because you don't fucking care about yourself!"
You knew your cheeks were bright pink and your eyes were leaking tears like a faucet dripping water. "It's none of your goddamn business!"
"YES IT IS!" shouted Sam. He was shaking with anger. "Yes it is, Y/N. Who was it that saved your ass back in Michigan from that ruguru?! Who was it that took you in and cared for you because your family died?! It wasn't Dean, Y/N! And you didn't save yourself! I saved you."
"I didn't fucking ask for your help!" You screamed through your tears. You kicked at Sam's legs, but all of your hits clearly meant nothing to him. Of course. You could never hit Sam hard enough to make an effect. You could never impact another living being like they impacted you. "You should've just let the damn thing kill me, you asshole! You think you're fucking saving people?!" You threw your head back and laughed darkly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, honeypie," you snarled, lowering your head so you could glare up at him again. "You're not saving anyone, Sam," you said harshly, "You're breaking them. You think I wanted any of this?! You think I'd rather have known about all of this shit and live than fucking die and be in peace?! Don't make me fucking laugh. I can't sleep at night, because every time I close my damn eyes I see some god-forsaken creature that you've fucking introduced me to!" You shrieked. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't breathe. And it's all because of you."
"So that makes your cutting my business!" Sam yelled. His grip was so tight on your arm that you were starting to question if he was ever going to let you go. "Everything about you is my business, Y/N, because I brought you into this world."
You wanted to explode. "There you go again, acting like you're my fucking dad!"
"That's not what I meant," Sam glowered. He glared down at you, and you felt your spine start tingling with nervous energy. "I'm the one who brought you into this supernatural world; so it's my fucking job to make sure you survive it."
You narrowed your eyes at him. "Yeah, and when was the last time anyone around the famous Winchesters didn't die within a year?" You spat.
Sam's eyes widened with hurt at that, and he was so stunned he let right go of your arm, taking a step back like you'd punched him in the gut.
"You know, if you want me dead so badly," you said, your voice poisonous and low, "you should just fuck me, because your girlfriends never live too long after that."
"Y/N--"
"Leave me alone." You whirled on your heel to go sulk in your room, but Sam was quicker than you--he'd always been-- and he blocked your way.
"If you think you're gonna be allowed to go off and add to your collection of scars, you're out of your fucking mind," said Sam.
Tears were ripping through your skull, bleeding from your eyes, poisoning your throat so all of your words were cracked and broken. "Leave me alone, Sam," you said, your voice thick.
"No," he said. "No, we're going into your room, and you're packing some clothes into a bag, and then you're coming with me."
Your eyes shot to the door, yearning for escape.
"You can try to run, but it's not going to go very well for you," Sam said. You glared back at him.
"You gonna wrap me up in a straightjacket? Gonna take me to a fucking mental hospital?" You accused, crossing your arms. "News flash: I'm an adult, and they can't force me to stay in there unless I killed someone or something."
Sam didn't dignify your attack with a response. He kicked your bedroom door open and gestured aggressively to your wardrobe. "Get your clothes," he said quietly.
You couldn't believe him. You couldn't believe that anyone could be so fucking interfering and bossy. You couldn't believe that you were powerless to stop him. Maybe if you could delay him until Dean got home, maybe Dean would intervene and defend you...
"If you're planning on standing there until Dean gets back, let me just tell you, we'll be long gone by the time he comes stumbling home," said Sam flatly. "So I advise that you pick out clothes for yourself before I do it."
You shrieked; you were pretty sure you hadn't said anything, you were just so angry. You stormed into the room and pulled a drawer straight out of the dresser, throwing it to the ground, watching unflinchingly as your favorite pieces of clothing flew everywhere and the solid drawer slammed into the floor. Sam moved to stop you, but you darted past him, pulling another drawer out and doing the same with it, over and over again until he finally caught you, tackling you to the floor.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" He yelled.
You crumpled against his chest. "I don't know," you sobbed. "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..."
With your eyes squeezed shut and leaking blurry tears, you couldn't see Sam, but you could feel his hands smoothing over your back, rubbing your tense muscles until your body slumped. Sam was murmuring to you, promising you things that you couldn't hear and couldn't believe. When he lifted you back to your feet, you were numb. All you could feel was him pressing a chaste kiss to your cheekbone.
"Y/N, please let me help you," he whispered. Looking into his eyes, you couldn't say no. You couldn't speak. It was all you could do to nod your blessing and pray that Sam Winchester wouldn't let you down.