Disclaimer - This is Eric Kripke's world, I'm just visiting. I own no rights to Supernatural.
Warning - Talk of self injury
Authors Note - This is kind of like a little outlet for me here. It's a bit mixed up, probably makes little sense but it's all based on true emotions. Please no one take offense, that's the last thing I want to do.
Oh yeah, 'nother warning...this is unbeta'd. :S


A Bright Red Scream.

'You hurt yourself on the outside to try and kill the thing on the inside'
- girl, interrupted


What am I doing?

Sam sunk to the floor in the dingy motel bathroom and pressed himself against the ice cold tiles on the wall. His is knees came up to his chest while his hand grasped tightly onto a reddening bath towel pressing against the inside of his arm.

What am I doing?

Sam scrunched his eyes shut in anger, grinding his teeth together to keep down the scream he felt building inside him. He wanted to cry, wanted to yell, wanted to scream, kick, punch something, anything but do this. But this was all he had. His only way to release the battling emotions he kept shoved down inside him.

How did it come to this?

Sam pulled the blood soaked towel away from his arm and took the appearance of his newest cut. It was dead straight, reaching from the centre of his arm outwards and four inches long. It almost matched the one next to it in size. It didn't need stiches. Sam was always careful about that, never too long or too deep, he was desperate for Dean not to find out. The inside of his arm was covered in scars. Some of them were days old, some of them had been there for months, each of them had their own story of the anger and despair that Sam felt at the time. It sickened him. He felt disgusted with himself. There was a time when he could distinguish between each cut. He could tell himself where he was and what exactly drove him to do it, but now…

Sam's hand curled into a tight fist, his knuckles whitening as he fought to keep in the anger he felt rising again. He can't explain why he feels the way he does. He can't explain how he actually feels. Sometimes he feels this build-up of emotion right in his chest where his heart is. The only way to describe it is like an inner scream. Anger, sadness, grief, hatred, loathing… all towards himself, all fighting against each other so that they all combine together into such a whirlwind of emotion that Sam can only release by inflicting pain upon himself.

He knows how wrong it sounds. He knows how messed up it is. And he knows how it will break Dean if he ever found out. But it's the only thing stopping Sam from breaking down.

Sam compares himself to a balloon. If air kept getting forced into a balloon without any escaping it would eventually explode and be ripped into loads of tiny shreds. The cuts Sam makes let out some of that air so that he won't explode, he won't be torn apart. Sam chuckled softly. It's weird, it's crazy, and it makes no sense, no sense to anyone at all, except Sam.

Sam picked himself up off the dirty bathroom floor and got to work cleaning himself up. The cut on his arm was barely bleeding anymore. He washed the blood from his arm and cleaned up any that had dripped on the floor. He screwed up the bloodied towel and shoved it into a carrier bag ready to be thrown away in the skip conveniently in the motel parking lot. Sam carefully rolled down his long sleeved t-shirt, making sure he didn't aggravate the wound and make it bleed again. Once he was sure everything looked normal he checked his watch to guess when Dean would be back, 11:30pm, Dean would still be drinking in the bar right now. That's all he does since he got back from Hell is drink, and Sam can't blame him. Sam can blame himself though. He was the one Dean sold his soul for. If he had been watching his own back for once in his god damn life he would never have gotten himself stabbed and they wouldn't be in this mess. Sam felt his anger mounting up inside him again so he decided to go outside and get some air to try and calm down. He grabbed the bag with the towel inside it and left the safety of the motel room. He chucked the bag into the skip and looked around hesitantly. The car park was deserted, just as it should be at this hour. Sam saw a bench on some of the grass opposite the motel. He walked over to it and sat himself down, staring at his hands.

The things he had done with these hands, he thought to himself. He had hurt and killed people with these hands. They were dirty and tainted and nothing would make them clean again. He lifted his gaze up from his hands and caught sight of the Impala that Dean had left behind. Sam thought of Dean and guilt washed over him in waves. God, he was so pathetic and winey! Here he was, wallowing in his own pitiful problems when Dean had been to Hell. To Hell. Dean has sacrificed so much for Sam. At the innocent age of four Dean had had his younger brother's life forced into his hands, and he hasn't let go since. Dean is the one with a reason for breaking down, not Sam. Sam has had is easy, he has always had someone watching over him and protecting him from life's cruel blows. Dean hasn't. Yes Dad was there, but not like Dean's been there for him. Their dad rarely acted like a father should; only dropping the drill sergeant routine when either of them were badly hurt. Dean had had no one except Sam growing up. And then Sam walked out on him…

Sam rested his head in his hands, his elbows propped up on his knees. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair. He felt so drained, always tired. It was strange, it used to be that Sam could never sleep, his nights always plagued with nightmares, but now Sam refused to sleep. Not because he was scared of what he would see when he closed his eyes, but because he didn't want the day to end. He dreaded every new day. Each day always brought some degree of pain to either him or Dean and he wasn't eager for that to happen. Not sleeping made the day longer, putting off the inevitable.

He thought about moving back into the motel room to wait for Dean. But Sam felt the night oddly calming and reassuring. It was safe, he could hide. Sam loved the night. He sought comfort and security in it. Sam imagines that most people who feel like he does would find the night the hardest because the demon's in your mind are loudest then. But while this is true for Sam, if finds the night oddly safe. Nothing can hurt him at night. Yes there are the supernatural monsters lurking round every corner but they can only harm his physically. The monsters have no hidden meaning behind their words and actions, they are an open book. Whereas people are unstable, you never know what they are thinking or what the hidden meaning to their words are. Sam feels exposed during the day, people are always watching him, analysing his every move, making judgments about him. Sam hates that. He can blend in at night, disguise himself in the shadows. The darkness is like a safety blanket, keeping him protected from everyone.

Sam glanced down at his sleeve covered arm. He frowned as he noticed blood seeping through the material of his shirt. Sam pulled his sleeve up. He felt a small pain as he ripped some of the scab away that had been forming. He must have knocked it somehow. Sam looked curiously at the little red blobs of blood oozing out of the broken skin. Sam liked how he could control the pain he felt, how much he bled. Something about the blood calmed him. It was wrong, it was screwed up but so what? He'd always been a freak.

Sam shivered as a cool night's breeze swirled around him. He looked at his watch and saw that it was now after midnight. Dean would be back soon and Sam now needed to change his shirt. Sam made his way back across the parking lot and into their room. He searched through his bag for another one that would cover his arms. Annoyingly though it seemed that all his other longer sleeved tops were in the bad waiting for the laundry. That left Sam with only his hoodie to use to hide the scars. Sam sighed as he pulled his hoody over his head and flopped down on his bed. He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

Sometimes he wondered what Dean would say if he found out what Sam did. Sam often thinks about telling him. He really does want too. Dean knows that something about Sam has changed, Sam knows he knows. But he doesn't want to burden his brother any more than he already does. Dean has his own problems he doesn't need to deal with Sam's pathetic self-loathing and self-harming attitude. Sam has played out situations in his head of him telling Dean the truth. Sam has seen the In-His-Mind-Dean react in hundreds of different ways to finding out, some terrify him down to his very core. Sam was scared that Dean would look at him different. He doesn't want Dean watching his every move, well, any more than usual. He doesn't want Dean to look at him in pity or disgust or disappointment or anger or anything different to the way he looks at Sam now. Sam is scared that Dean will treat him different. He doesn't want Dean acting awkward around him. He doesn't want Dean worrying about what to say to him. Dean would feel like he's walking on eggshells, paranoid that the wrong word would have Sam reaching for the blade. Sam doesn't want that for either of them, so he continues with his decision to keep it a secret. It's not life-threatening, he's not suicidal. He cuts to keep himself going, to stay alive. But Dean wouldn't understand that, no one can understand…

Sam closes his eyes and concentrates on the stinging of the cut, enjoying the pain it brings. He wants to cry, but the tears never come. He wants to stop, but it isn't that easy. He wants to be okay, he wants everything to be okay. But after everything that has happened in their lives, he knows he wants too much. He just has to keep going, keeping fighting his way through each day, even if he has to use methods others would cringe at. He has to keep going, people depend on him. Dean depends on him. He thrives on Dean's trust, lives on his love. If Sam loses those things, he loses everything. And Sam knows he can't survive that.

Sam cuts to keep himself alive. It's something very few can understand.

-FIN


Thank you for reading :)
The ending isn't perfect, my inspiration faded. In the words of Chuck "Endings are hard. ...I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass. "
I'm with Chuck on that one! xD