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You waited until you could hear Sam’s even breathing from the other side of the bed before flinging the covers back and gently moving his arm that was wrapped around your waist to the side. He made a slight sound, and you went rigid, waiting to see if he would wake up. However, Sam just grabbed onto your pillow with the same loose grip he had previously had on you.
Satisfied that he was well and truly asleep, you reached for your purse, which was hanging on the back of Sam’s desk chair. You found the razor that was carefully hidden inside, and walked to the bathroom quietly. You flipped on the light switch and carefully shut and locked the door behind you. You sat on the toilet seat and looked at the gleaming silver in contrast to your pale arms.
Your hands began to shake slightly as you remembered just how much you had craved the razor these past few nights. Sam and Dean had been dragging you on hunts so frequently that you hadn’t had a moment of time to yourself. It was always just hunting all the time, and then when the three of you would arrive back at the motel, you would be so tired you’d pass right out next to Sam.
Now, after weeks of non-stop hunting, you were finally back at the bunker, able to spend some quality time with your boyfriend, Sam, and family bonding time with Dean. And of course, special, late-night time reserved for the razor.
While it was true that you could easily make a few quick cuts in the bathroom while Sam and Dean thought you were hitting the head, those few strokes of the blade against your skin did little to quell the need for more blood, more pain, and you couldn’t do it while taking a shower because if there was one thing you hated more than not being able to cut, it was tarnishing the cut with any outside substances - including water, which made the cut less pretty because it would stop bleeding. You liked to sit there until the blood was dried and you could change back into your sweatshirt without any smearing.
Which was why nights like this were so important to you.
Enough with the foreplay, you thought to yourself, and brought the razor to your left arm. One slash, and a shallow cut with a few drops of blood could be seen. Unsatisfied, you cut the same spot again until it looked like an actual cut and not merely a scratch. After that, you continued slicing, faster and faster, until your left arm was littered with cuts, all razor-length, all bleeding just enough for you to be satiated, but not enough to drip onto the floor. When that was completed, you started in on your painfully bare right arm. Suddenly, as you were making a vertical cut right under your hand (those left the most nasty scars, and therefore made you the most proud) a sudden wave of emotion crashed over your head.
What kind of person does this to their own body?
You’re off your rocker.
You try so hard to be normal, to fit in, to be just like everyone else.
When in reality, you’re not normal.
You’re as far from normal as you can get.
You’re a freak.
You’re a freak.
You’re crazy.
With that last thought, anger at yourself for being this way, for being absolutely addicted to slicing open your own skin, seeped into your movements, and you slashed especially hard on your right wrist. You cried out in pain, as that cut was much worse than any of the others. Looking into it, you noticed that it was deeper than you had ever cut before.
Blood sprung to the forefront of it, and you found yourself oddly fascinated with the sight of it. So much so, that it was dripping down your wrist before you realized it, and you were forced to wipe it clean before it could drip on the tile floor of the bathroom. You made another sound as the rough toilet paper hit the fresh cut, shooting pain up your spine. Even as you did so, a contented, lazy smile found its way onto your face at the pain.
Once again, the blood captured your fascination, and soon you were staring at it, just watching the red sitting there. You were so focused on and lost in your task that you didn’t hear the muffled groan or the bed creaking or the soft footsteps walking to the door.
“Y/N?” Sam’s voice shattered the air, and you nearly fell off the toilet, hurrying to give the large cut one last wipe with the toilet paper and throw your sweatshirt on. “Y/N, you okay?” “Yeah,” I called back. “Just going to the bathroom!” However, Sam, being a hunter and having to train himself to always catch Dean’s bad moods and repressed feelings, immediately heard the barely discernible strain in your voice.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked, concern lacing his voice. “Yeah!” you said, your voice wavering as you threw your sweatshirt on and threw away the bloody toilet paper. You were about to cover it up properly and find somewhere to hide your razor when you slipped on the tile, falling into the edge of the bathtub.
“Y/N?” Sam’s voice grew even more concerned. “What was that noise? Did you fall? Are you okay?” You struggled to get your breath back to give him an answer, but your heart still pounding in your chest wasn’t helping those efforts.
“Y/N?” You heard the panic rise in Sam’s voice, and a small part of you knew exactly what would happen next. “Y/N, I’m coming in!” “No!” you shouted, your eyes flying wide. “No, it’s fine! I’m okay, I’m fine!” “I have to be sure,” Sam said. “You know how I get!” Your breath caught in your throat as you heard him picking the lock. It only took a few seconds, and then Sam flew into the bathroom, adrenaline pumping, and saw everything.
You watched as he took in the bloody toilet paper in the trashcan, and then the bloody razor sitting on the bathroom counter, and then, finally, you, slumped over next to the bathtub, clutching your sleeves, as if afraid that they would disappear and leave your secret exposed to your boyfriend at any second.
“Y/N,” he said cautiously, knowing what was going on but not wanting to admit it without hearing it from you first, “What, uh, what’s going on? Are you hurt?” The next words burned his throat like whiskey as he said them, for he was afraid of what he would see, but he commanded anyway, “Let me see.”
You huddled into the bathtub more, the edge of it digging at your shoulder blades. “No.” “Y/N.” Sam moved closer until he was practically on top of you, and grabbed your hands before you could pull away. “Please.” His voice broke on the last syllable of his next sentence, “I have to see how bad they are.” With that, you looked up at him, surprised.
“Do you...know?” you said quietly. Sam sighed. Time to face it. This happened. I can’t change that. I just have to be there for her now. “Yeah, I do. I used to do it when I was a teenager. Dean helped me, though, and I got help.” You looked away. “I’m sorry for putting you through this, Sam. I know how it feels to watch someone you love go through this and it’s not fun. I’m sorry I upset you.”
Sam grabbed your face, bringing it closer to his, so he could look you straight in the eyes. “It’s okay. You didn’t upset me. We just need to figure this out, okay? You remember what I always say?” “Nothing is unfixable,” you muttered, knowing his favorite phrase by heart. “That’s right,” Sam smiled. “Nothing is unfixable. This is fixable. You are fixable, Y/N.”
“Please,” Sam said. “Let me see. I’ve been where you are; if we’re anything similar, then I should know what not to do. Just one quick look so I can fix any that need attention, okay? Then you can put your sleeves right back down.” You nodded. “Okay.”
Sam moved closer and gently pulled your sleeves down until both wrists were exposed. He didn’t comment on them, he didn’t get emotional. He didn’t stare at them or run his fingers along the scars sadly. Instead, he looked them over, put Band-Aids on a few of them, and wrapped the one that you had been dabbing with toilet paper earlier in gauze. He was finished quickly, and lowered your sleeves as gently as he had raised them.
“Thanks, Sam,” you said, your voice shaking a little. Sam smiled fondly at you and said, “Anytime, Y/N.” He paused for a second and then said, “At some point, you know we’re going to have to talk about this. But, you’re exhausted and so am I.” He put his hands on either cheek and turned you until you were facing him.
“If you wake up or don’t go to sleep and you feel like doing this again in the night, you know you can always wake me up instead, right? I won’t be mad at you if you don’t; I’ll never be mad at you for this. But I would really like it if you would wake me up, or even just lay closer to me if you don’t want to wake me up. I just want you to know that I want to be there for you however I can be.”
I smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Sam.” He kissed your forehead and replied, “Anytime, Y/N.”
Together, the two of you went back to bed. As you held you tight in his arms, you heard your boyfriend whisper, “I love you, Y/N.”
“I love you too, Sam.”