Focus on the Pain
After he was sure Dean was asleep, Sam slipped past his older brother's bed and into the small bathroom of their motel room, locking the door behind him. He flipped on the light switch and carefully peeled off the bandages that his brother had applied before tossing them into the trashcan. Sam studied the area where the two now dead ghouls had repeatedly slashed his wrists and forearms. The wounds were ugly, but they would heal. Sam thought about Dean saying that if he had lost any more blood, he would have had no choice but to take Sam to the emergency room. Their half brother Adam and his mom hadn't been so lucky. Adam and his mom were...
"Dead," Sam said it out loud, his voice echoing slightly off of the tiled walls.
He traced the closed wounds with his finger. Sam felt so angry at himself, not because the ghouls got the drop on him, but because not one thing he had taught Adam, who had really been the ghoul the whole time, not one word, had mattered. The ghoul had just been playing him, waiting to get him alone. Sam didn't know how he could have been so…
"Stupid," Sam finished his thought out loud and paused to listen to the reprimanding sounding echo.
He was also ashamed that with all of the power he thought the demon blood gave him, he couldn't get free once the two ghouls tied him up and started carving. Instead, he had needed Dean, whom he had mostly written off as a liability since returning from hell, to save him. He owed his big brother a whopper of an apology, but Dean had cut him off every time he tried to tell him…
"Sorry," He didn't blame Dean though. He didn't deserve much of anything anymore, much less his brother's forgiveness.
Although he was not sure why, Sam began to pick and pull at the stitches on his right wrist and forearm until blood started to leak from the reopened wounds into the white porcelain sink, hissing at the burning pain. Sam remembered how the female ghoul had said that his blood tasted different. He had hated to hear her say that, even though he knew it was true. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes. Sam quickly wiped them away, not noticing that he smeared blood on his cheeks in the process. He next turned his attention to picking and pulling at his stitches on his other wrist and forearm until they too started to trickle red into the sink. After a few minutes, Sam lowered himself to the floor, suddenly tired of standing. He rested his arms, wrists up, on his thighs and continued to watch the blood trickle onto the floor. The wall he was leaning against felt cold and hard against his bare back, but he didn't move. He didn't want to be comfortable.
Sam next thought about Dean saying that he was just like Dad. He wished he was more like Dad at that moment. Maybe then he would know what the hell to do. Should he stop drinking Ruby's blood to build up his abilities? But without it, how could he possibly be enough to beat Lilith? Sam had so many questions and no one to turn to. Dean had the angels to help him. They already told Dean he was the one to stop the apocalypse. Dean knew what he was supposed to do. Sam didn't know how or if he figured into all of it.
Feelings of rage and hopelessness flooded into Sam and he began to pound the floor in front of him. Pain exploded in his knuckles and his wrists burned. Sam's heart pounded as his blood splattered the shiny tile and floor. It felt good to focus on the pain and the blood, as they pushed the difficult thoughts and feelings aside for the moment. However, after a few minutes of the new found relief, a banging on the other side of the door broke his attention.
"Sam! What the hell is going on in there? Open the door!" Dean demanded.
Sam looked around the bathroom and then down at his painfully throbbing and bloody arms and knuckles. He took in some deep breaths in an attempt to get his breathing and heart rate back under control, ignoring Dean who had started to pound on the door again.
"I'm busy!" Sam yelled, making no attempt to move. He didn't want to leave the windowless room just yet. He didn't want to face Dean.
"You come out or I'm coming in," Dean stated through the door.
Sam stood and took a step to the sink to wash his hands. He laughed when he almost slipped on some of his blood, even though he wasn't sure how that was funny.
Sam gave up on cleaning up and opened the door. He watched as Dean's face turned from one of anger to one of confusion.
"Sam," Dean whispered in awe of Sam's condition and the state of the bathroom.
Sam pushed past his brother and unsteadily sat on the edge of the bed. Without another word, Dean sat down next to Sam a few moments later and began to dress Sam's wounds. Sam waited for Dean to start yelling, to call him crazy. It didn't happen. Sam yanked out of Dean's gentle grasp, not wanting to feel better, not wanting for the visibility of the wounds to heal. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Me or the ER. Take your pick," Dean said.
After a moment, Sam moved his arms back toward Dean. While Dean did his work, Sam studied a crack in the wall across from them.
"Did doing this make you feel better?" Dean asked as he finished bandaging his right arm.
"For awhile," Sam answered honestly. Although Sam could see that his hands were still shaking, the adrenaline was gone and with it any relief from the depression and hopelessness. He felt like crying again.
Dean nodded and put a damp towel into Sam's hands. Sam looked down at it confused. He hadn't noticed Dean get up to grab one from the bathroom.
"Wipe the blood off your face," Dean instructed.
"You know what?" Sam began after he finished cleaning his face.
"What?" Dean asked.
"I think maybe I am jealous of Adam," Sam said while he walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain.
"Because Dad treated him like a normal kid," Dean guessed.
"No," Sam answered as he looked out the window at the night sky. "Because he gets to be in a better place. He doesn't have to think about anything anymore."
"You're scaring me, Sammy," Dean responded.
"Well, it's about damn time," Sam said.
Thanks for reading. I may return to this story at a later time, but I have too many other unfinished stories at the moment.