Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, or the characters. But christmas is almost here, so maybe? Who am I kidding? Kripke will never give them away, I sure wouldn't.

This is just a dark little idea that I had running around in my head, please let me know what you think.


Dean is nineteen, Sam is almost sixteen in this fic.

It is early in the morning, about seven thirty. And Sam is sitting alone in their latest motel room, at the Shady Acres Motel in Cedar Rapids, putting off getting ready for school as long as he can.

He doesn't know where Dean is, and lately, he probably doesn't want to know these days. Ever since Dean finished school, all he does is goes to bars, hustles, picks up girls.

And Sam hasn't even seen his father since he dropped them off at the motel almost three months earlier.

When the clock rolls around to eight thirty, Sam reluctantly gets off the couch, and grabs a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt.

He goes into the bathroom, and pulls on the clothes, careful to pull the sleeves right down over his arms. He no longer cares that they haven't been washed in weeks.

Sam then goes back out to the dingy main room, pulls on a thick hoodie, picks up his backpack, and walks out the door.

Halfway through his walk to school, Sam speeds up, and runs the last mile. He actually relishes the run to his school, despite the fact his body aches, and he hasn't eaten in days. I really need to lose weight. Maybe he won't be interested anymore if I'm thin. Is all he can think as it becomes almost a sprint.

Sam gets to school just after the bell. Shit! Why couldn't I just run faster?! He is tempted to just run back home, but he resigns himself to the fact that this is going to earn him another 'one on one' detention, as he walks to his first class.

As he opens the door, his teacher Mr Klein, looks at him, barely hiding his plans for Sam, as he tells Sam. "Winchester. You're late, be here at three for detention."

Sam has to fight to maintain control, and not run away as he hears this. "Yes Sir." He replies resignedly, as he takes his seat.

Early in the afternoon, Dean wakes up in an unfamiliar bedroom, with an awful hangover, a pretty blonde curled up at his side. "Hey ..." He can't even remember her name.

The blonde rolls over, and supplies him with a name. "Tara. Yours?" Apparently she drank as much as him.


Formalities over, they quickly work their way back up to more sex, a lot more.

Lunchtime isn't much better than classes for Sam. He doesn't even make it to the small corner that he sits in through breaks, before a few jocks corner him around the back of the building.

In his worn out state, Sam doesn't have a chance to defend himself as they lay into him.

The next thing he knows the bell is ringing, and he's laying in the mud, with a pounding headache.

This is by no means an unfamiliar situation to Sam anymore, Dean used to 'persuade' them to leave him alone, but now he's gone, Sam is used as a punching bag at least once a day. So he just picks up his bag, wipes off the worst of the mud, and makes his way to his next class.

It is almost four thirty by the time Mr Klein is finished with him, and lets him leave. Sam has well and truly missed every bus, and as he gets outside, and sees the absolute deluge it just makes him want to lie down and die. He is hurting in ways that until a couple of months ago he didn't know were possible, and generally he is just tired, so tired.

Eventually Sam retrieves his phone from the bottom of his bag, and dials Dean's number. To his surprise, Dean answers. "What?" Sam knows this voice, this is the 'in the middle of sex, bugger off' voice.

"Dean. Can you come get me?"

Sam can hear Dean laugh at this, at him. "Why would I come get you?!"

Sam doesn't bother to reply, Dean is not going to come get him today.

"Exactly. So, you find your own way home, and I'll get back to the hottest girl in town. Okay?"

Sam can't believe this is what his life has been reduced to as he answers. "Yeah, see you later."

"Maybe, bye." Dean replies before hanging up, leaving Sam to walk home, alone in the pouring rain, in unimaginable agony. Maybe at least the mud will get washed off.

When Sam gets home, he gingerly pulls off his filthy clothes, just leaving them in a pile by the door, as he goes straight into the bathroom, and locking the door, just in case Dean comes home.

Sam then goes to the cabinet, and reaches into a corner, where between the joins of the woodwork, he's hidden a small razor blade. His relief, his escape, his everything.

So, there he is. Sitting on the bathroom floor, dressed only in his underwear, so thin that every bone is clearly visible, pressing the sharp blade into the tender in flesh of his forearm. The new cuts criss-crossing uncountable previous cuts, all at various stages of healing.

Eventually, Sam stops cutting, it isn't helping this time. So, not even bothering to stem the blood running from the cuts, he walks out to where there are several weapons left out.

Sam picks up a small silver knife, which he knows they keep razor sharp, he's had to sharpen it enough times to know.

In almost a trance, Sam walks back into the bathroom, locks the door, starts the bath running, climbs in, and presses the knife into his skin, much harder than he ever has before, and slits from his wrist to his elbow, and then does the same on the other arm.

Sam watches with morbid fascination as blood pours from the cuts, as he quickly loses consciousness, and slips into the bright red water.

Thanks for reading!

Should I continue this?

I'd like to get ten reviews, otherwise, in my current frame of mind, I won't think twice about making this a death fic.

And to my loyal readers who are waiting for the "Dying Days" sequel, I've started it, and as soon as I finsih writing the first chapter, you'll be reading it.